which constant study had brought him, it seemed that his whole future depended upon his gaining one or other of the educational prizes that would be adjudged, and that unless he were successful, Sage Portlock, his old playmate and friend—now some one very far dearer—and for whose sake he had striven so hard, would turn from him with contempt.
At another time the questions before him would have been comparatively easy, and almost, without exception, he could have written a sensible essay upon the theme; but now Sage, his old home at Lawford, the school, the troubles in the town and opposition to the Rector, and a dozen other things, seemed to waltz through his brain.
He had several letters in his pocket, from Sage and from his father, and they seemed to unfold themselves before him, so that he read again the words that he knew by heart: how indignant the people were at the death of poor old Sammy Warmoth and the appointment of Joe Biggins; the terrible quarrel that there had been between Mr. Mallow and the Curate about the burial of Tom Morrison’s child, and how the quarrel had been patched up again because Mr. Mallow had not liked Mr. Paulby to leave just when people were talking so about the little grave in Tom Morrison’s garden. There was the question of the wretched attempt at choral singing too on Sunday—singing that he was to improve as soon as he was master; for Sage said it did not matter how well she taught the girls, Humphrey Bone made his boys sing badly out of spite, so as to put them out.
Then he had a good look at the examination paper, and tried to read, but Humphrey Bone’s threat to expose him and show him up as an ignoramus before all the town—a clod who ought to go back to his father’s tannery—all duly related in one of her letters by Sage Portlock, came dancing out of the page before him.
Again he cleared his head and took up his pen, but he felt that he could not write. And now came up the letter which told how Cyril Mallow had come back from Queensland—handsome Cyril, whom he had severely punished some time before, just, in fact, as he was about to sail for Australia.
Luke Ross did not know why he should feel uneasy about Cyril Mallow being back; it was nothing to him. He was a bit of a scamp, and so on, but he was not so bad as Frank Mallow, who had been obliged to get off to New Zealand after the scandal about a couple of the Gatton village girls, and the fight with Lord Artingale’s keepers, in which he was said to have joined Jock Morris. The Lawford people said it was from this that the Rector became non-resident, as much as from having overrun the constable.
It was tantalising to a degree, for, strive hard as he would, these things seemed to dance before Luke Ross’s eyes; while as to the questions themselves, as he read them through and through, not one did it seem that he could answer.
And so it was morning after morning during the few busy days that the examination lasted. Every night he went to bed almost in despair; every morning he gazed blankly at the various questions.
But, in spite of his self-depreciation, first one and then another of the masters, who gathered up the papers at each sitting’s end, gave him a friendly nod of approval, and glanced with interest at the closely-written sheets.
“I’ve made a dismal failure, sir,” he exclaimed at last, as night closed in upon his fifth day’s work.
The assistant master in whose hands lay the everyday subjects taught at the institution laughed as he clapped the young man upon the shoulder.
“I wish every man in the college had made as great a failure, Ross,” he said. “There, there, you are weary and nervous. Get out of doors and have a good blow and as much exercise as you can till you have regained your tone. I ought not to say so, perhaps, but, Ross, you might, if you liked, look higher than a schoolmaster’s life; that is, if you have any ambition in your soul.”
At that moment Luke Ross’s highest ambition was to win Sage Portlock’s regard, and to acquit himself so creditably as the new master of Lawford School, that there might be no room for that modern Shimei, Humphrey Bone, to say hard words against his management and power of training the young. Later on circumstances caused him to undergo a complete revolution of thought.
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
