uncle.”
“I say, Sage, if that don’t make old Vinnicombe smile I’m a Dutchman. By the way, my dear, shall I ask Cyril Mallow to drop in?”
“Uncle!” cried Sage, turning pale.
“Well, why not? He has no pride in him, not a bit. And if he wants gentlemen to meet, why, there’s Paulby and Vinnicombe. Hang it all, my girl, if I liked to set up for a gentleman I dare say I could, after you had toned me down and mended my manners, and oiled my axles with grammar grease, eh?”
“Oh, no, no, uncle; don’t think of it,” she said, imploringly.
“Just as you like, my dear; ’tis your party like, and it’s for you to choose. He is a bit cocky and priggish, and a bit gallant, but my darling knows how to keep him in his place.”
“Oh, yes, uncle, of course,” said Sage, hastily; “but Rue will be here, you know, and it might set her thinking of his brother Frank.”
“Hah! Yes; I had forgotten that,” said the Churchwarden, thoughtfully. “To be sure! she did think a little about him, didn’t she? Hullo!”
“I want Sage,” cried Mrs. Portlock down the stairs.
“Yes, aunt, dear.”
“Hold that wrapper to the fire, my dear, ready for your uncle,” and she threw down a great white cashmere belcher to her niece.
“Here! Hoi! I say, old girl, I’m not going to wear that thing.”
“Yes, dear, it’s a very long drive, and the air is very cold.”
The Churchwarden sank into a chair, and, raising the lid of the tankard, gazed into it despondently.
“Tyranny, tyranny, tyranny!” he groaned. “Oh! why did I ever marry such a woman as this?”
“Now don’t talk nonsense, Joseph,” cried his wife, rustling down into the room so wrapped up that she looked double her natural size, what with cloak, and boa, and a large muff. “Put it round your uncle’s neck, Sage, the frost is very severe.”
The Churchwarden threw his head back ready for Sage to tie on the wrapper, uttering a low moan the while, and then sighed as he stood up and walked—at first slowly and then with alacrity—into the hall to put on his hat.
“I can’t get into my coat with this thing on,” he roared. “Come and give us a lift.”
Sage ran laughingly into the hall to help the greatcoat on to his broad shoulders just as the four-wheeled chaise came crunching to the front door, Dapple giving a loud snort or two, and stamping upon the frozen gravel.
Just then the Churchwarden gave a comical look at his niece, rushed to the corner by the eight-day clock, and made a great deal of rattling as he took up the whip and gave it a sharp lash through the air, and a crack on the broad balustrade.
Sage heard her aunt start, and her uncle chuckled.
“Now, old lady,” he said. “That’s right, Sage, plenty of rugs, or we shall have her frozen. That’s it, old girl, right leg first. Hold his head still, Dicky. There you are; tuck that rug round you. There, that’s better,” he cried, taking his seat and fastening the apron. “Let him go, Dicky. Tck!”
He started Dapple, and then stood up in the chaise with a quick motion, raising the whip as he set his teeth, and seemed about to strike the cob a tremendous blow, making Mrs. Portlock jump and seize his arm, when he subsided, looking round at Sage with a comical expression in his eye, but pulled up short.
“Here. Hi! I say. Yah! artful. Here you, Luke Ross, you’re three hours before your time,” he cried.
“Yes, sir. I thought I might help a little, and—”
“You thought you might help a little, and—G’on with you—get out. G’long!” and the Churchwarden flicked and lashed at Luke Ross, as he stepped to the side of the chaise and shook hands, while Sage, with her heart beating fast, drew back into the porch, seeing her uncle begin poking at the new arrival with the butt of the whip-handle.
Then the cob was started again with another pretended furious cut, which made Sage’s aunt catch at her uncle’s arm; and then as, frightened, fluttering, and yet happy, she saw Luke coming towards her, the Churchwarden’s voice came roaring through the wintry air—
“Here! I say, Luke Ross, remember what I said. I mean it—seriously.”
“Sage, my dear Sage!” Those were the next words Sage Portlock heard, as Luke took her hand to lead her, trembling and nervous, into the hall.
“I hardly hoped for such good fortune,” he cried, as Sage gently disengaged herself from his clasp, and stood gazing rather sadly in his face; “but oh! pray, pray don’t look at me like that, darling, I’m here to go down on my knees to you, Sage. There,” he cried, “I will, to beg pardon—to tell you I was a weak, jealous fool—that I know you could not help Cyril Mallow coming and admiring you (he’d have been a fool if he hadn’t!)—that you’re the best, and dearest, and truest, and sweetest, and most innocent-hearted of girls—that I love you more dearly than ever, and that I’ve been a miserable wretch ever since last night.”
“Don’t do that, Luke,” she said, as he literally went upon his knees; “it hurts me.”
“And I’d suffer anything sooner than give you a moment’s pain,” he cried, springing to his feet; and they stood now in the middle of the old parlour. “But you haven’t forgiven me, Sage,” he said, piteously.
“Yes, Luke, I’ve forgiven you, but I want you to know and trust me better. Your words seemed so cruel to me, and if you knew me you would not have said them. I did not know that Cyril Mallow when he called did so that he might see me, and we hardly exchanged a dozen words.”
“And if you had exchanged a thousand, sweet, what then?” cried Luke, proudly. “I was a jealous idiot, and ought to have known better; but it has been a lesson to me on my weakness, and now I am going to wait patiently till I can say what your uncle wishes.”
Sage was silent, for she was thinking it was her duty to tell him that, after the sad little trouble that had come between them, it would be better for them to be more distant for a time; but she could not say it with his eyes looking appealingly at her. She had felt so proud of him for his manly bearing and straightforward honesty of purpose. The words would not come, and somehow the next minute she was sobbing in his arms as he whispered those two words, but in such a tone—
“My darling!”
She started from him guiltily the next moment, and ran up-stairs, and stayed till there was a fresh crunching of wheels and the trampling of a horse’s hoofs, when she came down again to welcome her sister and her husband, John Berry—a bluff, middle-aged farmer to whom Rue had been married some five years, and they had come now to spend a few days, bringing their two little girls.
“Ah, Luke, my man of wisdom, how are you? Sage, my dear, give us a kiss. Bless you, how well you look. How am I? Hearty, and so’s Rue.”
Sage was kissing her sister affectionately
