“Why, it must be Mr Frank Mallow,” cried Mrs Portlock, excitedly, and she glanced in a frightened way at her nieces.
“Yes, that it is,” she said, beneath her breath, as a tall, dark man with a heavy beard entered the room, closely followed by Cyril Mallow.
“Beg pardon,” he said, in a curious, half-cynical way. “Didn’t expect to see me, I suppose. Only got back this afternoon; thought I should like to see all old friends.”
“Hearty glad to see you back again,” said the Churchwarden, frankly. “Sit down, Mr Cyril,” he continued, as the new-comer shook hands. “Take a chair, Mr Frank. It’s like old times to see you here again.”
“Hah! yes. How well you look, farmer, and you too, Mrs Portlock. Miss Sage, I presume? Why, what a change! Grown from a slip of a girl to a charming woman. And how is Miss Rue Portlock?” he said, with mock deference, as he fixed the pale, shrinking face with his dark eyes.
“I am quite well, Mr Frank,” said Rue, making an effort to be composed, but not taking the visitor’s extended hand. “John, dear,” she continued, turning to her husband, “this is Mr Frank Mallow, of whom you have heard me speak.”
“Ah! to be sure,” said John Berry. “Glad to know my little wife’s friends. How are you, sir – how are you?”
Frank Mallow’s eyes closed slightly, and he gazed in a half-curious, contemptuous way at John Berry as he shook hands, and then turned to Luke Ross.
“And is this Miss Sage’s husband?” he said, laughingly, but in a sarcastic way that turned Sage cold.
“Well, no; I am not Miss Portlock’s husband, Mr Mallow,” said Luke, smiling, and taking the extended hand, his tone saying plainly enough that he hoped soon to be.
“Ah, well, we all get married some time or other,” said the visitor, in a careless, unpleasant way.
“Have you got married then, my lad?” said the Churchwarden, reaching a cigar-box from the fireplace cupboard.
“No, not yet,” he replied, “not yet. Cyril and I are particular, eh, Cil, old man? I’ve come over to fetch myself a wife perhaps. Cigar? Yes; thanks. Take one, Cil? Hah! how cosy this old room seems! I’ve spent some pleasant hours here.”
“Ay, you’ve smoked many a pipe with me, Mr Frank. That was when you were in your farming days.”
“Farming days?”
“Ay,” chuckled the Churchwarden, “sowing thy wild oats, my lad.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Why, Portlock, you’re as fond of a joke as ever. Ladies, I hope you won’t mind so much smoking,” he said, puffing away vigorously all the same, while Luke Ross gazed uneasily from one brother to the other, till he caught Cyril looking at him in a haughty, offended manner, when in spite of himself his eyes fell.
“Old folks surprised to see you, eh, sir?” said the Churchwarden, to break the blank in the conversation.
“Yes, preciously,” was the short reply.
“Humph!”
Frank Mallow, who was staring at Rue, while his brother was trying to catch her sister’s eye, turned at this loud grunt and smiled.
“Oh, you’re there!” he exclaimed. “And how is Doctor Vinnicombe?”
“Doctor Vinnicombe is in very good health, and in the best of spirits,” said the doctor, sarcastically, “for one of his old patients has come back, evidently to pay a heavy bill that his father refused to acknowledge.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Frank Mallow.
“And how have you got on, Mr Frank?” said the Churchwarden. “I hope you’ve made a better hit of it than Mr Cyril there, and after all the teaching I gave him about sheep.”
“Better hit? Well, I hope so. Nice fellow he was to come out to the other side of the world, and never call upon his brother.”
“You took precious good care not to let us know your address,” retorted Cyril.
“And what may you have been doing, Mr Frank?” said the Churchwarden, who was beginning to have an uneasy idea that the visitors were not adding to the harmony of the evening, and also recalling the ugly little affairs that had to do with Frank’s departure.
“Doing?”
“Yes; sir; did you try tillage?”
“Not I, farmer,” exclaimed Frank Mallow, staring hard at Rue, who kept her eyes fixed upon the carpet, or talked in a low voice to Sage, while bluff John Berry listened eagerly for what seemed likely to be an interesting narrative.
“Let’s see, Mr Frank, you went to New Zealand?”
“Yes, but I did not stay there; I ran on to Australia, and tried the diggings.”
“And did you get any gold, sir?” said John Berry, eagerly.
“Pretty well,” replied Frank Mallow; “enough to buy and stock a good sheep farm; and now I’m as warm as some of them out there,” he added, with a coarse laugh, “and I’ve come back home for a wife to take care of the house I’ve built.”
“That’s right, sir,” said John Berry, nodding his head, and smiling at Rue; “nothing like a good wife, sir, to keep you square.”
“Then you are not going to stay?” said the Churchwarden.
“Stay! what here? No thanky; I had enough of England when I was here. Other side of the world for me.”
The Churchwarden was right in his ideas, for, as the night wore on, Frank Mallow seemed to be trying to pique Rue by his strange bantering ways, while all the time he was so persevering in his free attentions to Sage that Luke’s face grew red, and a frown gathered upon his forehead.
Cyril saw it too, and as he found that his brother’s conduct annoyed both Sage and Luke, he increased his attentions, laughingly telling Frank not to monopolise the ladies, but to leave a chance for some one else.
“And they call themselves gentlemen!” thought Luke Ross, as he listened gravely to all that was said, and tried to keep from feeling annoyed at the free and easy way of the two brothers, who seemed to have put on their Australian manners for the occasion, and refused to believe in Mrs Portlock being troubled and her nieces annoyed.
They had the greater part of the conversation, and thoroughly spoiled the evening, so that it was with a feeling of relief that Luke heard Cyril Mallow say —
“Well, come along; we must get back. Past twelve; and the governor likes early hours in the country.”
“Let him,” said Frank Mallow, lighting his fourth cigar.
“But the mater said she should wait up to see you before she went to bed,” said Cyril.
“Poor old girl! then I suppose we must go,” said Frank, rising. “Ladies, I kiss your hands, as we say in the east. Good-night!”
He shook hands all round, holding Rue Berry’s hand very tightly for a moment, at the same time that her brother had Sage’s little trembling fingers in his clasp.
“Good-night, gentlemen; you don’t go our way.”
The next minute Mrs Portlock uttered a sigh of relief, for the dogs were barking at the visitors whom Churchwarden Portlock was seeing to the gate.
“There’s a something I like about that young fellow,” said John Berry, breaking the silence, as the sisters stood hand clasped in hand, with Mrs Portlock looking at them in a troubled way. “I’ve heard a good deal of evil spoke of him, but a young fellow who is fond of his mother can’t be so very bad. Good-night, doctor; good-night, Mr Ross; good-night, Luke Ross. I’ll walk with you to the gate.”
The “good-night” between Luke and Sage was not a warm one, for the girl felt troubled and ill at ease, but Luke was quiet