Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family. Fenn George Manville

very, very sad,” said Julia, remembering that her father had just been made chairman of the bench of magistrates.

      “Yes, Miss, very, very sad, for we are always afraid of his getting into trouble; but there, you know, Miss, what brothers are.”

      “Yes, yes,” said Julia, hastily. “I will think about what you said, Polly,” she added, rising, and holding out her hand, “and if papa does not object, Cynthia and I will be godmothers to baby.”

      “Oh, if you would, Miss!” cried the young wife, flushing with pride; and then, in a low voice, as Cynthia went on out of the room, “You always were kind to me, Miss Julia, and more like a sister than a mistress. May I kiss you, Miss?”

      “Oh, yes, Polly,” said Julia, kissing her smilingly.

      “You always were kind to me, Miss, and there’s nothing in life I wouldn’t do for you if you wanted it.”

      “Come, Ju,” cried Cynthia, from without.

      “Oh, thank you, Polly, I know you would.”

      “And you’d come and ask me, Miss, if you wanted help, wouldn’t you?”

      “Indeed I would, Polly; but why do you ask me in that strange way?”

      “Because – because, Miss, I want to ask a favour of you now,” cried the young wife, desperately.

      “What is it, Polly?” said Julia, showing deep interest now.

      “Please, Miss, you – you remember when we were at Dinan.”

      “Yes, yes; what?” cried Julia.

      “About Mr Cyril.”

      “Yes,” cried Julia, catching her hand; “he has not dared?”

      “He – he came here yesterday, Miss, while Tom was out,” cried Polly, bursting into tears, “and he came once before; and it frightens me, Miss – it horrifies me; for Tom loves me so dearly, Miss; and it would make him angry, and break his heart if he thought ill of me, Miss Julia.”

      “But did you encourage him to come again?” cried Julia, angrily.

      “No, Miss Julia, I nearly went on my knees to him, and begged him not to come again, but he only laughed, and – and called me a little fool.”

      “You shall tell your husband, Polly,” cried Julia, hotly.

      “I – I was afraid, Miss Julia,” sobbed Polly. “I was afraid of making mischief. I dared not tell him. If he thought Mr Cyril came here and troubled me, he would be ready to kill him, Miss, and me too. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?”

      “I’ll tell papa,” said Cynthia, who had come back unseen. “I declare it’s shameful, and I – I wish my brothers were both dead. Oh, Ju, papa must know.”

      “No, no,” said Julia, holding the sobbing little woman to her breast; “Polly is right. It would be making terrible mischief. I’ll speak to Cyril myself, and if he will not listen to me, mamma shall try. But, Polly, you will tell me if he comes again?”

      “Oh, yes, yes, Miss Julia,” cried the young wife, gazing up passionately in her visitor’s face.

      “And always tell me the whole truth?”

      “Indeed – indeed I will. Please, Miss Julia,” she said simply, “I don’t think I ever told a lie.”

      “I don’t believe you ever did, Polly,” said Julia, kissing her, and turning to the door to go. “There, good-bye, and don’t be low-spirited. Cyril is soon going away again, and even if he is not, he shall not trouble you.”

      “Thank you, Miss Julia, and you too, Miss Cynthia,” said the young wife, wiping her eyes; “and perhaps you will be at baby’s christening?”

      “If papa doesn’t object, indeed we will,” cried Julia, smiling, and the sisters went back along the lane.

      “I would – I would indeed,” said the young mother, softly; “I’d do anything to serve dear Miss Julia, and I hope and pray she may never feel such trouble as I do now. Oh, if only they had stopped away!”

      She was standing in the little porch, listening to the regular harsh sound of a saw in the work-shed, some fifty yards away, gazing after the sisters, till a step coming in the other direction made her sharply turn her head, and then, as she shrank back, her whole aspect seemed to change. She turned ghastly white, her eyes dilated, and she trembled visibly, as if at the sight of some great horror.

      It was nothing so very terrible approaching either, being only a tall, well-built, handsome young man of six or seven and twenty, his hands in the pockets of his loose jacket, and a cigar in his mouth.

      Part 1, Chapter III.

      The State of Lawford

      Only some twenty years ago, but from the streets and surroundings of the place the date might have been in the last century. For Lawford was in an out-of-the-way part of Lincolnshire towards which one of the main northern lines had been running straight, but the company were beaten in Parliament, and the iron road curved off, leaving Lawford where it was – all behind.

      When the new rector was appointed to the living he resolutely refused to go without a fresh rectory was built, for the old house, with its low rooms, was ten yards from the churchyard, which in the course of centuries had gone up, while the old rectory seemed to have gone down, so that you walked along a slope and then descended three steps into the ancient, damp, evil-smelling place, which had more the aspect of a furnished mausoleum than a house.

      The consequence was that a grant was made for the building of a new rectory, which was erected a mile and a half out of the town; and as the living was rich, the Rev. Eli Mallow borrowed a couple of thousand pounds to have the house made handsomer, and to add conservatories and greenhouses to the place, got it all in excellent order, and then went on the Continent for a few years, when the old rectory did very well for Mr Paulby, the curate who was left in charge.

      Difficulties of pocket had certainly had something to do with the absenteeism of the Rev. Eli Mallow, but there had been other troubles as well in connection with his sons, whom he had made several efforts to start in life and get away from Lawford. They were the sons of a clergyman, but two more unclerical youths never troubled father, and so unfortunate were his efforts, so persistently did the young men return home to their fond and indulgent mother and their proud weak father, that the Lawford people, famous among themselves for nick-naming those that they did not like, called Frank Mallow, the elder brother, “The Bad Shilling,” while Cyril, consequent upon a visit to Australia, they named “The Boomerang.”

      They were an old-fashioned people at Lawford, and the “owd rector” had been old-fashioned too. It was past the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty, and Victoria was seated upon the throne, but the old rector thought it no wrong to go to one of the inns and sit and drink his mug of ale and chat and gossip with any townsman who came in.

      As to the church, a colder, damper, more musty-smelling place could not have been found. Its glory was its whitewash, which was so rich and fat and thick that every here and there it bore a crop of curious spindly mushrooms, which grew and flourished and died, leaving great black patches on the walls like hatchments to record their vegetable deaths, till about once in a generation the whitewash brush came into use again, and a new coat was laid on to moulder and grow damp, and fall in patches of a goodly thickness upon the stained stone pave.

      The worst of that whitewash was that it was not white, only a dirty wash that covered the ceiling and face of the wall, great blank patches of which used to be mentally studied by the schoolboys as maps of unknown regions, for the moisture that streamed down from the roof soon marked black rivers, while dark boundary lines seemed to be traced by cracks and mould of strange continents, islands, and seas, upon which in summer-time bluebottle flies and spiders made islands or cruising barks.

      In the moist autumn times the place always broke out into a cold perspiration, the wet standing in great tears upon the flat tombstones and even upon the broad slab of old blackened oak that served for Sammy Warmoth’s