Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/Verner's Pride - Part 13
VERNER’S PRIDE.
BY THE AUTHORESS OF “EAST LYNNE.”
CHAPTER XXV. A MOMENT OF DELIRIUM.
The dining-room looked a picture of comfort: and Lionel thought so as he entered. A blaze of light and warmth burst upon him. A well-spread tea-table was there, with cold meat, game and else, at one end of it. Standing before the fire, her young, slender form habited in its black robes, was Sibylla. No one, looking at her, would have believed her to be a widow: partly from her youth, partly that she did not wear the widow’s dress. Her head was uncovered, and her fair curls fell, shading her brilliant cheeks. It has been mentioned that her chief beauty lay in her complexion: seen by candle-light, flushed as she was now, she was inexpressibly beautiful. A dangerous hour, a perilous situation for the yet unhealed heart of Lionel Verner.
The bright flush was the result of excitement, of some degree of inward fever. Let us allow that it was a trying time for her. She had arrived to find Mrs. Verner dead, her father absent: she had arrived to find that no provision had been made for her by Mr. Verner’s will, as the widow of Frederick Massingbird. Frederick’s having succeeded to the inheritance debarred her even of the five hundred pounds. It is true there would be the rents, received for the short time it had been his. There was no doubt that Sibylla, throughout the long voyage, had cherished the prospect of finding a home at Verner’s Pride. If her husband had lived, it would have been wholly hers; she appeared still to possess a right in it; and she never gave a thought to the possibility that her aunt would not welcome her to it Whether she cast a reflection to Lionel Verner in the matter, she best knew: had she reflected properly, she might have surmised that Lionel would be living at it, its master. But—the voyage ended, the home gained—what did she find? That Mrs. Verner was no longer at Verner’s Pride, to press the kiss of welcome upon her lips; a few feet of earth was all her home now.
It was a terrible disappointment. There could be no doubt of that. And another disappointment was, to find Dr. West away. Sibylla’s sisters had been at times over-strict with her, much as they loved her, and the vision of returning to her old home, to them, was one of bitterness. So bitter, in fact, that she would not glance at its possibility.
Fatigued, low-spirited, feverishly perplexed, Sibylla did not know what she could do. She was not in a state that night to give much care to the future. All she hoped was, to stay in that haven until something else could be arranged for her. Let us give her her due. Somewhat careless, naturally, of the punctilios of life, it never occurred to her that it might not be the precise thing for her to remain, young as she was, the sole guest of Lionel Verner. Her voyage out, her residence in that very unconventional place, Melbourne, the waves and storms which had gone over her there in more ways than one, the voyage back again alone, all had tended to give Sibylla Massingbird an independence of thought; a contempt for the rules and regulations, the little points of etiquette obtaining in civilised society. She really thought no more harm of staying at Verner’s Pride with Lionel, than she would have thought it had old Mr. Verner been its master. The eyelashes, resting on her hot cheeks, were wet, as she turned round when Lionel entered.
“Have you taken anything, Mrs. Massingbird?”
“No.”
“But you should have done so,” he remonstrated, his tone one of the most considerate kindness.
“I did not observe that tea waited,” she replied, the covered table catching her eye for the first time. “I have been thinking.”
He placed a chair for her before the tea-tray, and she sat down. “Am I to preside?” she asked.
“If you will. If you are not too tired.”
“Who makes tea for you in general?” she continued.
“They send it in, made.”
Sibylla busied herself with the tea, in a languid sort of manner. In vain Lionel pressed her to eat. She could touch nothing. She took a piece of rolled bread-and-butter, but left it.
“You must have dined on the road, Mrs. Massingbird,” he said with a smile.
“I? I have not taken anything all day. I kept thinking ‘I shall get to Verner’s Pride in time for my aunt’s dinner.’ But the train arrived later than I anticipated; and when I got here she was gone.”
Sibylla bent her head, as if playing with her tea-spoon. Lionel detected the dropping tears.
“Did you wonder where I was going just now, when I went out?”
“I did not know you had been out,” replied Sibylla.
“I went to your sisters’. I thought it would be better for them to come here. Unfortunately, I found them gone out: and young Cheese says they will not be home until two in the morning.”
“Why, where can they be gone?” cried Sibylla, aroused to interest. It was so unusual for the Miss Wests to be out late.
“To some gathering at Heartburg. Cheese was eating apple-puffs with unlimited satisfaction.”
The connection of apple-puffs with Master Cheese called up a faint smile into Sibylla’s face. She pushed her chair away from the table, turning it towards the fire.
“But you surely have not finished, Mrs. Massingbird?”
“Yes, thank you. I have drank my tea. I cannot eat anything.”
Lionel rang, and the things were removed. Sibylla was standing before the mantel-piece when they were left alone, unconsciously looking at herself in the glass. Lionel stood near her.
“I have not got a widow’s cap,” she exclaimed, turning to him, the thought appearing suddenly to strike her. “I had two or three curious things made, that they called widow’s caps in Melbourne, but they were spoilt in the voyage.”
“You have seen some trouble since you went out,” Lionel observed.
“Yes, I have. It was an ill-starred voyage. It has been ill-starred from the beginning to the end; all of it together.”
“The voyage has, you mean?”
“I mean more than the voyage,” she replied. But her tone did not invite further question.
“Did you succeed in getting particulars of the fate of John?”
“No. Captain Cannonby promised to make inquiries, but we had not heard from him before I came away. I wish we could have found Luke Roy.”
“Did you not find him?”
“We heard of him from the Eyres—the friends I was staying with. It was so singular,” she continued, with some animation in her tone. “Luke Roy came to Melbourne after John was killed, and fell in with the Eyres. He told them about John: little thinking that I and Frederick should meet the Eyres afterwards. John died from a shot.”
“From a shot!” involuntarily exclaimed Lionel.
“He and Luke were coming down to Melbourne from—where was it?—the Bendigo Diggings, I think; but I heard so much of the different names, that I am apt to confound one with another. John had a great deal of gold on him, in a belt round his waist, and Luke supposes that it got known. John was attacked as they were sleeping by night in the open air, beaten, and shot. It was the shot that killed him.”
“Poor fellow!” exclaimed Lionel, his eyes fixed on vacancy, mentally beholding John Massingbird. “And they robbed him!”
“They had robbed him of all. Not a particle of gold was left upon him. Luke came on afterwards to Melbourne, and tried to discover the men; but he could not. It was this striving at discovery which brought him in contact with Mr. Eyre. After we reached Melbourne and I became acquainted with the Eyres, they did all they could to find out Luke, but they were unsuccessful.”
“What had become of him?”
“They could not think. The last time Mr. Eyre saw him, Luke said he thought he had obtained a clue to the men who killed John. He promised to go back the following day and tell Mr. Eyre more about it. But he did not. And they never saw him afterwards. Mrs. Eyre used to say to me that she sincerely trusted no harm had come to Luke.”
“Harm, in what way?” asked Lionel.
“She thought—but she would say that it was a foolish thought—if Luke should have found the men, and been sufficiently imprudent to allow them to know that he recognised them, they might have worked him some ill. Perhaps killed him.”
Sibylla spoke the last words in a low tone. She was standing very still; her hands lightly resting before her, one upon another. How Lionel’s heart was beating as he gazed on her, he alone knew. She was once again the Sibylla of past days. He forgot that she was the widow of another; that she had left him for that other of her own free will. All his past resentment faded in that moment: nothing was present to him but his love; and Sibylla with her fascinating beauty.
“You are thinner than when you left home,” he remarked.
“I grew thin with vexation; with grief. He ought not to have taken me.”
The concluding sentence was spoken in a strangely resentful tone. It surprised Lionel. “Who ought not to have taken you?—taken you where?” he asked, really not understanding her.
“He. Frederick Massingbird. He might have known what a place that Melbourne was. It is not fit for a lady. We had lodgings in a wooden house, near a spot that had used to be called Canvas Town. The place was crowded with people.”
“But surely there are decent hotels at Melbourne!”
“All I know is, he did not take me to one. He inquired at one or two, but they were full; and then somebody recommended him to get a lodging. It was not right. He might have gone to it himself, but he had me with him. He lost his desk, you know.”
“I heard that he did,” replied Lionel.
“And I suppose that frightened him. Everything was in the desk: money, letters of credit. He had a few bank notes, only, left in his pocket-book. It never was recovered. I owe my passage money home, and I believe Captain Cannonby supplied him with some funds—which of course ought to be repaid. He took to drink brandy,” she continued.
“I am much surprised to hear it.”
“Some fever came on. I don’t know whether he caught it, or whether it came to him naturally. It was a sort of intermittent fever. At times he was very low with it, and then it was that he would drink the brandy. Only fancy what my position was!” she added, her face and voice alike full of pain. “He, not always himself; and I, out there in that wretched place alone. I went down on my knees to him one day, and begged him to send me back to England.”
“Sibylla!”
He was unconscious that he called her by the familiar name. He was wishing he could have shielded her from all this. Painful as the retrospect might be to her, the recital was far more painful to him.
“After that, we met Captain Cannonby. I did not much like him, but he was kind to us. He got us to change to an hotel, made them find room for us, and then introduced me to the Eyres. Afterwards, he and Fred started from Melbourne, and I went to stay at the Eyres’.”
Lionel did not interrupt her. She had made a pause, her eyes fixed on the fire.
“A day or two, and Captain Cannonby came back, and said that my husband was dead. I was not very much surprised. I thought he would not live when he left me: he had death written in his face. And so, I am alone in the world.”
She raised her large blue eyes, swimming in tears, to Lionel. It completely disarmed him. He forgot all his prudence, all his caution; he forgot things that it was incumbent upon him to remember; and, like many another has done before him, older and wiser than Lionel Verner, he suffered a moment’s impassioned impulse to fix the destiny of a life.
“Not alone from henceforth, Sibylla,” he murmured, bending towards her in agitation, his lips apart, his breath coming fast and loud, his cheeks scarlet. “Let me be your protector. I love you more fondly than I have ever done.”
She was entirely unprepared for the avowal. It may be, that she did not know what to make of it—how to understand it. She stepped back, her eyes strained on him inquiringly, her face turning to pallor. Lionel threw his arms round her, drew her to him, and sheltered her on his breast: as if he would ward off ill from her for ever.
“Be my wife,” he fondly cried, his voice trembling with its own tenderness. “My darling, let this home be yours! Nothing shall part us more.”
She burst into tears, raised herself, and looked at him.
“You cannot mean it! After behaving to you as I did, can you love me still?”
“I love you far better than ever,” he answered, his voice becoming hoarse with emotion. “I have been striving to forget you ever since that cruel time; and not until to-night did I know how utterly futile has been the strife. You will let me love you! you will help me to blot out its remembrance!”
She drew a long deep sigh, like one who is relieved from some wearing pain, and laid her head down again as he had placed it.
“I can love you better than I loved him,” she breathed.
“Sibylla, why did you leave me? Why did you marry him?”
“O Lionel, don’t reproach me!—don’t reproach me!” she answered, bursting into tears. “Papa made me. He did, indeed.”
“He made you! Dr. West?”
“I liked Frederick a little. Yes, I did; I will not deny it. And oh, how he loved me! All the while, Lionel, that you hovered near me—never speaking, never saying that you loved—he told me of it incessantly.”
“Stay, Sibylla. You could not have mistaken me.”
“True. Yours was silent love; his was urgent. When it came to the decision, and he asked me to marry him, and to go out to Australia, then papa interfered. He suspected that I cared for you—that you cared for me; and he—he”
Sibylla stopped and hesitated.
“Must I tell you all?” she asked. “Will you never, never repeat it to papa, or reproach him? Will you let it remain a secret between us?”
“I will, Sibylla. I will never speak upon the point to Dr. West.”
“Papa said that I must choose Frederick Massingbird. He told me that Verner’s Pride was left to Frederick, and he ordered me to marry him. He did not say how he knew it—how he heard it; he only said that it was so. He affirmed that you were cut off with nothing, or next to nothing; that you would not be able to take a wife for years—perhaps never. And I weakly yielded.”
A strangely stern expression had darkened Lionel’s face. Sibylla saw it, and wrung her hands.
“Oh, don’t blame me!—don’t blame me more than you can help! I know how weak, how wrong it was; but you cannot tell how entirely obedient we have always been to papa.”
“Dr. West became accidentally acquainted with the fact that the property was left away from me,” returned Lionel, in a scorn he could not entirely suppress. “He made good use, it seems, of his knowledge.”
“Do not blame me!” she reiterated. “It was not my fault.”
“I do not blame you, my dearest.”
“I have been rightly served,” she said, the tears streaming down. “I married him, pressed to it by my father, that I might share in Verner’s Pride; and, before the news came out that Verner’s Pride was ours, he was dead. It had lapsed to you, whom I rejected! Lionel, I never supposed that you would cast another thought to me; but, many a time have I felt that I should like to kneel and ask your forgiveness.”
He bent his head, fondly kissing her.
“We will forget it together, Sibylla.”
A sudden thought appeared to strike her, called forth, no doubt, by this new state of things, and her face turned crimson as she looked at Lionel.
“Ought I to remain here now?”
“You cannot well do anything else, as it is so late,” he answered. “Allow Verner’s Pride to afford you an asylum for the present, until you can make arrangements to remove to some temporary home. Mrs. Tynn will make you comfortable. I shall be, during the time, my mother’s guest.”
“What is the time now?” asked Sibylla.
“Nearly ten. And, I dare say you are tired. I will not be selfish enough to keep you up,” he added, preparing to depart. Good-night, my dearest.”
She burst into fresh tears, and clung to his hand.
“I shall be thinking it must be a dream as soon as you leave me. You will be sure to come back and see me to-morrow?”
“Come back—aye!” he said, with a smile; “Verner’s Pride never contained the magnet for me that it contains now.”
He gave a few brief orders to Mrs. Tynn and to his own servant, and quitted the house. Neither afraid of ghosts nor thieves, he took the field way, the road which led by the willow pond. It was a fine, cold night, his mind was unsettled, his blood was heated, and the lonely route appeared to him preferable to the one through the village.
As he passed the willow pond with a quick step, he caught a glimpse of some figure bending over it, as if it were looking for something in the water, or else about to take a leap in. Remembering the fate of Rachel, and not wishing to have a second catastrophe of the same nature happen on his estate, Lionel strode towards the figure and caught it by the arm. The head was flung upwards at the touch, and Lionel recognised Robin Frost.
“Robin! what do you do here?” he questioned, his tone somewhat severe in spite of its kindness.
“No harm,” answered the man. “There be times, Mr. Lionel, when I am forced to come. If I am in my bed, and the thought comes over me that I may see her if I only stay long enough upon the brink of this here water, which was her ending, I’m obliged to get up and come here. There be nights, sir, when I have stood here from sunset to sunrise.”
“But you never have seen her, Robin?” returned Lionel, humouring his grief.
“No; never. But it’s no reason why I never may. Folks say there be some of the dead that comes again, sir—not all.”
“And if you did see her, what end would it answer?”
“She’d tell me who the wicked one was that put her into it,” returned Robin, in a low whisper; and there was something so wild in the man’s tone as to make Lionel doubt his perfect sanity. “Many a time do I hear her voice a-calling to me. It comes at all hours, abroad and at home; in the full sunshine, and in the dark night. ‘Robin!’ it says, ‘Robin!’ But it never says nothing more.”
Lionel laid his hand on the man’s shoulder, and drew him with him.
“I am going your way, Robin; let us walk together.”
Robin made no resistance; he went along with his head down.
“I heard a word said to-night, sir, as Miss Sibylla had come back,” he resumed, more calmly, “Mrs. Massingbird, that is. Somebody said they saw her at the station. Have you seen her, sir?”
“Yes; I have,” replied Lionel.
“Does she say anything about John Massingbird?” continued the man with feverish eagerness. “Is he dead? or is he alive?”
“He is dead, Robin. There has never been a doubt upon the point since the news first came. He died by violence.”
“Then he got his deserts,” returned Robin, lifting his hand in the air, as he had done once before when speaking upon the same subject. “And Luke Roy, sir? Is he coming? I’m a-waiting for him.”
“Of Luke, Mrs. Massingbird knows nothing. For myself, I think he is sure to come home, sooner or later.”
“Heaven send him!” aspirated Robin.
Lionel saw the man turn to his home, and very soon afterwards he was at his mother’s. Lady Verner had retired for the night. Decima and Lucy were about retiring. They had risen from their seats, and Decima—who was too cautious to trust it to servants—was taking the fire off the grate. They looked inexpressibly surprised at the entrance of Lionel.
“I have come on a visit, Decima,” began he, speaking in a gay tone. “Can you take me in?”
She did not understand him, and Lionel saw by the questioning expression of her face that Lady Verner had not made public the contents of his note to her: he saw that they were ignorant of the return of Sibylla. The fact, that they were so, seemed to rush over his spirit as a refreshing dew. Why it should do so, he did not seek to analyse: he was all too self-conscious that he dared not.
“A friend has come unexpectedly on a visit, and taken possession of Verner’s Pride,” he pursued. “I have lent it for a time.”
“Lent it all?” exclaimed the wondering Decima.
“Lent it all. You will make room for me, won’t you?”
“To be sure,” said Decima, puzzled more than she could express. “But—was there no room left for you?”
“No,” answered Lionel.
“What very unconscionable people they must be, to invade you in such numbers as that! You can have your old chamber, Lionel. But I will just go and speak to Catherine.”
She hastened from the room. Lionel stood before the fire, positively turning his back upon Lucy Tempest. Was his conscience already smiting him? Lucy, who had stood by the table, her bed candle in her hand, stepped forward and held out the other hand to Lionel.
“May I wish you good-night?” she said.
“Good-night,” he answered, shaking her hand. “How is your cold?”
“Oh, it is so much better!” she replied, with animation. “All the threatened soreness of the chest is gone. I shall be well by to-morrow. Lady Verner said I ought to have gone to bed early, but I felt too well. I knew Jan’s advice would be good.”
She left him, and Lionel leaned his elbow on the mantel-piece, his brow contracting as does that of one in unpleasant thought. Was he recalling the mode in which he had taken leave of Lucy later in the day?
CHAPTER XXVI. NEWS FOR LADY VERNER, AND FOR LUCY.
If he did not recal it then, he recalled it later: when he was upon his bed, turning and tossing from side to side. His conscience was smiting him: smiting him from more points than one. Carried away by the impulse of the moment, he had spoken words, that night, in his hot passion, which might not be redeemed: and, now that the leisure for reflection was come, he could not conceal from himself that he had been too hasty. Lionel Verner was one who possessed excessive conscientiousness: even as a boy, had impetuosity led him into a fault—as it often did—his silent, inward repentance would be always keenly real, more so than the case deserved. It was so now. He loved Sibylla: there had been no mistake there: but it is certain that the unexpected delight of meeting her, her presence palpably before him in all its beauty, her manifested sorrow and grief, her lonely, unprotected position, all had worked their effect upon his heart and mind, had imparted to his love a false intensity. However the agitation of the moment may have caused him to fancy it, he did not love Sibylla as he had loved her of old: else why should the image of Lucy Tempest present itself to him surrounded by a halo of regret? The point is as unpleasant for us to touch upon, as it was to Lionel to think of: but the fact was all too palpable, and cannot be suppressed. He did love Sibylla: nevertheless there obtruded the unwelcome reflection that, in asking her to be his wife, he had been hasty; that it had been better had he taken time for consideration. He almost doubted whether Lucy would not have been more acceptable to him: not loved yet so much as Sibylla, but better suited to him in all other ways: worse than this, he doubted whether he had not in honour bound himself tacitly to Lucy that very day.
The fit of repentance was upon him, and he tossed and turned from side to side upon his uneasy bed. But, toss and turn as he would, he could not undo his night’s work. There remained nothing for him but to carry it out, and make the best of it; and he strove to deceive his conscience with the hope that Lucy Tempest, in her girlish innocence, had not understood his hinted allusions to her becoming his wife: that she had looked upon his snatched caresses as but trifling pastime, such as he might offer to a child. Most unjustifiable he now felt those hints, those acts to have been, and his brow grew red with shame at their recollection. One thing he did hope, hope sincerely—that Lucy did not care for him. That she liked him very much, and had been on most confidential terms with him, he knew: but he did hope her liking went no deeper. Strange sophistry! how it will deceive the human heart! how prone we are to admit it! Lionel was honest enough in his hope now: but, not many hours before, he had been hugging his heart with the delusion that Lucy did love him.
Towards morning he dropped into an uneasy sleep. He awoke later than his usual hour from a dream of Frederick Massingbird. Dreams play us strange fantasies. Lionel’s had taken him to that past evening, prior to Frederick Massingbird’s marriage, when he had sought him in his chamber, to offer a word of warning against the union. He seemed to be living the interview over again, and the first words when he awoke, rushing over his brain with minute and unpleasant reality, were those he had himself spoken in reference to Sibylla:—“Were she free as air this moment, were she to come to my feet, and say ‘Let me be your wife,’ I should tell her that the whole world was before her to choose from, save myself. She can never again be anything to me.”
Brave words: fully believed in when they were spoken: but what did Lionel think of them now?
He went down to breakfast. He was rather late, and found they had assembled. Lady Verner, who had just heard for the first time of Lionel’s presence in the house, made no secret now of Lionel’s note to her. Therefore Decima and Lucy knew that the “invasion” of Verner’s Pride had been caused by Mrs. Massingbird.
She—Lady Verner—scarcely gave herself time to greet Lionel before she commenced upon it. She did not conceal, or seek to conceal, her sentiments—either of Sibylla herself, or of the step she had taken. And Lionel had the pleasure of hearing his intended bride alluded to, in a manner that was not altogether complimentary.
He could not stop it. He could not take upon himself the defence of Sibylla, and say, “Do you know that you are speaking of my future wife?” No, for Lucy Tempest was there. Not in her presence, had he the courage to bring home to himself his own dishonour: to avow that, after wooing her (it was very like it), he had turned round and asked another to marry him. The morning sun shone into the room upon the snowy cloth, upon the silver breakfast service, upon the exquisite cups of painted porcelain, upon those seated round the table. Decima sat opposite to Lady Verner, Lionel and Lucy were face to face on either side. The walls exhibited a few choice paintings; the room and its appurtenances were in excellent taste. Lady Verner liked things that pleased the eye. That silver service had been a recent present of Lionel’s, who had delighted in showering elegancies and comforts upon his mother since his accession.
“What could have induced her ever to think of taking up her residence at Verner’s Pride on her return?” reiterated Lady Verner to Lionel.
“She believed she was coming to her aunt. It was only at the station, here, that she learnt Mrs. Verner was dead.”
“She did learn it there?”
“Yes. She learnt it there.”
“And she could come to Verner’s Pride after that? knowing that you, and you alone, were its master?”
Lionel toyed with his coffee-cup. He wished his mother would spare her remarks.
“She was so fatigued, so low-spirited, that I believed she was scarcely conscious where she drove,” he returned. “I am certain that the idea of there being any impropriety in it never once crossed her mind.”
Lady Verner drew her shawl around her with a peculiar movement. If ever action expressed scorn, that one did;—scorn of Sibylla, scorn of her conduct, scorn of Lionel’s credulity in believing in her. Lionel read it all. Happening to glance across the table, he caught the eyes of Lucy Tempest fixed upon him with an open expression of wonder. Wonder at what? At his believing in Sibylla? It might be. With all Lucy’s straightforward plainness, she would have been one of the last to storm Lionel’s abode, and take refuge in it. A retort, defending Sibylla, had been upon Lionel’s tongue, but that gaze stopped it.
“How long does she purpose honouring Verner’s Pride with her presence, and keeping you out of it?” resumed Lady Verner.
“I do not know what her present plans may be,” he answered, his cheek burning at the thought of the avowal he had to make—that her future plans would be contingent upon his. Not the least painful of the results which Lionel’s haste had brought in its train, was the knowledge of the shock it would prove to his mother, whom he so loved and reverenced. Why had he not thought of it at the time?
Breakfast over, Lionel went out, a very coward. A coward, in so far as that he had shrunk from making yet the confession. He was aware that it ought to be done. The presence of Decima and Lucy Tempest had been his mental excuse for putting off the unwelcome task.
But a better frame of mind came over him ere he had gone many paces from the door; better, at any rate, as regarded the cowardice.
“A Verner never shrank yet from his duty,” was his comment, as he bent his steps back again. “Am I turning renegade?”
He went straight up to Lady Verner, and asked her, in a low tone, to grant him a minute’s private interview. They had breakfasted in the room which made the ante-room to the drawing-room: it was their usual morning-room. Lady Verner answered her son by stepping into the drawing-room.
He followed her and closed the door. The fire was but just lighted, scarcely giving out any heat. She slightly shivered, and requested him to stir it. He did so mechanically; wholly absorbed by the revelation he had to impart. He remembered how she had once fainted at nearly the same revelation.
“Mother, I have a communication to make to you,” he began with desperate energy. “And I don’t know how to do it. It will pain you greatly. Nothing, that I can think of, or imagine, would cause you so much pain.”
Lady Verner seated herself in her low violet-velvet chair, and looked composedly at Lionel. She did not dread the communication very much. He was secure in Verner’s Pride: what could there be that she need fear? She no more cast a glance to the possibility of his marrying the widow of Frederick Massingbird, than she would have done to his marrying that gentleman’s wife. Buried in this semi-security, the shock must be all the greater.
“I am about to marry,” said Lionel, plunging into the news headlong. “And I fear that you will not approve my choice. Nay, I know you will not.”
A foreshadowing of the truth came across her then. She grew deadly pale, and put up her hands, as if to ward off the blow. “Oh, Lionel! don’t say it! don’t say it!” she implored. “I never can receive her.”
“Yes you will, mother,” he whispered, his own face pale too, and his tone one of painful intreaty. “You will receive her for my sake.”
“Is it—she?”
The aversion with which the name was avoided was unmistakable. Lionel only nodded a grave affirmative.
“Have you engaged yourself to her?”
“I have. Last night.”
“Were you mad?” she asked in a whisper.
“Stay, mother. When you were speaking against Sibylla at breakfast, I refrained from interference, for you did not then know that defence of her was my duty. Will you forgive me for reminding you that I cannot permit it to be continued, even by you?”
“But, do you forget that it is not a respectable alliance for you?” resumed Lady Verner. “No, not a respectable—”
“I cannot listen to this; I pray you cease!” he broke forth, a blaze of anger darkening his face. “Have you forgotten of whom you are speaking, mother? Not respectable!”
“I say that it is not a respectable alliance for you—Lionel Verner,” she persisted. “An obscure surgeon’s daughter, he of not too good repute, who has been out to the end of the world, and found her way back alone, a widow, is not a desirable alliance for a Verner. It would not be desirable for Jan; it is terrible for you?”
“We shall not agree upon this,” said Lionel, preparing to take his departure. “I have told you, mother, and I have no more to say. Except to urge—if I may do so—that you will learn to speak of Sibylla with courtesy, remembering that she will shortly be my wife.”
Lady Verner caught his hand as he was retreating.
“Lionel, my son, tell me how you came to do it,” she wailed. “You cannot love her! the wife, the widow of another man! It must have been the work of a moment of folly. Perhaps she drew you into it!”
The suggestion, the “work of a moment of folly,” was so very close a representation of what it had been, of what Lionel was beginning to see it to have been now, that the rest of the speech was lost to him in the echo of that one sentence. Somehow, he did not care to refute it.
“She will be my wife, respected and honoured,” was all he answered, as he quitted the room.
Lady Verner followed him. He went straight out, and she saw him walk hastily across the courtyard, putting on his hat as he traversed it. She wrung her hands, and broke into a storm of wailing despair, ignoring the presence of Decima and Lucy Tempest.
“I had far rather that she had stabbed him!”
The words excited their amazement. They turned to Lady Verner, and were struck with the marks of agitation on her countenance.
“Mamma, what are you speaking of?” asked Decima.
Lady Verner pointed to Lionel, who was then passing through the front gates.
“I speak of him,” she answered, “my darling; my pride; my much-loved son. That woman has worked his ruin.”
Decima verily thought her mother must be wandering in her intellect. Lucy could only gaze at Lady Verner in consternation.
“What woman?” repeated Decima.
“She. She who has been Lionel’s bane. She who came and thrust herself into his home last night in her unseemly conduct. What passed between them, Heaven knows; but she has contrived to cajole him out of a promise to marry her.”
Decima’s pale cheek turned to a burning red. She was afraid to ask questions.
“Oh, mamma! it cannot be!” was all she uttered.
“It is, Decima. I told Lionel that he could not love her, who had been the wife of another man: and he did not refute it. I told him she must have drawn him into it, and that he left unanswered. He replied that she would be his wife, and must be honoured as such. Drawn in to marry her! one who is so utterly unworthy of him! whom he does not even love! Oh, Lionel, my son, my son!”
In their own grievous sorrow they noticed not the face of Lucy Tempest, or what they might have read there.
Lionel went direct to the house of Dr. West. It was early; and the Miss Wests’, fatigued with their night’s pleasure, had risen in a scuffle, barely getting down at the breakfast hour. Jan was in the country attending on a patient, and, not anticipating the advent of visitors, they had honoured Master Cheese with hair en papillotes. Master Cheese had divided his breakfast hour between eating and staring. The meal had been sometime over, and the young gentleman had retired, but the ladies sat over the fire in unusual idleness, discussing the dissipation they had participated in. A scream from the two arose upon the entrance of Lionel, and Miss Amilly flung her pocket-handkerchief over her head.
“Never mind,” said Lionel, laughing good-naturedly. “I have seen curl-papers before, in my life. Your sitting here quietly tells me that you do not know what has occurred.”
“What has occurred?” interrupted Deborah, before he could continue. “It—it—” her voice grew suddenly timid—“is nothing bad about papa?”
“No, no. Your sister has arrived from Australia. In this place of gossip, I wonder the news has not travelled to Jan or to Cheese.”
They had started up, poor things, their faces flushed, their eyelashes glistening, forgetting the little episode of the mortified vanity, eager to embrace Sibylla.
“Come back from Australia!” uttered Deborah in wild astonishment. “Then where is she, that she is not here, in her own home?”
“She came to mine,” replied Lionel. “She supposed Mrs. Verner to be its mistress still. I made my way here last night to ask you to come up, and found you were gone to Heartburg.”
“But—she—is not remaining at it?” exclaimed Deborah, speaking with hesitation, in her doubt, the flush on her face deepening.
“I placed it at her disposal until other arrangements could be made,” replied Lionel. “I am at present the guest of Lady Verner. You will go to Sibylla, will you not?”
Go to her? Ay! They tore the curl-papers out of their hair, and flung on bonnets and shawls, and hastened to Verner’s Pride.
“Say that I will call upon her in the course of the morning, and see how she is after her journey,” said Lionel.
In hurrying out, they encountered Jan. Deborah stopped to say a word about his breakfast: it was ready she said, and she thought he must want it.
“I do,” responded Jan. “I shall have to get an assistant, after all, Miss Deb. I find it doesn’t answer to go quite without meals and sleep; and that’s what I have done lately.”
“So you have, Mr. Jan. I say every day to Amilly that it can’t go on, for you to be walked off your legs in this way. Have you heard the cheering news, Mr. Jan? Sibylla’s come home. We are going to her now, at Verner’s Pride.”
“I have heard it,” responded Jan. “What took her to Verner’s Pride?”
“We have yet to learn all that. You know, Mr. Jan, she never was given to consider a step much, before she took it.”
They tripped away, and Jan, in turning from them, met his brother. Jan was one utterly incapable of finesse: if he wanted to say a thing, he said it out plainly. What havoc Jan would have made, enrolled in the corps of diplomatists!
“I say, Lionel,” began he, “is it true that you are going to marry Sibylla West?”
Lionel did not like the plain question, so abruptly put. He answered curtly:
“I am going to marry Sibylla Massingbird.”
“The old name comes the readiest,” said Jan. “How did it come about, Lionel?”
“May I ask whence you derived your information, Jan?” returned Lionel, who was marvelling where Jan could have heard this.
“At Deerham Court. I have been calling in, as I passed it, to see Miss Lucy. The mother is going wild, I think. Lionel, if it is as she says, that Sibylla drew you into it against your will, don’t you carry it out. I’d not. Nobody should hook me into anything.”
“My mother said that, did she? Be so kind as not to repeat it, Jan. I am marrying Sibylla because I love her; I am marrying her of my own free will. If anybody—save my mother—has aught of objection to make to it, let them make it to me.”
“Oh! that’s it, is it?” returned Jan. “You need not be up, Lionel, it is no business of mine. I’m sure you are free to marry her for me. I’ll be groomsman, if you like.”
“Lady Verner has always been prejudiced against Sibylla,” observed Lionel. “You might have remembered that, Jan.”
“So I did,” said Jan; “though I assumed that what she said was sure to be true. You see, I have been on the wrong scent lately. I thought you were getting fond of Lucy Tempest—it has looked like it.”
Lionel murmured some unintelligible answer, and turned away, a hot flush dyeing his brow.
Meanwhile Sibylla was already up, but not down. Breakfast she would have carried up to her room, she told Mrs. Tynn. She stood at the window, looking forth; not so much at the extensive prospect that swept the horizon in the distance, as at the fair lands immediately around. “All his,” she murmured, “and I shall be his wife at last!”
She turned languidly round at the opening of the door, expecting to see her breakfast. Instead of which, two frantic little bodies burst in and seized upon her. Sibylla shrieked.
“Don’t, Deb! don’t, Amilly! Are you going to hug me to death?”
Their kisses of welcome over, they went round about her, fondly surveying her from all points with their tearful eyes. She was thinner: but she was more lovely. Amilly expressed an opinion that the bloom on her delicate wax face was even brighter than of yore.
“Of course it is, at the present moment,” answered Sibylla, “when you have been kissing me into a fever.”
“She is not tanned a bit with her voyage, that I see,” cried Deborah, with undisguised admiration. “But Sibylla’s skin never did tan. Child,” she added, bending towards her, and allowing her voice to become grave, “how could you think of coming to Verner’s Pride? It was not right. You should have come home.”
“I thought Mrs. Verner was living still.”
“And if she had been?—This is Mr. Lionel’s house now; not hers. You ought to have come home, my dear. You will come with us now, will you not?”
“I suppose you’ll allow me to have some breakfast first,” was Sibylla’s answer. Secure in her future position, she was willing to go home to them temporarily now. “Why is papa gone away, Deborah?”
“He will be coming back some time, dear,” was Deborah’s evasive answer, spoken soothingly. “But tell us a little about yourself, Sibylla. When poor Frederick—”
“Not this morning, Deborah,” she interrupted, putting up her hand. “I will tell you all another time. It was an unlucky voyage.”
“Have you realised John’s money that he left? That he lost, I should rather say.”
“I have realised nothing,” replied Sibylla. “Nothing but ill luck. We never got tidings of John in any way, beyond the details of his death: we never saw a particle of gold belonging to him, or could hear of it. And my husband lost his desk the day we landed—as I sent you word; and I had no money out there, and I have only a few shillings in my pocket.”
This catalogue of ills nearly stunned Deborah and Amilly West. They had none too much of life’s great need, gold, for themselves; and the burden of keeping Sibylla would be sensibly felt. A tolerably good table it was indispensable to maintain, on account of Jan, and that choice eater, Master Cheese: but how they had to pinch in the matter of dress, they alone knew. Sibylla also knew, and she read arightly the drooping of their faces.
“Never mind, Deborah; cheer up, Amilly. It is only for a time. Ere very long I shall be leaving you again.”
“Surely not for Australia!” returned Deborah, the hint startling her.
“Australia? Well, I am not sure that it will be quite so far,” answered Sibylla, in a little spirit of mischief. And, in the bright prospect of the future, she forgot past and present grievances, turned her laughing blue eyes upon her sisters, and, to their great scandal, began to waltz round and round the room.