and odd pounds. He give Sibylla a cheque for its amount, and some gentle loving words of admonition at the same time—not to spend him out of house and home.
A second account from the same milliner had arrived this morning—been delivered to him with other London letters. Why it should have been sent to him and not to his wife, he was unable to tell—unless it was meant as a genteel hint that payment would be acceptable. The whole amount was for eleven hundred pounds, but part of this purported to be “To bill delivered”—four hundred and odd pounds. The precise sum which Lionel believed to have been paid. Eleven hundred pounds! and all the other claims upon him! No wonder he sat with a bent brow. If things went on at this rate, Verner’s Pride would come to the hammer.
He rose, the account in his hand, and proceeded to his wife’s dressing room. Among other habits, Sibylla was falling into that of indolence, scarcely ever rising to breakfast now. Or, if she rose, she did not come down. Mademoiselle Benoite came, whisking out of a side room as he was about to enter.
“Madame’s toilette is not made, sir,” cried she, in a tart tone, as if she thought he had no right to enter.
“What of that?” returned Lionel. And he went in.
Just as she had got out of bed, save that she had a blue quilted silk dressing-gown thrown on, and her feet were thrust into blue quilted slippers, sat Sibylla, before a good fire. She leaned in an easy-chair, reading; a miniature breakfast service of Sèvres china, containing chocolate, on a low table at her side. Some people like to read a word or two of the Bible, as soon as conveniently may be, after getting up in the morning. Was that good book the study of Sibylla? Not at all. Her study was a French novel. By dint of patience, and the assistance of Mademoiselle Benoite in the hard words and complicated sentences, Mrs. Verner contrived to arrive tolerably well at its sense.
“Good gracious!” she exclaimed when Lionel appeared, “are you not gone shooting with the rest?”
“I did not go this morning,” he answered, closing the door, and approaching her.
“Have you taken breakfast?” she asked.
“Breakfast has been over a long while. Were I you, Sibylla, when I had guests staying in the house, I should try and rise to breakfast with them.”
“Oh you crafty Lionel! To save you the trouble of presiding. Thank you,” she continued, good-humouredly, “I am more comfortable here. What is this story about a ghost? The kitchen’s in a regular commotion, Benoite says.”
“To what do you allude?” asked Lionel.
“Dan Duff is dying, or dead,” returned Sibylla. “Benoite was in Deerham last night, and brought him home to carry her parcels. In going back again, he saw, as he says, Rachel Frost’s ghost, and it terrified him out of his senses. Old Roy saw it, too, and the news has travelled up here.”
Sibylla laughed as she spoke. Lionel looked vexed.
“They are very stupid,” he said. “A pity but they kept such stories to themselves. If they were only as quiet as poor Rachel’s ghost is, it might be better for some of them.”
“Of course you would wish it kept quiet,” said Sibylla, in a tone full of significance. “I like to hear of these frights—it is good fun.”
He did not fathom in the remotest degree the meaning of her tone. But he had not gone thither to dispute about ghosts.
“Sibylla,” he gravely said, putting the open account into her hand, “I have received this this morning.”
Sibylla ran her eyes over it with indifference: first at the bill’s head, to see whence it came, next at its sum total.
“What an old cheat! Eleven hundred pounds! I am sure I have not had the half.”
Lionel pointed to the part “bill delivered.”
“Was that not paid in the spring?”
“How can I recollect?” returned Sibylla, speaking as carelessly as before.
“I think you may recollect if you try. I gave you a cheque for the amount.”
“Oh, yes, I do recollect now. It has not been paid.”
“But, my dear, I say I gave the cheque for it.”
“I cashed the cheque myself. I wanted some money just then. You can’t think how fast money goes in London, Lionel.”
The avowal proved only what he suspected. Nevertheless it hurt him greatly—grieved him to his heart’s core. Not so much the spending of the money, as the keeping the fact from him. What a lack of good feeling, of confidence, it proved!
He bent towards her, speaking gently, kindly. Whatever might be her faults to him, her provocations, he could never behave otherwise to her than as a thorough gentleman, and a kind husband, too.
“It was not right to use that cheque, Sibylla. It was made out in Madame Lebeau’s name, and should have been paid to her. But why did you not tell me?”
Sibylla shrugged her shoulders in place of answer. She had picked up many such little national habits of Mademoiselle Benoite’s. Very conspicuous just then was the upright line on Lionel’s brow.
“The amount altogether is, you perceive, eleven hundred pounds,” he continued.
“Yes,” said Sibylla. “She’s a cheat, that Madame Lebeau. I shall make Benoite write her a French letter, and tell her so.”
“It must be paid. But it is a great deal of money. I cannot continue to pay these large sums, Sibylla. I have not the money to do it with.”
“Not the money! When you know you are paying heaps for Lady Verner! Before you tell me not to spend, you should cease supplying her.”
Lionel’s very brow flushed.
“My mother has a claim upon me only in a degree less than you have,” he gravely said.