“Well,” said he, presently, “John is not Frederick.”
“No,” assented Jan. “He can put in no claim to your wife; but he can to Verner’s Pride.”
The words caused Lionel’s heart to go on with a bound. A great evil for him: there was no doubt of it; but still slight, compared to the one he had dreaded for Sibylla.
“There is no mistake, I suppose, Jan?”
“There’s no mistake,” replied Jan. “I have been talking to him this half hour. He is hiding at Roy’s.”
“Why should he be in hiding at all?” inquired Lionel.
“He had two or three motives, he said:” and Jan proceeded to give Lionel a summary of what he had heard. “He was not very explicit to me,” concluded Jan. “Perhaps he’ll be more so to you. He says he is coming to Verner’s Pride to-morrow morning at the earliest genteel hour after breakfast.”
“And what does he say to the fright he has caused?” resumed Lionel.
“Does nothing but laugh over it. Says it’s the primest fun he ever had in his life. He has come back very poor, Lionel.”
“Poor? Then, were Verner’s Pride and its revenues not his, I could have understood why he should not like to show himself openly. Well! well! compared to what I feared, it is a mercy. Sibylla is free; and I—I must make the best of it. He will be a more generous master of Verner’s Pride—as I believe—than Frederick would ever have been.”
“Yes,” nodded Jan. “In spite of his faults. And John Massingbird used to have plenty.”
“I don’t know who amongst us is without them, Jan. Unless—upon my word, old fellow, I mean it!—unless it is you.”
Jan opened his great eyes with a wondering stare. It never occurred to humble-minded Jan that there was anything in him approaching to goodness. He supposed Lionel had spoken in joke.
“What’s that?” cried he.
Jan alluded to a sudden burst of laughter, to a sound of many voices, to fair forms that were flitting before the windows. The ladies had gone into the drawing-room. “What a relief it will be for Sibylla!” involuntarily uttered Lionel.
“She’ll make a face at losing Verner’s Pride,” was the less poetical remark of Jan.
“Will he turn us out at once, Jan?”
“He said nothing to me on that score, nor I to him,” was the answer of Jan. “Look here, Lionel. Old West’s a screw, between ourselves; but what I do earn is my own: so don’t get breaking your rest, thinking you’ll not have a pound or two to turn to. If John Massingbird does turn you out, I can manage things for you, if you don’t mind living quietly.”
Honest Jan! His notions of “living quietly” would have comprised a couple of modest rooms, cotton umbrellas like his own, and a mutton chop a day. And Jan would have gone without the chop himself, to give it to Lionel. To Sibylla, also. Not that he had any great love for that lady, in the abstract: but, for Jan to eat chops, while anybody, no matter how remotely connected with him, wanted them, would have been completely out of Jan’s nature.
A lump was rising in Lionel’s throat. He loved Jan, and knew his worth, if nobody else did. While he was swallowing it down, Jan went on, quite eagerly.
“Something else might be thought of, Lionel. I don’t see why you and Sibylla should not come to old West’s. The house is large enough: and Deb and Amilly couldn’t object to it for their sister. In point of right, half the house is mine: West said so when I became his partner. He asked if I’d not like to marry, and said there was the half of the house; but I told him I’d rather be excused. I might get a wife, you know, Lionel, who’d be for grumbling at me all day, like my mother does. Now, if you and Sibylla would come there, the matter, as to your future, would be at rest. I’d divide what I get between you and Miss Deb. Half to her for the extra cost you’d be to the housekeeping; the other half for pocket-money for you and Sibylla. I think you might make it do, Lionel: my share is quite two hundred a year. My own share, I mean: besides what I hand over to Miss Deb, and transmit to the doctor. Could you manage with it?”
“Jan!” said Lionel, from between his quivering lips. “Dear Jan, there’s—”
They were interrupted. Bounding out at the drawing-room window, the very window at which Lucy Tempest had sat that night and watched the yew tree, came Sibylla, fretfulness in the lines of her countenance, complaint in the tones of her voice.
“Mr. Jan Verner, I’d like to know what right you have to send for Lionel out when he is at dinner? If he is your brother, you have no business to forget yourself like that. He can’t help your being his brother, I suppose; but you ought to know better than to presume upon it.”
“Sibylla!—”
“Be quiet, Lionel. I shall tell him of it. Never was such a thing heard of, as for a gentleman to be called out for nothing, from his table’s head! You do it again, Jan, and I shall order Tynn to shut the doors to you of Verner’s Pride.”
Jan received the lecture with the utmost equanimity, the most imperturbable good nature. Lionel wound his arms about his wife, gravely and gently: whatever may have been the pain caused by her words, he suppressed it.
“Jan came here to tell me news that quite justified his sending for me, wherever I might be, or however occupied, Sibylla. He has succeeded in solving to-night the mystery which has hung over us; he has discovered who it is that we have been taking for Frederick Massingbird.”
“It is not Frederick Massingbird,” cried Sibylla, speaking sharply. “Captain Cannonby says that it cannot be.”
“No, it is not Frederick Massingbird—God be thanked!” said Lionel. “With that knowledge we can afford to hear who it is bravely; can we not, Sibylla?”
“But why don’t you tell me who it is?” she retorted, in an impatient, fretful tone, not having