by Ellen Wood
Did Lionel read the signs aright, as her eyes fell before his? Very probably. A smile stole over his lips.
“I do like Jan very much,” stammered Lucy, essaying to mend the matter. “I may like him, I suppose? There’s no harm in it.”
“Oh! no harm, certainly,” spoke Lady Verner, with a spice of irony. “I never thought Jan could be a favourite before. Not being fastidiously polished yourself, Lucy — forgive my saying it — you entertain, I conclude, a fellow feeling for Jan.”
Lucy — for Jan’s sake — would not be beaten.
“Don’t you think it is better to be like Jan, Lady Verner, than — than — like Dr. West, for instance?”
“In what way?” returned Lady Verner.
“Jan is so true,” debated Lucy, ignoring the question.
“And Dr. West was not, I suppose,” retorted Lady Verner. “He wrote false prescriptions, perhaps? Gave false advice?”
Lucy looked a little foolish. “I will tell you the difference, as it seems to me, between Jan and other people,” she said. “Jan is like a rough diamond — real within, unpolished without — but a genuine diamond withal. Many others are but the imitation stone — glittering outside, false within.”
Lionel was amused.
“Am I one of the false ones, Miss Lucy?”
She took the question literally.
“No; you are true,” she answered, shaking her head, and speaking with grave earnestness.
“Lucy, my dear, I would not espouse Jan’s cause so warmly, were I you,” advised Lady Verner. “It might be misconstrued.”
“How so?” simply asked Lucy.
“It might be thought that you — pray excuse the common vulgarity of the suggestion — were in love with Jan.”
“In love with Jan!” Lucy paused for a moment after the words, and then burst into a merry fit of laughter. “Oh, Lady Verner! I cannot fancy anybody falling in love with Jan. I don’t think he would know what to do.”
“I don’t think he would,” quietly replied Lady Verner.
A peal at the courtyard bell, and the letting down the steps of a carriage. Visitors for Lady Verner. They were shown to the drawing-room, and the servant came in.
“The Countess of Elmsley and Lady Mary, my lady.”
Lady Verner rose with alacrity. They were favourite friends of hers — nearly the only close friends she had made in her retirement.
“Lucy, you must not venture into the drawing-room,” she stayed to say. “The room is colder than this. Come.”
The last “come” was addressed conjointly to her son and daughter. Decima responded to it, and followed; Lionel remained where he was.
“The cold room would not hurt me, but I am glad not to go,” began Lucy, subsiding into a more easy tone, a more social manner, than she ventured on in the presence of Lady Verner. “I think morning visiting the greatest waste of time! I wonder who invented it?”
“Somebody who wanted to kill time,” answered Lionel.
“It is not as though friends, who really cared for each other, met and talked. The calls are made just for form’s sake, and for nothing else, I will never fall into it when I am my own mistress.”
“When is that to be?” asked Lionel, smiling.
“Oh! I don’t know,” she answered, looking up at him in all confiding simplicity. “When papa comes home, I suppose.”
Lionel crossed over to where she was sitting.
“Lucy, I thank you for your partisanship of Jan,” he said, in a low, earnest tone. “I do not believe anybody living knows his worth.”
“Yes; for I do,” she replied, her eyes sparkling.
“Only, don’t you get to like him too much — as Lady Verner hinted,” continued Lionel, his eyes dancing with merriment at his own words.
Lucy’s eyelashes fell on her hot cheek. “Please not to be so foolish,” she answered, in a pleading tone.
“Or a certain place — that has been mentioned this morning — might have to go without a mistress for good,” he whispered.
What made him say it? It is true he spoke in a light, joking tone; but the words were not justifiable, unless he meant to follow them up seriously in future. He did mean to do so when he spoke them.
Decima came in, sent by Lady Verner to demand Lionel’s attendance.
“I am coming directly,” replied Lionel. And Decima went back again.
“You ought to take Jan to live at Verner’s Pride,” said Lucy to him, the words unconsciously proving that she had understood Lionel’s allusion to it. “If he were my brother, I would not let him be always slaving himself at his profession.”
“If he were your brother, Lucy, you would find that Jan would slave just as he does now, in spite of you. Were Jan to come into Verner’s Pride to-morrow, through my death, I really believe he would let it, and live on where he does, and doctor the parish to the end of time.”
“Will Verner’s Pride go to Jan after you?”
“That depends. It would, were I to die as I am now, a single man. But I may have a wife and children some time, Lucy.”
“So you may,” said Lucy, filling up her tumbler from the jug of lemonade. “Please to go into the drawing-room now, or Lady Verner will be angry. Mary Elmsley’s there, you know.”
She gave him a saucy glance from her soft bright eyes. Lionel laughed.
“Who made you so wise about Mary Elmsley, young lady?”
“Lady Verner,” was Lucy’s answer, her voice subsiding into a confidential tone. “She tells us all about it, me and Decima, when we are sitting by the fire of an evening. She is to be the mistress of Verner’s Pride.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Lionel. “She is, is she! Shall I tell you something, Lucy?”
“Well?”
“If that mistress-ship — is there such a word? — ever comes to pass, I shall not be the master of it.”
Lucy looked pleased. “That is just what Decima says. She says it to Lady Verner. I wish you would go to them.”
“So I will. Good-bye. I shall not come in again. I have a hundred and one things to do this afternoon.”
He took her hand and held it. She, ever courteous of manner, simple though she was, rose and stood before him to say her adieu, her eyes raised to his, her pretty face upturned.
Lionel gazed down upon it, and, as he had forgotten himself once before, so he now forgot himself again. He clasped it to him with a sudden movement of affection, and left on it some fervent kisses, whispering tenderly —
“Take care of yourself, my darling Lucy!”
Leaving her to make the best of the business, Mr. Lionel proceeded to the drawing-room. A few minutes’ stay in it, and then he pleaded an engagement, and departed.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
IMPROVEMENTS.
Things were changed now out of doors. There was no dissatisfaction, no complaining. Roy was deposed from his petty authority, and all men were at peace, with the exception, possibly, of Mr. Peckaby. Mr. Peckaby did not, find his shop flourish. Indeed, far from flourishing, so completely was it deserted, that he was fain to give up the trade, and accept work at Chuff the blacksmith’s forge, to which employment, it appeared, he had been brought up. A few stale articles remained in the shop, and the counters remained; chiefly for show. Mrs. Peckaby made a pretence of attending to customers; but she did not get two in a week. And if those two entered, they could not be served, for she was pretty sure to be out, gossiping.
This state of things did not please Mrs. Peckaby. In one point of view the failing of the trade pleased her, because it left her less work to do; but she did not like the failing of their income. Whether the shop had been actually theirs, or whether it had been Roy’s, there was no doubt that they had drawn sufficient from it to live comfortably and to find Mrs. Peckaby in smart caps. This source was gone, and all they had now was an ignominious fourteen shillings a week, which Peckaby earned. The prevalent opinion in Clay Lane was that this was quite as much as Peckaby deserved; and that it was a speci
al piece of undeserved good fortune which had taken off the blacksmith’s brother and assistant in the nick of time, Joe Chuff, to make room for him. Mrs. Peckaby, however, was in a state of semi-rebellion; the worse, that she did not know upon whom to visit it, or see any remedy. She took to passing her time in groaning and tears, somewhat after the fashion of Dinah Roy, venting her complaints upon anybody that would listen to her.
Lionel had not said to the men, “You shall leave Peckaby’s shop.” He had not even hinted to them that it might be desirable to leave it. In short, he had not interfered. But, the restraint of Roy being removed from the men, they quitted it of their own accord. “No more Roy; no more Peckaby; no more grinding down — hurrah!” shouted they, and went back to the old shops in the village.
All sorts of improvements had Lionel begun. That is, he had planned them: begun yet, they were not. Building better tenements for the labourers, repairing and draining the old ones, adding whatever might be wanted to make the dwellings healthy: draining, ditching, hedging. “It shall not be said that while I live in a palace, my poor live in pigsties,” said Lionel to Mr. Bitterworth one day. “I’ll do what I can to drive that periodical ague from the place.”
“Have you counted the cost?” was Mr. Bitterworth’s rejoinder.
“No,” said Lionel. “I don’t intend to count it. Whatever the changes may cost, I shall carry them out.”
And Lionel, like other new schemers, was red-hot upon them. He drew out plans in his head and with his pencil; he consulted architects, he spent half his days with builders. Lionel was astonished at the mean, petty acts of past tyranny, exercised by Roy, which came to light, far more than he had had any idea of. He blushed for himself and for his uncle, that such a state of things had been allowed to go on; he wondered that it could have gone on; that he had been blind to so much of it, or that the men had not exercised Lynch law upon Roy.
Roy had taken his place in the brick-yard as workman; but Lionel, in the anger of the moment, when these things came out, felt inclined to spurn him from the land. He would have done it but for his promise to the man himself; and for the pale, sad face of Mrs. Roy. In the hour when his anger was at its height, the woman came up to Verner’s Pride, stealthily, as it seemed, and craved him to write to Australia, “now he was a grand gentleman,” and ask the “folks over there” if they could send back news of her son. “It’s going on of a twelvemonth since he writed to us, sir, and we don’t know where to write to him, and I’m a’most fretted into my grave.”
“My opinion is that he is coming home,” said Lionel.
“Heaven sink the ship first!” she involuntarily muttered, and then she burst into a violent flood of tears.
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Lionel. “Don’t you want him to come home?”
“No, sir. No.”
“But why? Are you fearing” — he jumped to the most probable solution of her words that he could suggest— “are you fearing that he and Roy would not agree? — that there would be unpleasant scenes between them, as there used to be?”
The woman had her face buried in her hands, and she never lifted it as she answered, in a stifled voice, “It’s what I’m a-fearing, sir.”
Lionel could not quite understand her. He thought her more weak and silly than usual.
“But he is not coming home,” she resumed. “No, sir, I don’t believe that England will ever see him again; and it’s best as it is, for there’s nothing but care and sorrow here, in the old country. But I’d like to know what’s become of him; whether he is alive or dead, whether he is starving or in comfort. Oh, sir!” she added, with a burst of wailing anguish, “write for me, and ask news of him! They’d answer you. My heart is aching for it.”
He did not explain to her then, how very uncertain was the fate of emigrants to that country, how next to impossible it might be to obtain intelligence of an obscure young man like Luke; he contented himself with giving her what he thought would be better comfort.
“Mrs. Frederick Massingbird will be returning in the course of a few months, and I think she may bring news of him. Should she not, I will see what inquiries can be made.”
“Will she be coming soon, sir?”
“In two or three months, I should suppose. The Misses West may be able to tell you more definitely, if they have heard from her.”
“Thank ye, sir; then I’ll wait till she’s home. You’ll not tell Roy that I have been up here, sir?”
“Not I,” said Lionel. “I was debating, when you came in, whether I should not turn Roy off the estate altogether. His past conduct to the men has been disgraceful.”
“Ay, it have, sir! But it was my fate to marry him, and I have had to look on in quiet, and see things done, not daring to say as my soul’s my own. It’s not my fault, sir.”
Lionel knew that it was not. He pitied her, rather than blamed.
“Will you go into the servants’ hall and eat something after your walk?” he kindly asked.
“No, sir, many thanks. I don’t want to see the servants. They might get telling that I have been here.”
She stole out from his presence, her pale, sad face, her evidently deep sorrow, whatever might be its source, making a vivid impression upon Lionel. But for that sad face, he might have dealt more harshly with her husband. And so Roy was tolerated still.
It was upon these various past topics that Lionel’s mind was running as he walked away from Deerham Court after that afternoon’s interview with Lucy, which he had made so significant. He had pleaded an engagement, as an excuse for quitting his mother’s drawing-room and her guests. It must have been at home, we must suppose, for ho took his way straight towards Verner’s Pride, sauntering through the village as if he had leisure to look about him, his thoughts deep in his projected improvements.
Here, a piece of stagnant water was to be filled in; there was the site of his new tenements; yonder, was the spot for a library and reading-room; on he walked, throwing his glances everywhere. As he neared the shop of Mrs. Duff, a man came suddenly in view, facing him; a little man, in a suit of rusty black, and a white neckcloth, with a pale face and red whiskers, whom Lionel remembered to have seen once before, a day or two previously. As soon as he caught sight of Lionel he turned short off, crossed the street, and darted out of sight down the Belvidere Road.
“That looks as though he wanted to avoid me,” thought Lionel. “I wonder who he may be? Do you know who that man is, Mrs. Duff?” asked he aloud; for that lady was taking the air at her shop-door, and had watched the movement.
“I don’t know much about him, sir. He have been stopping in the place this day or two. What did I hear his name was, again?” added Mrs. Duff, putting her fingers to her temples in a considering fit. “Jarrum, I think. Yes, that was it. Brother Jarrum, sir.”
“Brother Jarrum?” repeated Lionel, uncertain whether the “Brother” might be spoken in a social point of view, or was a name bestowed upon the gentleman in baptism.
“He’s a missionary from abroad, or something of that sort, sir. He is come to see what he can do towards converting us.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Lionel, his lip curling with a smile. The man’s face had not taken his fancy. “Honest missionaries do not need to run away to avoid meeting people, Mrs. Duff.”
“He have got cross eyes,” responded Mrs. Duff. “Perhaps that’s a reason he mayn’t like to look gentlefolks in the face, sir.”
“Where does he come from?”
“Well, now, sir, I did hear,” replied Mrs. Duff, putting on her considering cap again, “it were some religious place, sir, that’s talked of a good deal in the Bible. Jericho, were it? No. It began with a J, though. Oh, I have got it, sir! It were Jerusalem. He conies all the way from Jerusalem.”
“Where is he lodging?” continued Lionel.
“He have been lodging at the George and Dragon, sir. But to-day he have gone and took that spare bedroom as the Peckabys have wanted to let, since their custom fell off.”
“It looks like it, sir. Susan Peckaby, she were in here half an hour ago, a-buying new ribbons for a cap, all agog with it. He’s a-going to hold forth in their shop, she says, and see how many of the parish he can turn into saints. I say it won’t be a bad ‘turn,’ if it keeps the men from the beer-houses.”
Lionel laughed as he went on. He supposed it was a new movement that would have its brief day and then be over, leaving results neither good nor bad behind it; and he dismissed the man from his memory.
He walked on, in the elasticity of his youth and health. All nature seemed to be smiling around him. Outward things take their hue very much from the inward feelings, and Lionel felt happier than he had done for months and months. Had the image of Lucy Tempest anything to do with this? No — nothing. He had not yet grown to love Lucy in that idolising manner, as to bring her ever present to him. He was thinking of the change in his own fortunes; he cast his eyes around to the right and the left, and they rested on his own domains — domains which had for a time been wrested from him; and as his quick steps rung on the frosty road, his heart went up in thankfulness to the Giver of all good.
Just before he reached Verner’s Pride, he overtook Mr. Bitterworth, who was leaning against a roadside gate. He had been attacked by sudden giddiness, he said, and asked Lionel to give him an arm home. Lionel proposed that he should come in and remain for a short while at Verner’s Pride; but Mr. Bitterworth preferred to go home.
“It is one of my bilious attacks coming on,” he remarked, as he went along. “I have not had a bad one for this four months.”
Lionel took him safe home, and remained with him for some time, talking; the chief theme being his own contemplated improvements, and how to go to work upon them; a topic which seemed to bring no satiety to Lionel Verner.
CHAPTER XXXV.