Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  All that was past and gone. Lady Verner had seen the fallacy of sublunary hopes and projects. Lady Mary Elmsley was rejected — Lionel had married in direct defiance of everybody’s advice — and Lucy was open to offers. Open to offers, as Lady Verner supposed; but she was destined to find herself unpleasantly disappointed.

  One came forward with an offer to her. And that was no other than the Earl of Elmsley’s son, Viscount Garle. A pleasant man, of eight-and-twenty years; and he was often at Lady Verner’s. He had been intimate there a long while, going in and out as unceremoniously as did Lionel or Jan. Lady Verner and Decima could tell a tale that no one else suspected. How, in the years gone by — some four or five years ago now — he had grown to love Decima with his whole heart; and Decima had rejected him. In spite of his sincere love; of the advantages of the match; of the angry indignation of Lady Verner; Decima had steadfastly rejected him. For some time Lord Garle would not take the rejection; but one day, when my lady was out, Decima spoke with him privately for five minutes, and from that hour Lord Garle had known there was no hope; had been content to begin there and then, and strive to love her only as a sister. The little episode was never known; Decima and Lady Verner had kept counsel, and Lord Garle had not told tales of himself. Next to Lionel, Lady Verner liked Lord Garle better than any one — ten times better than she liked unvarnished Jan; and he was allowed the run of the house as though he had been its son. The first year of Lucy’s arrival — the year of Lionel’s illness, Lord Garle had been away from the neighbourhood; but somewhere about the time of Sibylla’s return, he had come back to it. Seeing a great deal of Lucy, as he necessarily did, being so much at Lady Verner’s, he grew to esteem and love her. Not with the same love he had borne for Decima — a love, such as that, never comes twice in a lifetime — but with a love sufficiently warm, notwithstanding. And he asked her to become his wife.

  There was triumph for Lady Verner! Next to Decima — and all hope of that was dead for ever — she would like Lord Garle to marry Lucy. A real triumph, the presenting her to Colonel Tempest on his return, my Lady Viscountess Garle! In the delight of her heart she betrayed something of this to Lucy.

  “But I am not going to marry him, Lady Verner,” objected Lucy.

  “You are not going to marry him, Lucy? He confided to me the fact of his intention this morning before he spoke to you. He has spoken to you, has he not?”

  “Yes,” replied Lucy; “but I cannot accept him.”

  “You — cannot! What are you talking of?” cried Lady Verner.

  “Please not to be angry, Lady Verner! I could not marry Lord Garle.”

  Lady Verner’s lips grew pale. “And pray why can you not?” she demanded.

  “I — don’t like him,” stammered Lucy.

  “Not like him!” repeated Lady Verner. “Why, what can there be about Lord Garle that you young ladies do not like?” she wondered; her thoughts cast back to the former rejection by Decima. “He is good-looking, he is sensible; there’s not so attractive a man in all the county, Lionel Verner excepted.”

  Lucy’s face turned to a fiery glow. “Had I known he was going to ask me, I would have requested him not to do so beforehand, as my refusal has displeased you,” she simply said. “I am sorry you should be vexed with me, Lady Verner.”

  “It appears to me that nothing but vexation is to be the portion of my life!” uttered Lady Verner. “Thwarted — thwarted always! — on all sides. First the one, then the other — nothing but crosses and vexations! What did you say to Lord Garle?”

  “I told Lord Garle that I could not marry him; that I should never like him well enough — for he said, if I did not care for him now, I might later. But I told him no; it was impossible. I like him very well as a friend, but that is all.”

  “Why don’t you like him?” repeated Lady Verner.

  “I don’t know,” whispered Lucy, standing before Lady Verner like a culprit, her eyes cast down, and her eyelashes resting on her hot crimsoned face.

  “Do you both mean to make yourselves into old maids, you and Decima?” reiterated the angry Lady Verner. “A pretty pair of you I shall have on my hands! I never was so annoyed in all my life.”

  Lucy burst into tears. “I wish I could go to papa in India!” she said.

  “Do you know what you have rejected?” asked Lady Verner. “You would have been a peeress of England. His father will not live for ever.”

  “But I should not care to be a peeress,” sobbed Lucy. “And I don’t like him.”

  “Mamma, please do not say any more,” pleaded Decima. “Lucy is not to blame. If she does not like Lord Garle she could not accept him.”

  “Of course she is not to blame — according to you, Miss Verner! You were not to blame, were you, when you rejected — some one we knew of? Not the least doubt that you will take her part! Young Bitterworth wished to have proposed to you; you sent him away — as you send all — and refuse to tell me your motive! Very dutiful you are, Decima!”

  Decima turned away her pale face. She began to think Lucy would do better without her advocacy than with it.

  “I cannot allow it to end thus,” resumed Lady Verner to Lucy. “You must reconsider your determination and recall Lord Garle.”

  The words frightened Lucy.

  “I never can — I never can, Lady Verner!” she cried. “Please not to press it; it is of no use.”

  “I must press it,” replied Lady Verner. “I cannot allow you to throw away your future prospects in this childish manner. How should I answer for it to Colonel Tempest?”

  She swept out of the room as she concluded, and Lucy, in an uncontrollable fit of emotion, threw herself on the bosom of Decima, and sobbed there. Decima hushed her to her soothingly, stroking her hair from her forehead with a fond gesture.

  “What is it that has grieved you lately, Lucy?” she gently asked. “I am sure you have been grieving. I have watched you. Gay as you appear to have been, it is a false gaiety, seen only by fits and starts.”

  Lucy moved her face from the view of Decima. “Oh, Decima! if I could but go back to papa!” was all she murmured. “If I could but go away, and be with papa!”

  This little episode had taken place the day that Lionel Verner and his wife returned. On the following morning Lady Verner renewed the contest with Lucy. And they were deep in it — at least my lady was, for Lucy’s chief part was only a deprecatory silence, when Lionel arrived at Deerham Court, to pay that visit to his mother which you have heard of.

  “I insist upon it, Lucy, that you recall your unqualified denial,” Lady Verner was saying. “If you will not accept Lord Garle immediately, at any rate take time for consideration. I will inform Lord Garle that you do it by my wish.”

  “I cannot,” replied Lucy in a firm, almost a vehement tone. “I — you must not be angry with me, Lady Verner — indeed, I beg your pardon for saying it — but I will not.”

  “How dare you, Lucy—”

  Her ladyship stopped at the sudden opening of the door, turning angrily to see what caused the interruption. Her servant appeared.

  “Mr. Verner, my lady.”

  How handsome he looked as he came forward! Tall, noble, commanding. Never more so; never so much so in Lucy’s sight. Poor Lucy’s heart was in her mouth, as the saying runs, and her pulses quickened to a pang. She did not know of his return.

  He bent to kiss his mother. He turned and shook hands with Lucy. He looked gay, animated, happy. A joyous bridegroom, beyond doubt.

  “So you have reached home, Lionel?” said Lady Verner.

  “At ten last night. How well you are looking, mother mine!”

  “I am flushed just now,” was the reply of Lady Verner, her accent a somewhat sharp one from the remembrance of the vexation which had given her the flush. “How is Paris looking? Have you enjoyed yourself?”

  “Paris is looking hot and dusty, and we have enjoyed ourselves much,” replied Lionel. He answered in the plural, you observe; my lady had put the qu
estion in the singular. Where is Decima?”

  “Decima is sure to be at some work or other for Jan,” was the answer, the asperity of Lady Verner’s tone not decreasing. “He turns the house nearly upside down with his wants. Now a pan of broth must be made for some wretched old creature; now a jug of beef tea; now a bran poultice must be got; now some linen cut up for bandages. Jan’s excuse is that he can’t get anything done at Dr. West’s. If he is doctor to the parish, he need not be purveyor; but you may just as well speak to a post as speak to Jan. What do you suppose he did the other day? Those improvident Kellys had their one roomful of things taken from them by their landlord. Jan went there — the woman’s ill with a bad breast, or something — and found her lying on the bare boards; nothing to cover her, not a saucepan left to boil a drop of water. Off he comes here at the pace of a steam engine, got an old blanket and pillow from Catherine, and a tea-kettle from the kitchen. Now, Lionel, would you believe what I am going to tell you? No! No one would. He made the pillow and blanket into a bundle, and walked off with it under his arm; the kettle — never so much as a piece of paper wrapped round it — in his other hand! I felt ready to faint with shame when I saw him crossing the road opposite, that spectacle, to get to Clay Lane, the kettle held out a yard before him to keep the black off his clothes. He never could have been meant to be your brother and my son!”

  Lucy laughed at the recollection. She had had the pleasure of beholding the spectacle. Lionel laughed now at the description. Their mirth did not please Lady Verner. She was serious in her complaint.

  “Lionel, you would not have liked it yourself. Fancy his turning out of Verner’s Pride in that guise, and encountering visitors! I don’t know how it is, but there’s some deficiency in Jan; something wanting. You know he generally chooses to come here by the back door: this day, because he had got the black kettle in his hand like a travelling tinker, he must go out by the front. He did! It saved him a few steps, and he went out without a blush. Out of my house, Lionel! Nobody ever lived, I am certain, who possessed so little innate notion of the decencies of life as Jan. Had he met a carriage full of visitors in the courtyard, he would have swung the kettle back on his arm, and gone up to shake hands with them. I had the nightmare that night, Lionel. I dreamt a tall giant was pursuing me, seeking to throw some great machine at me, made of tea-kettles.”

  “Jan is an odd fellow,” assented Lionel.

  “The worst is, you can’t bring him to see, himself, what is proper or improper,” resumed Lady Verner. “He has no sense of the fitness of things. He would go as unblushingly through the village with that black kettle held out before him, as he would if it were her Majesty’s crown, borne on a velvet cushion.”

  “I am not sure but the crown would embarrass Jan more than the kettle,” said Lionel, laughing still.

  “Oh, I dare say; it would be just like him. Have you heard of the disgraceful flitting away of some of the inhabitants here to go after the Mormons?” added my lady.

  “Jan has been telling me of it. What with one thing and another, Deerham will rise into notoriety. Nancy has gone from Verner’s Pride.”

  “Poor deluded woman!” ejaculated Lady Verner.

  “There’s a story told in the village about that Peckaby’s wife — Decima can tell it best, though. I wonder where she is?”

  Lucy rose. “I will go and find her, Lady Verner.”

  No sooner had she quitted the room, than Lady Verner turned to Lionel, her manner changing. She began to speak rapidly, with some emotion.

  “You observed that I looked well, Lionel. I told you I was flushed. The flush was caused by vexation, by anger. Not a week passes but something or other occurs to annoy me. I shall be worried into my grave.”

  “What has happened?” inquired Lionel.

  “It is about Lucy Tempest. Here she is, upon my hands, and of course I am responsible. She has no mother, and I am responsible to Colonel Tempest and to my own conscience for her welfare. She will soon be twenty years of age — though I am sure nobody would believe it, to look at her — and it is time that her settlement in life should, at all events, be thought of. But now, look how things turn out! Lord Garle — than whom a better parti could not be wished — has fallen in love with her. He made her an offer yesterday, and she won’t have him.”

  “Indeed!” replied Lionel, constrained to say something, but wishing Lady Verner would entertain him with any other topic.

  “We had quite a scene here yesterday. Indeed, it has been renewed this morning, and your coming in interrupted it. I tell her that she must have him: at any rate, must take time to consider the advantages of the offer. She obstinately protests that she will not. I cannot think what can be her motive for rejection; almost any girl in the county would jump at Lord Garle.”

  “I suppose so,” returned Lionel, pulling at a hole in his glove.

  “I must get you to speak to her, Lionel. Ask her why she declines. Show her—”

  “I speak to her!” interrupted Lionel in a startled tone. “I cannot speak to her about it, mother. It is no business of mine.”

  “Good heavens, Lionel! are you going to turn disobedient? — And in so trifling-a matter as this! — trifling so far as you are concerned. Were it of vital importance to you, you might run counter to me; it is only what I should expect.”

  This was a stab at his marriage. Lionel replied by disclaiming any influence over Miss Tempest. “Where your arguments have failed, mine would not be likely to succeed.”

  “Then you are mistaken, Lionel. I am certain that you hold a very great influence over Lucy. I observed it first when you were ill, when she and Decima were so much with you. She has betrayed it in a hundred little ways; her opinions are formed upon yours; your tastes unconsciously bias hers. It is only natural. She has no brother, and no doubt has learned to regard you as one.”

  Lionel hoped in his inmost heart that she did regard him only as a brother. Lady Verner continued —

  “A word from you may have great effect upon her; and I desire, Lionel, that you will, in your duty to me, undertake that word. Point out to her the advantages of the match; tell her that you speak to her as her father; urge her to accept Lord Garle; or, as I say, not to summarily reject him without consideration, upon the childish plea that she ‘does not like him.’ She was terribly agitated last night; nearly went into hysterics, Decima tells me, after I left her; all her burden being that she wished she could go away to India.”

  “Mother — you know how pleased I should be to obey any wish of yours; but this is really not a proper business for me to interfere with,” urged Lionel, a red spot upon his cheek.

  “Why is it not?” pointedly asked Lady Verner, looking hard at him and waiting for an answer.

  “I do not deem it to be so. Neither would Lucy consider my interference justifiable.”

  “But, Lionel, you take up wrong notions! I wish you to speak in my place, just as if you were her father; in short, acting for her father. As to what Lucy may consider or not consider in the matter, that is of very little consequence. Lucy is so perfectly unsophisticated, so simple in her ideas, that were I to desire my maid Thérèse to give her a lecture, she would receive it as something proper.”

  “I should be most unwilling to—”

  “Hold your tongue, Lionel. You must do it. Here she is.”

  “I could not find Decima, Lady Verner,” said Lucy, entering. “When I had been all over the house for her, Catherine told me Miss Decima had gone out. She has gone to Clay Lane on some errand for Jan.”

  “Oh, of course for Jan!” resentfully spoke Lady Verner. “Nothing else, I should think, would take her to Clay Lane. You see, Lionel!”

  “There’s nothing in Clay Lane that will hurt Decima, mother.”

  Lady Verner made no reply. She walked to the door, and stood with the handle in her hand, turning round to speak.

  “Lucy, I have been acquainting Lionel with this affair between you and Lord Garle. I have requested him
to speak to you upon the point; to ascertain your precise grounds of objection, and — so far as he can — to do away with them. Try your best, Lionel.”

  She quitted the room, leaving them standing opposite each other. Standing like two statues. Lionel’s heart smote him. She looked so innocent, so good, in her delicate morning dress, with its gray ribbons and its white lace on the sleeves, open to the small fair arms! Simple as the dress was, it looked, in its exquisite taste, worth ten of Sibylla’s elaborate French costumes. Her cheeks were glowing, her hands were trembling, as she stood there in her self-consciousness.

  Terribly self-conscious was Lionel. He strove to say something, but in his embarrassment could not get out a single word. The conviction of the grievous fact, that she loved him, went right to his heart in that moment, and seated itself there. Another grievous fact came home to him; that she was more to him than the whole world. However he had pushed the suspicion away from his mind, refused to dwell on it, kept it down, it was all too plain to him now. He had made Sibylla his wife. He stood there, feeling that he loved Lucy above all created things.

  He crossed over to her, and laid his hand fondly and gently on her head, as he moved to the door. “May God forgive me, Lucy!” broke from his white and trembling lips. “My own punishment is heavier than yours.”

  There was no need of further explanation on either side. Each knew that the love of the other was theirs, the punishment keenly bitter, as surely as if a hundred words had told it. Lucy sat down as the door closed behind him, and wondered how she should get through the long dreary life before her.