Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  Some allusion, or allusions, in the words brought the flush to Lionel’s cheeks. “I cannot reconcile it to my conscience, mother, to remain on here, a burden, upon your small income.”

  “But it is not a burden, Lionel,” she said. “It is rather a help.”

  “How can that be?” he asked.

  “So long as Jan pays.”

  “So long as Jan pays!” echoed Lionel, in astonishment. “Does Jan — pay?”

  “Yes he does. I thought you knew it? Jan came here the day you arrived — don’t you remember it, when he had the pins in his shirt? Decima had invited him to dinner, and he came in ten minutes before it, and called me out of the room here, where I was with Lucy. The first thing he did was to tumble into my lap a roll of bank-notes, which he had been to Heartburg to get. A hundred and forty pounds, it was; the result of his savings since he joined Dr. West in partnership. The next thing he said was that all his own share of the profits of the practice, he should bring to me to make up for the cost of you and Sibylla. Jan said he had proposed that you should go to him; but Sibylla would not consent to it.”

  Lionel’s blood coursed on with a glow. Jan slaving and working for him!

  “I never knew this,” he cried.

  “I am sure I thought you did,” said Lady Verner. “I supposed it to have been a prearranged thing between you and Jan. Lionel,” looking up into his face with an expression of care, and lowering her voice, “but for that hundred and forty pounds, I don’t see how I could have gone on. You had been very liberal to me, but somehow debt upon debt seemed to come in, and I was growing quite embarrassed. Jan’s money set me partially straight. My dear — as you see you are no ‘burden,’ as you call it, you will give up this London scheme, will you not, and remain on?”

  “I suppose I must,” mechanically answered Lionel, who seemed buried in thought.

  He did suppose he must. He was literally without money, and his intention had been to ask the loan of a twenty-pound note from generous Jan, to carry him to London, and keep him there while he turned himself about, and saw what could be done. How could he ask Jan now? There was little doubt that Jan had left himself as void of ready cash as he, Lionel, was. Dr. West’s was not a business where patients went and paid their guinea fee, two or three dozen patients a day. Dr. West (or Jan for him) had to doctor his patients for a year, and send in his modest bill at the end of it, very often waiting for another year before the bill was paid. Sibylla on his hands, and no money, he did not see how he was to get to London.

  “But just think of it,” resumed Lady Verner. “Jan’s savings for nearly three years of practice to amount only to a hundred and forty pounds! I questioned him pretty sharply, asking him what on earth he could have done with his money, and he acknowledged that he had given a good deal away. He said Miss West had borrowed some, the doctor kept her so short; then Jan, it seems, forgot to put down the expenses of the horse to the general account, and that had to come out of his pocket. Another thing he acknowledged having done. When he finds the poor can’t conveniently pay their bills, he crosses it off in the book, and furnishes the money himself. He has not common-sense, you know, Lionel; and never had.”

  Lionel caught up his hat, and went out in the moment’s impulse, seeking Jan. Jan was in the surgery alone, making up pills, packing up medicines, answering callers; doing, in fact, Master Cheese’s work. Master Cheese had a headache, and was groaning dismally in consequence in an arm-chair, in front of Miss Deb’s sitting-room fire, and sipping some hot elder wine, with sippets of toast in it, which he had assured Miss Deb was a sovereign specific, though it might not be generally known, to keep off the sickness.

  “Jan,” said Lionel, going straight up, and grasping him by the hand; “what am I to say to you? I did not know, until ten minutes ago, what it is that you are doing for me.”

  Jan put down a pill-box he held, and looked at Lionel. “What am I doing for you?” he asked.

  “I speak of this money that I find you have handed to my mother. Of the money you have undertaken to hand to her.”

  “Law, is that all?” said Jan, taking up the pill-box again, and biting one of the pills in two to test its quality. “I thought you were going to tell me I had sent you poison, or something; coming in like that.”

  “Jan, I can never repay you. The money I may, some time; I hope I shall: the debt of gratitude, never.”

  “There’s nothing to repay,” returned Jan, with composure. “As long as I have meat and drink and clothes, what do I want with extra money? You are heartily welcome to it, Lionel.”

  “You are working your days away, Jan, and for no benefit to yourself. I am reaping it.”

  “A man can but work,” responded Jan. “I like work, for my part; I wouldn’t be without it. If old West came home and said he’d take all the patients for a week, and give me a holiday, I should only set on and pound. Look here,” pointing to the array on the counter, “I have done more work in two hours than Cheese gets through in a week.”

  Lionel could not help smiling. Jan went on —

  “I don’t work for the sake of accumulating money, but because work is life’s business, and I like work for its own sake. If I got no money by it, I should work. Don’t think about the money, Lionel. While it lay in that bank where was the use of it? Better for my mother to have it, than for me to be hoarding it.”

  “Jan, did it never strike you that it might be well to make some provision for contingencies? Old age, say; or sudden deprivation of strength, through accident or other cause? If you give away all you might save for yourself, what should you do were the evil day to come?”

  Jan looked at his arms. “I am tolerably strong,” said he; “feel me. My head’s all right, and my limbs are all right. If I should be deprived of strength before my time, I dare say, God, in taking it, would find some means just to keep me from want.”

  The answer was delivered in the most straightforward simplicity. Lionel looked at him until his eyes grew moist.

  “A pretty fellow I should be, to hoard up money while anybody else wanted it!” continued Jan. “You and Sibylla make yourselves comfortable, Lionel, that’s all.”

  They were interrupted by the entrance of John Massingbird and his pipe. John appeared to find his time hang rather heavily on his hands: he could not say that work was the business of his life. He might be seen lounging about Deerham at all hours of the day and night, smoking and gossiping. Jan was often honoured with a visit. Mr. Massingbird of Verner’s Pride was not a whit altered from Mr. Massingbird of nowhere: John favoured the tap-rooms as much as he had used to favour them.

  “The very man I wanted to see!” cried he, giving Lionel a hearty slap on the shoulder. “I want to talk to you a bit on a matter of business. Will you come up to Verner’s Pride?”

  “When?” asked Lionel.

  “This evening, if you will. Come to dinner: only our two selves.”

  “Very well,” replied Lionel. And he went out of the surgery, leaving John Massingbird talking to his brother.

  “On business,” John Massingbird had said. Was it to ask him about the mesne profits? — when he could refund them? — to tell him he would be sued, unless he did refund them? Lionel did not know; but he had been expecting John Massingbird to take some such steps.

  In going back home, choosing the near cross-field way, as Jan often did, Lionel suddenly came upon Mrs. Peckaby, seated on the stump of a tree, in a very disconsolate fashion. To witness her thus, off the watch for the white animal that might be arriving before her door, surprised Lionel.

  “I’m a’most sick of it, sir,” she said. “I’m sick to the heart with looking and watching. My brain gets weary and my eyes gets tired. The white quadruple don’t come, and Peckaby, he’s a-rowing at me everlastin’. I’m come out here for a bit o’ peace.”

  “Don’t you think it would be better to give the white donkey up for a bad job, Mrs. Peckaby?”

  “Give it up!” she uttered, aghast. “Give
up going to New Jerusalem on a white donkey! No, sir, that would be a misfortin’ in life!”

  Lionel smiled sadly as he left her.

  “There are worse misfortunes in life, Mrs. Peckaby, than not going to New Jerusalem on a white donkey.”

  CHAPTER LXXIII.

  A PROPOSAL.

  Lionel Verner was seated in the dining-room at Verner’s Pride. Not its master. Its master, John Massingbird, was there, opposite to Lionel. They had just dined, and John was filling his short pipe as an accompaniment to his wine. During dinner, he had been regaling Lionel with choice anecdotes of his Australian life, laughing ever; but not a syllable had he broached yet about the “business” he had put forth as the plea for the invitation to Lionel to come. The anecdotes did not raise the social features of that far-off colony in Mr. Verner’s estimation. But he laughed with John; laughed as merrily as his heavy heart would allow him.

  It was quite a wintry day, telling of the passing autumn. The skies were leaden-gray; the dead leaves rustled on the paths; and the sighing wind swept through the trees with a mournful sound. Void of brightness, of hope, it all looked, as did Lionel Verner’s fortunes. But a few short weeks ago he had been in John Massingbird’s place, in the very chair that he now sat in, never thinking to be removed from it during life. And now! — what a change!

  “Why don’t you smoke, Lionel?” asked John, setting light to his pipe by the readiest way — that of thrusting it between the bars of the grate. “You did not care to smoke in the old days, I remember.”

  “I never cared for it,” replied Lionel.

  “I can tell you that you would have cared for it, had you been knocked about as I have. Tobacco’s meat and drink to a fellow at the diggings; as it is to a sailor and a soldier.”

  “Not to all soldiers,” observed Lionel. “My father never smoked an ounce of tobacco in his life. I have heard them say so. And he saw some service.”

  “Every man to his liking,” returned John Massingbird. “Folks preach about tobacco being an acquired taste! It’s all bosh. Babies come into the world with a liking for it, I know. Talking about your father, would you like to have that portrait of him that hangs in the large drawing-room? You can if you like. I’m sure you have more right to it than I.”

  “Thank you,” replied Lionel. “I should very much like it, if you will give it me.”

  “What a fastidious chap you are, Lionel!” cried John Massingbird, pulling vigorously; for the pipe was turning refractory, and would not keep alight. “There are lots of things you have left behind you here, that I, in your place, should have marched off without asking.”

  “The things are yours. That portrait of my father belonged to my Uncle Stephen, and he made no exception in its favour when he willed Verner’s Pride, and all it contained, away from me. In point of legal right, I was at liberty to touch nothing, beyond my personal effects.”

  “Liberty be hanged!” responded John. “You are over fastidious; always were. Your father was the same, I know; can see it in his likeness. I should say, by the look of that, he was too much of a gentleman for a soldier.”

  Lionel smiled. “Some of our soldiers are the most refined gentlemen in the world.”

  “I can’t tell how they retain their refinement, then, amid the rough and ready of camp life. I know I lost all I had at the diggings.”

  Lionel laughed outright at the notion of John Massingbird’s losing his refinement at the diggings. He never had any to lose. John joined in the laugh.

  “Lionel, old boy, do you know I always liked you, with all your refinement; and it’s a quality that never found great favour with me. I liked you better than I liked poor Fred; and that’s the truth.”

  Lionel made no reply, and John Massingbird smoked for a few minutes in silence. Presently he began again.

  “I say, what made you go and marry Sibylla?”

  Lionel lifted his eyes. But John Massingbird resumed, before he had time to speak.

  “She’s not worth a button. Now you need not fly out, old chap. I am not passing my opinion on your wife; wouldn’t presume to do such a thing; but on my cousin. Surely I may find fault with my cousin, if I like! Why did you marry her?”

  “Why does anybody else marry?” returned Lionel.

  “But why did you marry her? A sickly, fractious thing! I saw enough of her in the old days. There! be quiet! I have done. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d have asked you to come here to your old home; you and I should jog along together first-rate. But Sibylla bars it. She may be a model of a wife; I don’t insinuate to the contrary, take you note, Mr. Verner; but she’s not exactly a model of temper, and Verner’s Pride wouldn’t be big enough to hold her and me. Would you have taken up your abode with me, had you been a free man?”

  “I cannot tell,” replied Lionel. “It is a question that cannot arise now.”

  “No. Sibylla stops it. What are you going to do with yourself?”

  “That I cannot tell. I should like an appointment abroad, if I could get one. I did think of going to London, and looking about me a bit; but I am not sure that I shall do so just yet.”

  “I say, Lionel,” resumed John Massingbird, sinking his voice, but speaking in a joking sort of way, “how do you mean to pay your debts? I hear you have a few.”

  “I have a good many, one way or another.”

  “Wipe them off,” said John.

  “I wish I could wipe them off.”

  “There’s nothing more easy,” returned John in his free manner. “Get the whitewash brush to work. The insolvent court has its friendly doors ever open.”

  The colour came into the face of Lionel. A Verner there! He quietly shook his head. “I dare say I shall find a way of paying some time, if the people will only wait.”

  “Sibylla helped you to a good part of the score, didn’t she? People are saying so. Just like her!”

  “When I complain of my wife, it will be quite time enough for other people to begin,” said Lionel. “When I married Sibylla, I took her with her virtues and her faults; and I am quite ready to defend both.”

  “All right. I’d rather you had the right of defending them than I,” said incorrigible John. “Look here, Lionel, I got you up here to-day to talk about the estate. Will you take the management of it?”

  “Of this estate?” replied Lionel, scarcely understanding.

  “Deuce a bit of any other could I offer you. Things are all at sixes and sevens already. They are chaos; they are purgatory. That’s our word out yonder, Lionel, to express the ultimatum of badness. Matiss comes and bothers; the tenants, one and another, come and bother; Roy comes and bothers. What with it all, I’m fit to bar the outer doors. Roy, you know, thought I should put him into power again! No, no, Mr. Roy; Fred might have done it, but I never will. I have paid him well for the services he rendered me; but put him into power — no. Altogether, things are getting into inextricable confusion; I can’t look to them, and I want a manager. Will you take it, Lionel? I’ll give you five hundred a year.”

  The mention of the sum quite startled Lionel. It was far more than he should have supposed John Massingbird would offer to any manager. Matiss would do it for a fourth. Should he take it?

  He sat, twirling his wine-glass in his fingers. There was a soreness of spirit to get over, and it could not be done all in a moment. To become a servant (indeed it was no better) on the land that had once been his; that ought to be his now, by the law of right — a servant to John Massingbird! Could he bend to it? John smoked, and sat watching him.

  He thought of the position of his wife; he thought of the encumbrance on his mother: he thought of his brother Jan, and what he had done; he thought of his own very unsatisfactory prospects. Was this putting his shoulder to the wheel, as he had resolved to do, thus to hesitate on a quibble of pride? Down, down with his rebellious spirit! Let him be a man in the sight of Heaven!

  He turned to John Massingbird, his brow clear, his eye serene. “I will take it, and thank you,” he
said in a steady, cheerful tone.

  “Then let’s have some grog on the strength of it,” was that gentleman’s answer. “Tynn says the worry nearly took my mother’s life out of her during the time she managed the estate; and it would take it out of mine. If I kept it in my own hands, it would go to the dogs in a twelvemonth. And you’d not thank me for that, Lionel. You are the next heir.”

  “You may take a wife yet.”

  “A wife for me!” he shouted. “No, thank you. I know the value of ’em too well for that. Give me my liberty, and you may have the wives. Lionel, the office had better be in the study as it used to be: you can come up here of a day. I’ll turn the drawing-room into my smoke-shop. If there are any leases or other deeds missing, you must get them drawn out again. I’m glad it’s settled.”

  Lionel declined the grog; but he remained on, talking things over. John Massingbird sat in a cloud of smoke, drinking Lionel’s share as well as his own, and listening to the rain, which had begun to patter against the window-panes.

  CHAPTER LXXIV.

  GOING TO NEW JERUSALEM ON A WHITE DONKEY.

  And now we must pay a visit to Mrs. Peckaby; for great events were happening to her on that night.

  When Lionel met her in the day, seated on the stump, all disconsolate, she had thrown out a hint that Mr. Peckaby was not habitually in quite so social a mood as he might be. The fact was, Peckaby’s patience had run out; and little wonder, either. The man’s meals made ready for him in any careless way, often not made ready at all, and his wife spending her time in sighing, and moaning, and looking out for the white donkey! You, my readers, may deem this a rather far-fetched episode in the story; you may deem it next to impossible that any woman should be so ridiculously foolish, or could be so imposed upon; but I am only relating to you the strict truth. The facts occurred precisely as they are being narrated, and not long ago. I have neither added to the story nor taken from it.