by Ellen Wood
“Come, Peckaby, you’ll let her in,” cried he, before he went away.
“Let her in!” echoed Peckaby, “That would be a go, that would! What ‘ud the saints say? They’d be for prosecuting of her for bigamy. If she’s gone over to them, sir, she can’t belong legal to me.”
Jan laughed so that he had to hold his sides, and Mrs. Peckaby shrieked and sobbed. Chuff began calling out that the best remedy for white paint was turpentine.
“Coma along, Peckaby, and open the door,” said Jan, rising. “She’ll catch an illness if she stops here in her wet clothes, and I shall have a month’s work, attending on her. Come!”
“Well, sir, to oblige you, I will,” returned the man. “But let me ever catch her snivelling after them saints again, that’s all! They should have her if they liked; I’d not.”
“You hear, Mrs. Peckaby,” said Jan in her ear. “I’d let the saints alone for the future, if I were you.”
“I mean to, sir,” she meekly answered, between her sobs.
Peckaby in his shirt and nightcap, opened the door, and she bounded in. The casements closed to the chorus of subsiding laughter, and the echoes of Jan’s footsteps died away in the distance.
CHAPTER LXXV.
AN EXPLOSION OF SIBYLLA’S.
Sibylla Verner sat at the window of her sitting-room in the twilight — a cold evening in early winter. Sibylla was in an explosive temper. It was nothing unusual for her to be in an explosive temper now; but she was in a worse than customary this evening. Sibylla felt the difference between Verner’s Pride and Deerham Court. She lived but in excitement; she cared but for gaiety. In removing to Deerham Court she had gone readily, believing that she should there find a large portion of the gaiety she had been accustomed to at Verner’s Pride; that she should, at any rate, be living with the appliances of wealth about her, and should go out a great deal with Lady Verner. She had not bargained for Lady Verner’s establishment being reduced to simplicity and quietness, for her laying down her carriage and discharging her men-servants and selling her horses, and living again the life of a retired gentlewoman. Yet all these changes had come to pass, and Sibylla’s inward spirit turned restive. She had everything that any reasonable mind could possibly desire, every comfort; but quiet comfort and Sibylla’s taste did not accord. Her husband was out a great deal at Verner’s Pride and on the estate. As he had resolved to do over John Massingbird’s dinner-table, so he was doing — putting his shoulder to the wheel. He had never looked after things as he was looking now. To be the master of Verner’s Pride was one thing, to be the hired manager of Verner’s Pride was another; and Lionel found every hour of his time occupied. His was no eye-service; his conscience was engaged in his work and he did it efficiently.
Sibylla still sat at the window, looking out into the twilight. Decima stood near the fire in a thoughtful mood. Lucy was downstairs in the drawing-room at the piano. They could hear the faint echo of her soft playing as they sat there in silence. Sibylla was in no humour to talk: she had repulsed Decima rudely — or it may rather be said fractiously — when the latter had ventured on conversation. Lady Verner had gone out to dinner. The Countess of Elmsley had been there that day, and she had asked Lady Verner to go over in the evening and take a friendly dinner with her. “Bring any of them that you like with you,” had been her careless words in parting. But Lady Verner had not chosen to take “any of them.” She had dressed and driven off in the hired fly alone; and this it was that was exciting the anger of Sibylla. She thought Lady Verner might have taken her.
Lucy came in and knelt down on the rug before the fire, half shivering. “I am so cold!” she said. “Do you know what I did, Decima? I let the fire go out. Some time after Lady Verner went up to dress, I turned round and found the fire was out. My hands are quite numbed.”
“You have gone on playing there without a fire!” cried Decima.
“I shall be warm again directly,” said Lucy cheerily. “As I passed through the hall, the reflection of the blaze came out of the dining-room. We shall get warm there. Is your head still aching, Mrs. Verner?”
“It is always aching,” snapped Sibylla.
Lucy, kind and gentle in spirit, unretorting, ever considerate for the misfortunes which had come upon Mrs. Verner, went to her side. “Shall I get you a little of your aromatic vinegar?” she asked.
“You need not trouble to get anything for me,” was the ungracious answer.
Lucy, thus repulsed, stood in silence at the window. The window on this side of the house overlooked the road which led to Sir Rufus Hautley’s. A carriage, apparently closely shut up, so far as she could see in the dusk, its coachman and footman attending it, was bowling rapidly down towards the village.
“There’s Sir Rufus Hautley’s carriage,” said Lucy. “I suppose he is going out to dinner.”
Decima drew to the window and looked out. The carriage came sweeping round the point, and turned on its road to the village, as they supposed. In the still silence of the room, they could hear its wheels on the frosty road, after they lost sight of it; could hear it bowl before their house and — pull up at the gates.
“It has stopped here!” exclaimed Lucy.
Decima moved quietly back to the fire and sat down. A fancy arose to Lucy that she, Decima, had turned unusually pale. Was it so? — or was it fancy? If it was fancy, why should the fancy have arisen? Ghastly pale her face certainly looked, as the blaze played upon it.
A few minutes, and one of the servants came in, handing a note to Decima.
“Bring lights,” said Decima, in a low tone.
The lights were brought; and then Decima’s agitation was apparent. Her hands shook as she broke the seal of the letter. Lucy gazed in surprise; Sibylla, somewhat aroused from her own grievances, in curiosity.
“Desire the carriage to wait,” said Decima.
“It is waiting, Miss Decima. The servants said they had orders.”
Decima crushed the note into her pocket as well as her shaking fingers would allow her, and left the room. What could have occurred, thus to agitate calm and stately Decima? Before Lucy and Mrs. Verner had recovered their surprise she was back again, dressed to go out.
“I am sorry to leave you so abruptly, as mamma is not here,” she said. “I dare say Lionel will be in to dinner. If not, you must for once entertain each other.”
“But where are you going?” cried Mrs. Verner.
“To Sir Rufus Hautley’s. He wishes to see me.”
“What does he want with you?” continued Sibylla.
“I do not know,” replied Decima.
She quitted the room and went down to the carriage, which had waited for her. Mrs. Verner and Lucy heard it drive away again as quickly as it had driven up. As it turned the corner and pursued its way up the road, past the window they were looking from, but at some distance from it, they fancied they saw the form of Decima inside, looking out at them.
“Sir Rufus is taken ill,” said old Catherine to them, by way of news. “The servants say that it’s feared he won’t live through the night. Mr. Jan is there, and Dr. Hayes.”
“But what can he want with Miss Verner?” reiterated Sibylla.
Catherine shook her head. She had not the remotest idea.
Lionel Verner did not come in for dinner, and they descended to it without him. His non-appearance was no improvement to the temper of his wife. It had occurred lately that Lionel did not always get home to dinner.
Sometimes, when detained at Verner’s Pride, he would take it with John Massingbird; if out on the estate, and unable to reach home in time, he would eat something when he came in. Her fractious state of mind did not tend to soothe the headache she had complained of earlier in the day. Every half-hour that passed without her husband’s entrance, made her worse in all ways, head and temper; and about nine o’clock she went up to her sitting-room and lay down on the sofa, saying that her temples were splitting.
Lucy followed her. Lucy thought she must really
be ill. She could not understand that any one should be so fractious, except from wearing pain. “I will bathe your temples,” she gently said.
Sibylla did not appear to care whether her temples were bathed or not. Lucy got some water in a basin and two thin handkerchiefs, wringing out one and placing it on Mrs. Verner’s head and forehead, kneeling to her task. That her temples were throbbing and her head hot, there was no question; the handkerchief was no sooner on, than it was warm, and Lucy had to exchange it for the other.
“It is Lionel’s fault,” suddenly burst forth Sibylla.
“His fault?” returned Lucy. “How can it be his fault?”
“What business has he to stop out?”
“But if he cannot help it?” returned Lucy. “The other evening, don’t you remember, Mr. Verner said when he came in, that he could not help being late sometimes now?”
“You need not defend him,” said Sibylla. “It seems to me that you are all ready to take his part against me.”
Lucy made no reply. An assertion more unfounded could not have been spoken. At that moment the step of Lionel was heard on the stairs. He came in, looking jaded and tired.
“Up here this evening!” he exclaimed, laying down a paper or parchment which he had in his hand. “Catherine says my mother and Decima are out. Why, Sibylla, what is the matter?”
Sibylla dashed the handkerchief off her brow as he advanced to her, and rose up, speaking vehemently. The sight of her husband appeared to have brought the climax to her temper.
“Where have you been? Why were you not in to dinner?”
“I could not get home in time. I have been detained.”
“It is false,” she retorted, her blue eyes flashing fire. “Business, business! it is always your excuse now! You stay out for no good purpose.”
The outbreak startled Lucy. She backed a few paces, looking scared.
“Sibylla!” was all the amazed reply returned by Lionel.
“You leave me here, hour after hour, to solitude and tears, while you are out, taking your pleasure! I have all the endurance of our position, and you the enjoyment.”
He battled for a moment with his rising feelings; battled for calmness, for forbearance, for strength to bear. There were moments when he was tempted to answer her in her own spirit.
“Pleasure and I have not been very close friends of late, Sibylla,” he gravely said. “None can know that better than you. My horse fell lame, and I have been leading him these last two hours. I have now to go to Verner’s Pride. Something has arisen on which I must see Mr. Massingbird.”
“It is false, it is false,” reiterated Sibylla. “You are not going to Verner’s Pride; you are not going to see Mr. Massingbird. You know best where you are going; but it is not there. It is the old story of Rachel Frost over again.”
The words confounded Lionel; both that they were inexplicable and spoken in passion so vehement.
“What do you say about Rachel Frost?” he asked.
“You know what I say, and what I mean. When Deerham looked far and near for the man who did the injury to Rachel, they little thought they might have found him in Lionel Verner. Lucy Tempest, it is true. He—”
But Lionel had turned imperatively to Lucy, drawing her to the door, which he opened. It was no place for her, a discussion such as this.
“Will you be so kind as to go down and make me a cup of tea, Lucy?” he said, in a wonderfully calm tone, considering the provocation he was receiving. Then he closed the door on Lucy, and turned to his wife.
“Sibylla, allow me to request, nay, to insist, that when you have fault to find, or reproach to cast to me, you choose a moment when we are alone. If you have no care for what may be due to me and to yourself, you will do well to bear in mind that something is due to others. Now, then, tell me what you mean about Rachel Frost.”
“I won’t,” said Sibylla. “You are killing me,” and she burst into tears.
Oh, it was weary work! — weary work for him. Such a wife as this!
“In what way am I killing you?”
“Why do you leave me so much alone?”
“I have undertaken work, and I must do it. But, as to leaving you alone, when I am with you, you scarcely ever give me a civil word.”
“You are leaving me now — you are wanting to go to Verner’s Pride to-night,” she reiterated with strange inconsistency, considering that she had just insinuated he did not want to go there.
“I must go there, Sibylla. I have told you why; and I have told you truth. Again I ask you what you meant about Rachel Frost.”
Sibylla flung up her hands petulantly. “I won’t tell you, I say. And you can’t make me. I wish, I wish Fred had not died.”
She turned round on the sofa and buried her face in the cushions. Lionel, true to the line of conduct he had carved out for himself, to give her all possible token of respect and affection ever, whatever might be her provocation — and all the more true to it from the very consciousness that the love of his inmost heart grew less hers, more another’s, day by day, bent over her and spoke kindly. She flung back her hand in a repelling manner towards him, and maintained an obstinate silence. Lionel, sick and weary, at length withdrew, taking up the parchment.
How sick and weary, none, save himself, could know. Lucy Tempest had the tea before her, apparently ready, when he looked into the drawing-room.
“I am going on now to Verner’s Pride, Lucy. You can tell my mother so, should she ask after me when she returns. I may be late.”
“But you will take some tea, first?” cried Lucy, in a hasty tone. “You asked me to make it for you.”
He knew he had — asked her as an excuse to get her from the room.
“I don’t care for it,” he wearily answered.
“I am sure you are tired,” said Lucy. “When did you dine?”
“I have not dined. I have taken nothing since I left home this morning.”
“Oh!” She was hastening to the bell. Lionel stopped her, laying his hand upon her arm.
“I could not eat it, Lucy. Just one cup of tea, if you will.”
She, returned to the table, poured out the cup of tea, and he drank it standing.
“Shall I take Mrs. Verner up a cup?” asked Lucy. “Will she drink it, do you think?”
“Thank you, Lucy. It may do her head good. I think it aches much to-night.”
He turned, and departed. Lucy noticed that he had left the parchment behind him, and ran after him with it, catching him as he was about to close the hall door. She knew that all such business-looking papers went up to Verner’s Pride.
“Did you mean to leave it? Or have you forgotten it?”
He had forgotten it. He took it from her, retaining her hand for a moment. “Lucy, you will not misjudge me?” he said, in a strange tone of pain.
Lucy looked up at him with a bright smile and a very emphatic shake of the head. She knew by instinct that he alluded to the accusation of his wife, touching Rachel Frost. Lucy misjudge him!
“You should have waited to eat some dinner,” she gaily said. “Take care you don’t faint by the way, as that sick patient of Jan’s did the other morning.”
Lionel went on. At any rate there was peace outside, if not within; the peace of outward calm. He lifted his hat; he bared his brow, aching with its weight of trouble, to the clear night air; he wondered whether he should have this to bear his whole life long. At the moment of passing the outer gates, the carriage of Sir Rufus Hautley drew up, bearing Decima.
Lionel waited to receive her. He helped her out, and gave her his arm to the hall door. Decima walked with her head down.
“You are silent, Decima. Are you sad?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Sir Rufus is dead.”
“Dead!” echoed Lionel, in very astonishment, for he had heard nothing of the sudden illness.
“It is so,” she replied, breaking into sobs. “Spasms at the heart, they say. Jan and Dr. Hayes were there, but they could not save hi
m.”
CHAPTER LXXVI.
AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL.
Deborah and Amilly West were sitting over the fire In the growing dusk of a February evening. Their sewing lay on the table; some home dresses they were making for themselves, for they had never too much superfluous cash for dressmakers, with fashionable patterns and fashionable prices. It had grown too dark to work, and they had turned to the fire for a chat, before the tea came in, and the gas was lighted.
“I tell you, Amilly, it is of no use playing at concealment, or trying to suppress the truth,” Deborah was saying. “She is as surely going as that the other two went; as sure as sure can be. I have always felt that she would go. Mr. Lionel was talking to me only yesterday. He was not satisfied with his brother; at least, he thought it as well to act as though he were not satisfied with him; and he was about to ask Dr. Hayes—”
Her voice died away. Master Cheese had come in with a doleful face.
“Miss Deb, I’m sent up to Deerham Hall. There’s a bothering note come from Miss Hautley to Jan, about one of the servants, and he says I am to go up and see what it is.”
“Well?” returned Miss Deb, wondering why Master Cheese should come in to give the information to her. “You couldn’t expect Mr. Jan to go up, after being out all day, as he has.”
“Folks are sure to go and fall ill at the most untoward hour of the twenty-four,” grumbled Master Cheese. “I was just looking for a good tea. I feel as empty as possible, after my short dinner. I wish—”
“Short dinner!” echoed Miss Deb, in amazement; at least, it would have been in amazement, but that she was accustomed to these little episodes from the young gentleman. “We had a beautiful piece of roast beef; and I’m sure you ate as much as you chose!”
“There was no pudding or pie,” resentfully retorted Master Cheese. “I have felt all the afternoon just as if I should sink; and I couldn’t get out to buy anything for myself, because Jan never came in, and the boy stopped out. I wish, Miss Deb, you’d give me a thick piece of bread-and-jam, as I have to go off without my tea.”