Works of Ellen Wood, page 371
The fit of repentance was upon him, and he tossed and turned from side to side upon his uneasy bed. But, toss and turn as he would, he could not undo his night’s work. There remained nothing for him but to carry it out, and make the best of it; and he strove to deceive his conscience with the hope that Lucy Tempest, in her girlish innocence, had not understood his hinted allusions to her becoming his wife; that she had looked upon his snatched caresses as but trifling pastime, such as he might offer to a child. Most unjustifiable he now felt those hints, those acts to have been, and his brow grew red with shame at their recollection. One thing he did hope, hope sincerely — that Lucy did not care for him. That she liked him very much, and had been on most confidential terms with him, he knew; but he did hope her liking went no deeper. Strange sophistry! how it will deceive the human heart! how prone we are to admit it! Lionel was honest enough in his hope now: but, not many hours before, he had been hugging his heart with the delusion that Lucy did love him.
Towards morning he dropped into an uneasy sleep. He awoke later than his usual hour from a dream of Frederick Massingbird. Dreams play us strange fantasies. Lionel’s had taken him to that past evening, prior to Frederick Massingbird’s marriage, when he had sought him in his chamber, to offer a word of warning against the union. He seemed to be living the interview over again, and the first words when he awoke, rushing over his brain with minute and unpleasant reality, were those he had himself spoken in reference to Sibylla:— “Were she free as air this moment, were she to come to my feet, and say ‘Let me be your wife,’ I should tell her that the whole world was before her to choose from, save myself. She can never again be anything to me.”
Brave words: fully believed in when they were spoken: but what did Lionel think of them now?
He went down to breakfast. He was rather late, and found they had assembled. Lady Verner, who had just heard for the first time of Lionel’s presence in the house, made no secret now of Lionel’s note to her. Therefore Decima and Lucy knew that the “invasion” of Verner’s Pride had been caused by Mrs. Massingbird.
She — Lady Verner — scarcely gave herself time to greet Lionel before she commenced upon it. She did not conceal, or seek to conceal, her sentiments — either of Sibylla herself, or of the step she had taken. And Lionel had the pleasure of hearing his intended bride alluded to in a manner that was not altogether complimentary.
He could not stop it. He could not take upon himself the defence of Sibylla, and say, “Do you know that you are speaking of my future wife?” No, for Lucy Tempest was there. Not in her presence had he the courage to bring home to himself his own dishonour: to avow that, after wooing her (it was very like it), he had turned round and asked another to marry him. The morning sun shone into the room upon the snowy cloth, upon the silver breakfast service, upon the exquisite cups of painted porcelain, upon those seated round the table. Decima sat opposite to Lady Verner, Lionel and Lucy were face to face on either side. The walls exhibited a few choice paintings; the room and its appurtenances were in excellent taste. Lady Verner liked things that pleased the eye. That silver service had been a recent present of Lionel’s, who had delighted in showering elegancies and comforts upon his mother since his accession.
“What could have induced her ever to think of taking up her residence at Verner’s Pride on her return?” reiterated Lady Verner to Lionel.
“She believed she was coming to her aunt. It was only at the station, here, that she learned Mrs. Verner was dead.”
“She did learn it there?”
“Yes. She learned it there.”
“And she could come to Verner’s Pride after that? knowing that you, and you alone, were its master?”
Lionel toyed with his coffee-cup. He wished his mother would spare her remarks.
“She was so fatigued, so low-spirited, that I believed she was scarcely conscious where she drove,” he returned. “I am certain that the idea of there being any impropriety in it never once crossed her mind.”
Lady Verner drew her shawl around her with a peculiar movement. If ever action expressed scorn, that one did — scorn of Sibylla, scorn of her conduct, scorn of Lionel’s credulity in believing in her. Lionel read it all. Happening to glance across the table, he caught the eyes of Lucy Tempest fixed upon him with an open expression of wonder. Wonder at what? At his believing in Sibylla? It might be. With all Lucy’s straightforward plainness, she would have been one of the last to storm Lionel’s abode, and take refuge in it. A retort, defending Sibylla, had been upon Lionel’s tongue, but that gaze stopped it.
“How long does she purpose honouring Verner’s Pride with her presence, and keeping you out of it?” resumed Lady Verner.
“I do not know what her plans for the present may be,” he answered, his cheeks burning at the thought of the avowal he had to make — that her future plans would be contingent upon his. Not the least painful of the results which Lionel’s haste had brought in its train, was the knowledge of the shock it would prove to his mother, whom he so loved and reverenced. Why had he not thought of it at the time?
Breakfast over, Lionel went out, a very coward. A coward, in so far as that he had shrunk from making yet the confession. He was aware that it ought to be done. The presence of Decima and Lucy Tempest had been his mental excuse for putting off the unwelcome task.
But a better frame of mind came over him ere he had gone many paces from the door; better, at any rate, as regarded the cowardice.
“A Verner never shrank yet from his duty,” was his comment, as he bent his steps back again. “Am I turning renegade?”
He went straight up to Lady Verner, and asked her, in a low tone, to grant him a minute’s private interview. They had breakfasted in the room which made the ante-room to the drawing-room; it was their usual morning-room. Lady Verner answered her son by stepping into the drawing-room.
He followed her and closed the door. The fire was but just lighted, scarcely giving out any heat. She slightly shivered, and requested him to stir it. He did so mechanically — wholly absorbed by the revelation he had to impart. He remembered how she had once fainted at nearly the same revelation.
“Mother, I have a communication to make to you,” he began with desperate energy, “and I don’t know how to do it. It will pain you greatly. Nothing that I can think of, or imagine, would cause you so much pain.”
Lady Verner seated herself in her low violet-velvet chair, and looked composedly at Lionel. She did not dread the communication very much. He was secure in Verner’s Pride; what could there be that she need fear? She no more cast a glance to the possibility of his marrying the widow of Frederick Massingbird, than she would have done to his marrying that gentleman’s wife. Buried in this semi-security, the shock must be all the greater.
“I am about to marry,” said Lionel, plunging into the news headlong. “And I fear that you will not approve my choice. Nay, I know you will not.”
A foreshadowing of the truth came across her then. She grew deadly pale, and put up her hands, as if to ward off the blow. “Oh, Lionel! don’t say it! don’t say it!” she implored. “I never can receive her.”
“Yes, you will, mother,” he whispered, his own face pale too, his tone one of painful entreaty. “You will receive her for my sake.”
“Is it — she?”
The aversion with which the name was avoided was unmistakable. Lionel only nodded a grave affirmative.
“Have you engaged yourself to her?”
“I have. Last night.”
“Were you mad?” she asked in a whisper.
“Stay, mother. When you were speaking against Sibylla at breakfast, I refrained from interference, for you did not then know that defence of her was my duty. Will you forgive me for reminding you that I cannot permit it to be continued, even by you?”
“But do you forget that it is not a respectable alliance for you?” resumed Lady Verner. “No, not a respectable—”
“I cannot listen to this; I pray you cease!” he broke forth, a blaze of anger lighting his face. “Have you forgotten of whom you are speaking, mother? Not respectable!”
“I say that it is not a respectable alliance for you — Lionel Verner,” she persisted. “An obscure surgeon’s daughter, he of not too good repute, who has been out to the end of the world, and found her way back alone, a widow, is not a desirable alliance for a Verner. It would not be desirable for Jan; it is terrible for you?”
“We shall not agree upon this,” said Lionel, preparing to take his departure. “I have acquainted you, mother, and I have no more to say, except to urge — if I may do so — that you will learn to speak of Sibylla with courtesy, remembering that she will shortly be my wife.”
Lady Verner caught his hand as he was retreating.
“Lionel, my son, tell me how you came to do it,” she wailed. “You cannot love her! the wife, the widow of another man! It must have been the work of a moment of folly. Perhaps she drew you into it!”
The suggestion, “the work of a moment of folly,” was so very close a representation of what it had been, of what Lionel was beginning to see it to have been now, that the rest of the speech was lost to him in the echo of that one sentence. Somehow, he did not care to refute it.
“She will be my wife, respected and honoured,” was all he answered, as he quitted the room.
Lady Verner followed him. He went straight out, and she saw him walk hastily across the courtyard, putting on his hat as he traversed it. She wrung her hands, and broke into a storm of wailing despair, ignoring the presence of Decima and Lucy Tempest.
“I had far rather that she had stabbed him!”
The words excited their amazement. They turned to Lady Verner, and were struck with the marks of agitation on her countenance.
“Mamma, what are you speaking of?” asked Decima.
Lady Verner pointed to Lionel, who was then passing through the front gates. “I speak of him,” she answered: “my darling; my pride; my much-loved son. That woman has worked his ruin.”
Decima verily thought her mother must be wandering in her intellect. Lucy could only gaze at Lady Verner in consternation.
“What woman?” repeated Decima.
“She. She who has been Lionel’s bane. She who came and thrust herself into his home last night in her unseemly conduct. What passed between them Heaven knows; but she has contrived to cajole him out of a promise to marry her.”
Decima’s pale cheek turned to a burning red. She was afraid to ask questions.
“Oh, mamma! it cannot be!” was all she uttered.
“It is, Decima. I told Lionel that he could not love her, who had been the wife of another man; and he did not refute it. I told him she must have drawn him into it; and that he left unanswered. He replied that she would be his wife, and must be honoured as such. Drawn in to marry her! one who is so utterly unworthy of him! whom he does not even love! Oh, Lionel, my son, my son!”
In their own grievous sorrow they noticed not the face of Lucy Tempest, or what they might have read there.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE MISSES WEST EN PAPILLOTES.
Lionel went direct to the house of Dr. West. It was early; and the Misses West, fatigued with their night’s pleasure, had risen in a scuffle, barely getting down at the breakfast hour. Jan was in the country attending on a patient, and, not anticipating the advent of visitors, they had honoured Master Cheese with hair en papillotes. Master Cheese had divided his breakfast hour between eating and staring. The meal had been some time over, and the young gentleman had retired, but the ladies sat over the fire in unusual idleness, discussing the dissipation they had participated in. A scream from the two arose upon the entrance of Lionel, and Miss Amilly flung her pocket-handkerchief over her head.
“Never mind,” said Lionel, laughing good-naturedly; “I have seen curl-papers before, in my life. Your sitting here quietly, tells me that you do not know what has occurred.”
“What has occurred?” interrupted Deborah, before he could continue. “It — it” — her voice grew suddenly timid— “is nothing bad about papa?”
“No, no. Your sister has arrived from Australia. In this place of gossip, I wonder the news has not travelled to Jan or to Cheese.”
They had started up, poor things, their faces flushed, their eyelashes glistening, forgetting the little episode of the mortified vanity, eager to embrace Sibylla.
“Come back from Australia!” uttered Deborah in wild astonishment. “Then where is she, that she is not here, in her own home?”
“She came to mine,” replied Lionel. “She supposed Mrs. Verner to be its mistress still. I made my way here last night to ask you to come up, and found you were gone to Heartburg.”
“But — she — is not remaining at it?” exclaimed Deborah, speaking with hesitation, in her doubt, the flush on her face deepening.
“I placed it at her disposal until other arrangements could be made,” replied Lionel. “I am at present the guest of Lady Verner. You will go to Sibylla, will you not?”
Go to her? Ay! They tore the curl-papers out of their hair, and flung on bonnets and shawls, and hastened to Verner’s Pride.
“Say that I will call upon her in the course of the morning, and see how she is after her journey,” said Lionel.
In hurrying out, they encountered Jan. Deborah stopped to say a word about his breakfast: it was ready, she said, and she thought he must want it.
“I do,” responded Jan. “I shall have to get an assistant, after all, Miss Deb. I find it doesn’t answer to go quite without meals and sleep; and that’s what I have done lately.”
“So you have, Mr. Jan. I say every day to Amilly that it can’t go on, for you to be walked off your legs in this way. Have you heard the cheering news, Mr. Jan? Sibylla’s come home. We are going to her now, at Verner’s Pride?”
“I have heard it,” responded Jan. “What took her to Verner’s Pride?”
“We have yet to learn all that. You know, Mr. Jan, she never was given to consider a step much, before she took it.”
They tripped away, and Jan, in turning from them, met his brother. Jan was one utterly incapable of finesse: if he wanted to say a thing, he said it out plainly. What havoc Jan would have made, enrolled in the corps of diplomatists!
“I say, Lionel,” began he, “is it true that you are going to marry Sibylla West?”
Lionel did not like the plain question, so abruptly put. He answered curtly —
“I am going to marry Sibylla Massingbird.”
“The old name comes the readiest,” said Jan. “How did it come about, Lionel?”
“May I ask whence you derived your information, Jan?” returned Lionel, who was marvelling where Jan could have heard this.
“At Deerham Court. I have been calling in, as I passed it, to see Miss Lucy. The mother is going wild, I think. Lionel, if it is as she says, that Sibylla drew you into it against your will, don’t you carry it out. I’d not. Nobody should hook me into anything.”
“My mother said that, did she? Be so kind as not to repeat it, Jan. I am marrying Sibylla because I love her; I am marrying her of my own free will. If anybody — save my mother — has aught of objection to make to it, let them make it to me.”
“Oh! that’s it, is it?” returned Jan. “You need not be up, Lionel, it is no business of mine. I’m sure you are free to marry her for me. I’ll be groomsman, if you like.”
“Lady Verner has always been prejudiced against Sibylla,” observed Lionel. “You might have remembered that, Jan.”
“So I did,” said Jan; “though I assumed that what she said was sure to be true. You see, I have been on the wrong scent lately. I thought you were getting fond of Lucy Tempest. It has looked like it.”
Lionel murmured some unintelligible answer, and turned away, a hot flush dyeing his brow.
Meanwhile Sibylla was already up, but not down. Breakfast she would have carried up to her room, she told Mrs. Tynn. She stood at the window, looking forth; not so much at the extensive prospect that swept the horizon in the distance, as at the fair lands immediately around. “All his,” she murmured, “and I shall be his wife at last!”
She turned languidly round at the opening of the door, expecting to see her breakfast. Instead of which, two frantic little bodies burst in and seized upon her. Sibylla shrieked —
“Don’t, Deb! don’t, Amilly! Are you going to hug me to death?”
Their kisses of welcome over, they went round about her, fondly surveying her from all points with their tearful eyes. She was thinner; but she was more lovely. Amilly expressed an opinion that the bloom on her delicate wax face was even brighter than of yore.
“Of course it is, at the present moment,” answered Sibylla, “when you have been kissing me into a fever.”
