Works of Ellen Wood, page 379
Mrs. Roy gave a low shriek of terror, and flung her apron over her face. Lionel ungallantly drew it down again. Her countenance was turning livid as death.
“You will have the goodness to answer me, Mrs. Roy.”
“It were just a dream sir,” she said, the words issuing in unequal jerks from her trembling lips, “I have been pretty nigh crazed lately. What with them Mormons, and the uncertainty of fixing what to do — whether to believe ’em or not — and Roy’s crabbed temper, which grows upon him, and other fears and troubles, I’ve been a-nigh crazed. It were just a dream as I had, and nothing more; and I be vexed to my heart that I should have made such a fool of myself, as to go and say what I did to Mr. Bourne.”
One word above all others, caught the attention of Lionel in the answer. It was “fears.” He bent towards her, lowering his voice.
“What are these fears that seem to pursue you? You appear to me to have been perpetually under the influence of fear since that night. Terrified you were then; terrified you remain. What is the cause?”
The woman trembled excessively.
“Roy keeps me in fear, sir. He’s for ever a-threatening. He’ll shake me, or he’ll pinch me, or he’ll do for me, he says. I’m in fear of him always.”
“That is an evasive answer,” remarked Lionel. “Why should you fear to confide in me? You have never known me to take an advantage to anybody’s injury. The past is past. That unfortunate night’s work appears now to belong wholly to the past. Nevertheless, if you can throw any light upon it, it is your duty to do so. I will keep the secret.”
“I didn’t know a thing, sir, about the night’s work. I didn’t,” she sobbed.
“Hush!” said Lionel. “I felt sure at the time that you did know something, had you chosen to speak. I feel more sure of it now.”
“No, I don’t, sir; not if you pulled me in pieces for it. I had a horrid dream, and I went straight off, like a fool, to Mr. Bourne and told it, and — and — that was all, sir.”
She was flinging her apron up again to hide her countenance, when, with a faint cry, she let it fall, sprung from her seat, and stood before Lionel.
“For the love of heaven, sir, say nothing to him!” she uttered, and disappeared within an inner door. The sight of Roy, entering, explained the enigma; she must have seen him from the window. Roy took off his cap by way of salute.
“I hope I see you well, sir, after your journey.”
“Quite well. Roy, some papers have been left at Verner’s Pride for my inspection, regarding the dispute in Farmer Hartright’s lease. I do not understand them. They bear your signature, not Mrs. Verner’s. How is that?”
Roy stopped a while — to collect his thoughts, possibly. “I suppose I signed it for her, sir.”
“Then you did what you had no authority to do. You never received power to sign from Mrs. Verner.”
“Mrs. Verner must have give me power, sir, if I have signed. I don’t recollect signing anything. Sometimes, when she was ill, or unwilling to be disturbed, she’d say, ‘Roy, do this,’ or, ‘Roy, do the other.’ She—”
“Mrs. Verner never gave you authority to sign,” impressively repeated Lionel. “She is gone, and therefore cannot be referred to; but you know as well as I do, that she never did give you such authority. Come to Verner’s Pride to-morrow morning at ten, and see these papers.”
Roy signified his obedience, and Lionel departed. He bent his steps towards home, taking the field way; all the bitter experiences of the day rising up within his mind. Ah! try as he would, he could not deceive himself; he could not banish or drown the one ever-present thought. The singular information imparted by Mr. Bourne; the serio-comic tribulation of Mrs. Peckaby, waiting for her white donkey; the mysterious behaviour of Dinah Roy, in which there was undoubtedly more than met the ear; all these could not cover for a moment the one burning fact — Lucy’s love, and his own dishonour. In vain Lionel flung off his hat, heedless of any second sun-stroke, and pushed his hair from his heated brow. It was of no use; as he had felt when he went out from the presence of Lucy, so he felt now — stifled with dishonour.
Sibylla was at a table, writing notes, when he reached home. Several were on it, already written, and in their envelopes. She looked up at him.
“Oh, Lionel, what a while you have been out! I thought you were never coming home.”
He leaned down and kissed her. Although his conscience had revealed to him, that day, that he loved another better, she should never feel the difference. Nay, the very knowledge that it was so would render him all the more careful to give her marks of love.
“I have been to my mother’s, and to one or two more places. What are you so busy over, dear?”
“I am writing invitations,” said Sibylla.
“Invitations! Before people have called upon you?”
“They can call all the same. I have been asking Mary Tynn how many beds she can, by dint of screwing, afford. I am going to fill them all. I shall ask them for a month. How grave you look, Lionel!”
“In this first early sojourn together in our own house, Sibylla, I think we shall be happier alone.”
“Oh, no, we should not. I love visitors. We shall be together all the same, Lionel.”
“My little wife,” he said, “if you cared for me as I care for you, you would not feel the want of visitors just now.”
And there was no sophistry in this speech. He had come to the conviction that Lucy ought to have been his wife, but he did care for Sibylla very much. The prospect of a house full of guests at the present moment, appeared most displeasing to him, if only as a matter of taste.
“Put it off for a few weeks, Sibylla.”
Sibylla pouted. “It is of no use preaching, Lionel. If you are to be a preaching husband, I shall be sorry I married you. Fred was never that.”
Lionel’s face turned blood-red. Sibylla put up her hand, and drew it carelessly down.
“You must let me have my own way for this once,” she coaxingly said. “What’s the use of my bringing all those loves of things from Paris, if we are to live in a dungeon, and nobody’s to see them? I must invite them, Lionel.”
“Very well,” he answered, yielding the point. Yielding it the more readily from the consciousness above spoken of.
“There’s my dear Lionel! I knew you would never turn tyrant. And now I want something else.”
“What’s that?” asked Lionel.
“A cheque.”
“A cheque? I gave you one this morning, Sibylla.”
“Oh! but the one you gave me is for housekeeping — for Mary Tynn, and all that. I want one for myself. I am not going to have my expenses come out of the housekeeping.”
Lionel sat down to write one, a good-natured smile on his face. “I’m sure I don’t know what you will find to spend it in, after all the finery you bought in Paris,” he said, in a joking tone. “How much shall I fill it in for?”
“As much as you will,” replied Sibylla, too eagerly. “Couldn’t you give it me in blank, and let me fill it in?”
He made no answer. He drew it for £100, and gave it her.
“Will that do, my dear?”
She drew his face down again caressingly. But, in spite of the kisses left upon his lips, Lionel had awoke to the conviction, firm and undoubted, that his wife did not love him.
CHAPTER XLVI.
SHADOWED-FORTH EMBARRASSMENT.
The September afternoon sun streamed into the study at Verner’s Pride, playing with the bright hair of Lionel Verner. His head was bending listlessly over certain letters and papers on his table, and there was a wearied look upon his face. Was it called up by the fatigue of the day? He had been out with some friends in the morning; it was the first day of partridge shooting, and they had bagged well. Now Lionel was home again, had changed his attire, and was sitting down in his study — the old study of Mr. Verner. Or, was the wearied look, were the indented upright lines between the eyes, called forth by inward care?
Those lines were not so conspicuous when you last saw him. Twelve or fourteen months have elapsed since then. A portion of that time only had been spent at Verner’s Pride. Mrs. Verner was restless; ever wishing to be on the wing; living but in gaiety. Her extravagance was something frightful, and Lionel did not know how to check it. There were no children; there had been no signs of any; and Mrs. Verner positively made the lack into a sort of reproach, a continual cause for querulousness.
She had filled Verner’s Pride with guests after their marriage — as she had coveted to do. From that period until early spring she had kept it filled, one succession of guests, one relay of visitors arriving after the other. Pretty, capricious, fascinating, youthful, Mrs. Verner was of excessive popularity in the country, and a sojourn at Verner’s Pride grew to be eagerly sought. The women liked the attractive master; the men bowed to the attractive mistress; and Verner’s Pride was never free. On the contrary, it was generally unpleasantly crammed; and Mrs. Tynn, who was a staid, old-fashioned housekeeper, accustomed to nothing beyond the regular, quiet household maintained by the late Mr. Verner, was driven to the verge of desperation.
“It would be far pleasanter if we had only half the number of guests,” Lionel had said to his wife in the winter. He no longer remonstrated against any: he had given that up as hopeless. “Pleasanter for them, pleasanter for us, pleasanter for the servants.”
“The servants!” slightingly returned Sibylla. “I never knew before that the pleasure of servants was a thing to be studied.”
“But their comfort is. At least, I have always considered so, and I hope I always shall. They complain much, Sibylla.”
“Do they complain to you?”
“They do. Tynn and his wife say they are nearly worked to death. They hint at leaving. Mrs. Tynn is continually subjected also to what she calls insults from your French maid. That of course I know nothing of; but it might be as well for you to listen to her on the subject.”
“I cannot have Benoite crossed. I don’t interfere in the household myself, and she does it for me.”
“But, my dear, if you would interfere a little more, just so far as to ascertain whether these complaints have grounds, you might apply a remedy.”
“Lionel, you are most unreasonable! As if I could be worried with looking into things! What are servants for? You must be a regular old bachelor to think of my doing it.”
“Well — to go to our first point,” he rejoined. “Let us try half the number of guests, and see how it works. If you do not find it better, more agreeable in all ways, I will say no more about it.”
He need not have said anything, then. Sibylla would not listen to it. At any rate, would not act upon it. She conceded so far as to promise that she would not invite so many next time. But, when that next time came, and the new sojourners arrived, they turned out to be more. Beds had to be improvised in all sorts of impossible places; the old servants were turned out of their chambers and huddled into corners; nothing but confusion and extravagance reigned. Against some of the latter, Mrs. Tynn ventured to remonstrate to her mistress. Fruits and vegetables out of season; luxuries in the shape of rare dishes, many of which Verner’s Pride had never heard of, and did not know how to cook, and all of the most costly nature, were daily sent down from London purveyors. Against this expense Mary Tynn spoke. Mrs. Verner laughed good-naturedly at her, and told her it was not her pocket that would be troubled to pay the bills. Additional servants were obliged to be had; and, in short, to use an expression that was much in vogue at Deerham about that time, Verner’s Pride was going the pace.
This continued until early spring. In February Sibylla fixed her heart upon a visit to London. “Of course,” she told Lionel, “he would treat her to a season in town.” She had never been to London in her life to stay. For Sibylla to fix her heart upon a thing, was to have it; Lionel was an indulgent husband.
To London they proceeded in February. And there the cost was great. Sibylla was not one to go to work sparingly in any way; neither, in point of fact, was Lionel. Lionel would never have been unduly extravagant; but, on the other hand, he was not accustomed to spare. A furnished house in a good position was taken; servants were imported to it from Verner’s Pride; and there Sibylla launched into all the follies of the day. At Easter she “set her heart” upon a visit to Paris, and Lionel acquiesced. They remained there three weeks; Sibylla laying in a second stock of toilettes for Mademoiselle Benoite to rule over; and then they went back to London.
The season was prolonged that year. The House sat until August, and it was not until the latter end of that month that Mr. and Mrs. Verner returned to Verner’s Pride. Though scarcely home a week yet, the house was filled again — filled to overflowing; Lionel can hear sounds of talking and laughter from the various rooms, as he bends over his table. He was opening his letters, three or four of which lay in a stack. He had gone out in the morning before the post was in.
Tynn knocked at the door and entered, bringing a note.
“Where’s this from?” asked Lionel, taking it from the salver. Another moment, and he had recognised the handwriting of his mother.
“From Deerham Court, sir. My lady’s footman brought it. He asks whether there is any answer.”
Lionel opened the note, and read as follows: —
“MY DEAR LIONEL, — I am obliged to be a beggar again. My expenses seem to outrun my means in a most extraordinary sort of way. Sometimes I think it must be Decima’s fault, and tell her she does not properly look after the household. In spite of my own income, your ample allowance, and the handsome remuneration received for Lucy, I cannot make both ends meet. Will you let me have two or three hundred pounds?
“Ever your affectionate mother,
“LOUISA VERNER.”
“I will call on Lady Verner this afternoon, Tynn.”
Tynn withdrew with the answer. Lionel leaned his brow upon his hand; the weary expression terribly plain just then.
“My mother shall have it at once — no matter what my own calls may be,” was his soliloquy. “Let me never forget that Verner’s Pride might have been hers all these years. Looking at it from our own point of view, my father’s branch in contradistinction of my uncle’s, it ought to have been hers. It might have been her jointure-house now, had my father lived, and so willed it. I am glad to help my mother,” he continued, an earnest glow lighting his face. “If I get embarrassed, why, I must get embarrassed; but she shall not suffer.”
That embarrassment would inevitably come, if he went on at his present rate of living, he had the satisfaction of knowing beyond all doubt. That was not the worst point upon his conscience. Of the plans and projects that Lionel had so eagerly formed when he came into the estate, some were set afloat, some were not. Those that were most wanted — that were calculated to do the most real good — lay in abeyance; others, that might have waited, were in full work. Costly alterations were making in the stables at Verner’s Pride, and the working man’s institute at Deerham — reading-room, club, whatever it was to be — was progressing swimmingly. But the draining of the land near the poor dwellings was not begun, and the families, many of them, still herded in consort — father and mother, sons and daughters, sleeping in one room — compelled to it by the wretched accommodation of the tenements. It was on this last score that Lionel was feeling a pricking of conscience. And how to find the money to make these improvements now, he knew not. Between the building in progress and Sibylla, he was drained.
A circumstance had occurred that day to bring the latter neglect forcibly to his mind. Alice Hook — Hook the labourer’s eldest daughter — had, as the Deerham phrase ran, got herself into trouble. A pretty child she had grown up amongst them — she was little more than a child now — good-tempered, gay-hearted. Lionel had heard the ill news the previous week on his return from London. When he was out shooting that morning he saw the girl at a distance, and made some observation to his gamekeeper, Broom, to the effect that it had vexed him.
“Ay, sir, it’s a sad pity,” was Broom’s answer; “but what else can be expected of poor folks that’s brought up to live as they do — like pigs in a sty?”
Broom had intended no reproach to his master; such an impertinence would not have crossed his mind; but the words carried a sting to Lionel. He knew how many, besides Alice Hook, had had their good conduct undermined through the living “like pigs in a sty.” Lionel had, as you know, a lively conscience; and his brow reddened with self-reproach as he sat and thought these things over. He could not help comparing the contrast: Verner’s Pride, with its spacious bedrooms, one of which was not deemed sufficient for the purposes of retirement, where two people slept together, but a dressing-closet must be attached; and those poor Hooks, with their growing-up sons and daughters, and but one room, save the kitchen, in their whole dwelling!
“I will put things on a better footing,” impulsively exclaimed Lionel. “I care not what the cost may be, or how it may fall upon my comforts, do it I will. I declare, I feel as if the girl’s blight lay at my own door!”
Again he and his reflections were interrupted by Tynn.
“Roy has come up, sir, and is asking to see you.”
“Roy! Let him come in,” replied Lionel. “I want to see him.”
It frequently happened, when agreements, leases, and other deeds were examined, that Roy had to be referred to. Things would turn out to have been drawn up, agreements made, in precisely the opposite manner to that expected by Lionel. For some of these Roy might have received sanction; but, for many, Lionel felt sure Roy had acted on his own responsibility. This chiefly applied to the short period of the management of Mrs. Verner; a little, very little, to the latter year of her husband’s life. Matiss was Lionel’s agent during his absences; when at home, he took all management into his own hands.
Roy came in. The same ill-favoured, hard-looking man as ever. The ostensible business which had brought him up to Verner’s Pride, proved to be of a very trivial nature, and was soon settled. It is well to say “ostensible,” because a conviction arose in Lionel’s mind afterwards that it was but an excuse: that Roy made it a pretext for the purpose of obtaining an interview. Though why, or wherefore, or what he gained by it, Lionel could not imagine. Roy merely wanted to know if he might be allowed to put a fresh paper on the walls of one of his two upper rooms. He’d get the paper at his own cost, and hang it at his own leisure, if Mr. Verner had no objection.
