Works of Ellen Wood, page 409
“What are you doing?” asked Lionel.
“Trying on wreaths,” she replied.
“So I perceive. But why?”
“To see which suits me best. This looks too white for me, does it not?” she added, turning her countenance towards him.
If to be the same hue as the complexion was “too white,” it certainly did look so. The dead white of the roses was not more utterly colourless than Sibylla’s face. She was like a ghost; she often looked so now.
“Sibylla,” he said, without answering her question, “you are surely not thinking of going to Sir Edmund’s to-morrow night?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You said you would write a refusal!”
“I know I said it. I saw how cross-grained you were going to be over it, and that’s why I said it to you. I accepted the invitation.”
“But, my dear, you must not go!”
Sibylla was flinging off the white wreath, and taking up a pink one, which she began to fix in her hair. She did not answer.
“After all,” deliberated she, “I have a great mind to wear pearls. Not a wreath at all.”
“Sibylla! I say you must not go.”
“Now, Lionel, it is of no use your talking. I have made up my mind to go; I did at first; and go I shall. Don’t you remember,” she continued, turning her face from the glass towards him, her careless tone changing for one of sharpness, “that papa said I must not be crossed?”
“But you are not in a state to go out,” remonstrated Lionel. “Jan forbids it utterly.”
“Jan? Jan’s in your pay. He says what you tell him to say.”
“Child, how can you give utterance to such things?” he asked in a tone of emotion. “When Jan interdicts your going out he has only your welfare at heart. And you know that I have it. Evening air and scenes of excitement are equally pernicious for you.”
“I shall go,” returned Sibylla. “You are going, you know,” she resentfully said. “I wonder you don’t propose that I shall be locked up at home in a dark closet, while you are there, dancing.”
A moment’s deliberation in his mind, and a rapid resolution. “I shall not go, Sibylla,” he rejoined. “I shall stay at home with you.”
“Who says you are going to stay at home?”
“I say it myself. I intend to do so. I shall do so.”
“Oh! Since when, pray, have you come to that decision?”
Had she not the penetration to see that he had come to it then — then, as he talked to her; that he had come to it for her sake? That she should not have it to say he went out while she was at home. Perhaps she did see it; but it was nearly impossible to Sibylla not to indulge in bitter, aggravating retorts.
“I understand!” she continued, throwing up her head with an air of supreme scorn. “Thank you, don’t trouble. I am not too ill to stoop, ill as you wish to make me out to be.”
In displacing the wreath on her head to a different position, she had let it fall. Lionel’s stooping to pick it up had called forth the last remark. As he handed it to her he took her hand.
“Sibylla, promise me to think no more of this. Do give it up.”
“I won’t give it up,” she vehemently answered. “I shall go. And, what’s more, I shall dance.”
Lionel quitted her and sought his mother. Lady Verner was not very well that afternoon, and was keeping her room. He found her in an invalid chair.
“Mother, I have come to tell you that I cannot accompany you to-morrow evening,” he said. “You must please excuse me.”
“Why so?” asked Lady Verner.
“I would so very much rather not go,” he answered. “Besides, I do not care to leave Sibylla.”
Lady Verner made no observation for a few moments. A carious smile, almost a pitying smile, was hovering on her lips.
“Lionel, you are a model husband. Your father was not a bad one, as husbands go; but — he would not have bent his neck to such treatment from me, as you take from Mrs. Verner.”
“No?” returned Lionel, with good humour.
“It is not right of you, Lionel, to leave me to go alone, with only Decima.”
“Let Jan accompany you, mother.”
“Jan!” uttered Lady Verner, in the very extreme of astonishment. “I should be surprised to see Jan attempt to enter such a scene. Jan! I don’t suppose he possesses a fit coat and waistcoat.”
Lionel smiled, quitted his mother, and bent his steps towards Jan Verner’s.
Not to solicit Jan’s attendance upon Lady Verner to the festival scene, or to make close inquiries as to the state of Jan’s wardrobe. No; Lionel had a more serious motive for his visit.
He found Jan and Master Cheese enjoying a sort of battle. The surgery looked as if it had been turned upside down, so much confusion reigned. White earthenware vessels of every shape and form, glass jars, huge cylinders, brass pots, metal pans, were scattered about in inextricable confusion. Master Cheese had recently got up a taste for chemical experiments, in which it appeared necessary to call into requisition an unlimited quantity of accessories in the apparatus line. He had been entering upon an experiment that afternoon, when Jan came unexpectedly in, and caught him.
Not for the litter and confusion was Jan displeased, but because he found that Master Cheese had so bungled chemical properties in his head, so confounded one dangerous substance with another, that, five minutes later, the result would probably have been the blowing off of the surgery roof, and Master Cheese and his vessels with it. Jan was giving him a sharp and decisive word, not to attempt anything of the sort again, until he could bring more correct knowledge to bear upon it, when Lionel interrupted them.
“I want to speak to you, Jan,” he said.
“Here, you be off, and wash the powder from your hands,” cried Jan to Master Cheese, who was looking ruefully cross. “I’ll put the things straight.”
The young gentleman departed. Lionel sat down on the only chair he could see — one probably kept for the accommodation of patients who might want a few teeth drawn. Jan was rapidly reducing the place to order.
“What is it, Lionel?” he asked, when it was pretty clear.
“Jan, you must see Sibylla. She wants to go to Deerham Hall to-morrow night.”
“She can’t go,” replied Jan. “Nonsense.”
“But she says she will go.”
Jan leaned his long body over the counter, and brought his face nearly on a level with Lionel’s, speaking slowly and impressively —
“If she goes, Lionel, it will kill her.”
Lionel rose to depart. He was on his way to Verner’s Pride. “I called in to tell you this, Jan, and to ask you to step up and remonstrate with her.”
“Very well,” said Jan. “Mark me, Lionel, she must not go. And if there’s no other way of keeping her away, you, her husband, must forbid it. A little more excitement than usual, and there’ll be another vessel of the lungs ruptured. If that happens, nothing can save her life. Keep her at home, by force, if necessary: any way, keep her.”
“And what of the excitement that that will cause?” questioned Lionel. “It may be as fatal as the other.”
“I don’t know,” returned Jan, speaking for once in his life testily, in the vexation the difficulty brought him. “My belief is that Sibylla’s mad. She’d never be so stupid, were she sane.”
“Go to her, and see what you can do,” concluded Lionel, as he turned away.
Jan proceeded to Deerham Court, and had an interview with Mrs. Verner. It was not of a very agreeable nature, neither did much satisfaction ensue from it. After a few recriminating retorts to Jan’s arguments, which he received as equably as though they had been compliments, Sibylla subsided into sullen silence. And when Jan left, he could not tell whether she still persisted in her project, or whether she gave it up.
CHAPTER LXXXIII.
WELL-NIGH WEARIED OUT.
Lionel returned late in the evening; he had been detained at Verner’s Pride. Sibylla appeared sullen still. She was in her own sitting-room, upstairs, and Lucy was bearing her company. Decima was in Lady Verner’s chamber.
“Have you had any dinner?” inquired Lucy. She did not ask. She would not have asked had he been starving.
“I took a bit with John Massingbird,” he replied. “Is my mother better, do you know?”
“Not much, I think,” said Lucy. “Decima is sitting with her.”
Lionel stood in his old attitude, his elbow on the mantel-piece by his wife’s side, looking down at her. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, her cheeks now shone with their most crimson hectic. It was often the case at this, the twilight hour of the evening. She wore a low dress, and the gold chain on her neck rose and fell with every breath. Lucy’s neck was uncovered, too: a fair, pretty neck; one that did not give you the shudders when looked at as poor Sibylla’s did. Sibylla leaned back on the cushions of her chair, toying with a fragile hand-screen of feathers; Lucy, sitting on the opposite side, had been reading; but she laid the book down when Lionel entered.
“John Massingbird desired me to ask you, Sibylla, if he should send you the first plate of grapes they cut.”
“I’d rather have the first bag of walnuts they shake,” answered Sibylla. “I never cared for grapes.”
“He can send you both,” said Lionel; but an uncomfortable, dim recollection came over him, of Jan’s having told her she must not eat walnuts. For Jan to tell her not to do a thing, however — or, in fact, for anybody else — was the sure signal for Sibylla to do it.
“Does John Massingbird intend to go to-morrow evening?” inquired Sibylla.
“To Deerham Hall, do you mean? John Massingbird has not received an invitation.”
“What’s that for?” quickly asked Sibylla.
“Some whim of Miss Hautley’s, I suppose. The cards have been issued very partially. John says it is just as well he did not get one, for he should either not have responded to it, or else made his appearance there with his clay pipe.”
Lucy laughed.
“He is glad to be left out,” continued Lionel. “It saves him the trouble of a refusal. I don’t think any ball would get John Massingbird to it; unless he could be received in what he calls his diggings’ toggery.”
“I’d not have gone with him; I don’t like him well enough,” resentfully spoke Sibylla; “but as he is not going, he can let me have the loan of my own carriage — at least, the carriage that was my own. I dislike those old, hired things.”
The words struck on Lionel like a knell. He foresaw trouble. “Sibylla,” he gravely said, “I have been speaking to Jan. He—”
“Yes, you have!” she vehemently interrupted, her pent-up anger bursting forth. “You went to him, and sent him here, and told him what to say — all on purpose to cross me. It is wicked of you to be so jealous of my having a little pleasure.”
“Jealous of — I don’t understand you, Sibylla.”
“You won’t understand me, you mean. Never mind, never mind!”
“Sibylla,” he said, bending his head slightly towards her, and speaking in low, persuasive accents, “I cannot let you go to-morrow night. If I cared for you less, I might suffer you to risk it. I have given up going, and—”
“You never meant to go,” she interrupted.
“Yes, I did; to please my mother. But that is of no consequence—”
“I tell you, you never meant to go, Lionel Verner!” she passionately burst forth, her cheeks flaming. “You are stopping at home on purpose to be with Lucy Tempest — an arranged plan between you and her. Her society is more to you than any you’d find at Deerham Hall.”
Lucy looked up with a start — a sort of shiver — her sweet, brown eyes open with innocent wonder. Then the full sense of the words appeared to penetrate to her, and her face grew hot with a glowing, scarlet flush. She said nothing. She rose quietly, not hurriedly, took up the book she had put on the table, and quietly left the room.
Lionel’s face was glowing, too — glowing with the red blood of indignation. He bit his lips for calmness, leaving the mark there for hours. He strove manfully with his angry spirit: it was rising up to open rebellion. A minute, and the composure of self-control came to him. He stood before his wife, his arms folded.
“You are my wife,” he said. “I am bound to defend, to excuse you so far as I may; but these insults to Lucy Tempest I cannot excuse. She is the daughter of my dead father’s dearest friend; she is living here under the protection of my mother, and it is incumbent upon me to put a stop to these scenes, so far as she is concerned. If I cannot do it in one way, I must in another.”
“You know she and you would like to stay at home together — and get the rest of us out.”
“Be silent!” he said in a sterner tone than he had ever used to her. “You cannot reflect upon what you are saying. Accuse me as you please; I will bear it patiently, if I can; but Miss Tempest must be spared. You know how utterly unfounded are such thoughts; you know that she is refined, gentle, single-hearted; that all her thoughts to you, as my wife, are those of friendship and kindness. What would my mother think were she to hear this?”
Sibylla made no reply.
“You have never seen a look or heard a word pass between me and Lucy Tempest that was not of the most open nature, entirely compatible with her position, that of a modest and refined gentlewoman, and of mine, as your husband. I think you must be mad, Sibylla.”
The words Jan had used. If such temperaments do not deserve the name of madness, they are near akin to it. Lionel spoke with emotion: it all but over-mastered him, and he went back to his place by the mantel-piece, his chest heaving.
“I shall leave this residence as speedily as maybe,” he said, “giving some trivial excuse to my mother for the step. I see no other way to put an end to this.”
Sibylla, her mood changing, burst into tears. “I don’t want to leave it,” she said quite in a humble tone.
He was not inclined for argument. He had rapidly made his mind up, believing it was the only course open to him. He must go away with his wife, and so leave the house in peace. Saying something to that effect, he quitted the room, leaving Sibylla sobbing; fractiously on the pillow of the chair.
He went down to the drawing-room. He did not care where he went, or what became of him. It is an unhappy thing when affairs grow to that miserable pitch, that the mind has neither ease nor comfort anywhere. At the first moment of entering, he thought the room was empty, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the dusk, he discerned the form of some one standing at the distant window. It was Lucy Tempest. Lionel went straight up to her. He felt that some apology or notice from him was due. She was crying bitterly, and turned to him before he could speak.
“Mr. Verner, I feel my position keenly. I would not remain here to make things unpleasant to your wife for the whole world. But I cannot help myself. I have nowhere to go until papa shall return to Europe.”
“Lucy, let me say a word to you,” he whispered, his tones impeded, his breath coming thick and fast from his hot and crimsoned lips. “There are moments in a man’s lifetime when he must be true; when the artificial gloss thrown on social intercourse fades out of sight. This is one.”
Her tears fell more quietly. “I am so very sorry!” she continued to murmur.
“Were you other than what you are I might meet you with some of this artifice; I might pretend not to know aught of what has been said; I might attempt some elaborate apology. It would be worse than folly from me to you. Let me tell you that could I have shielded you from this insult with my life, I would have done it.”
“Yes, yes,” she hurriedly answered.
“You will not mistake me. As the daughter of my father’s dearest friend, as my mother’s honoured guest, I speak to you. I speak to you as one whom I am bound to protect from harm and insult, only in a less degree than I would protect my wife. You will do me the justice to believe it.”
“I know it. Indeed I do not blame you.”
“Lucy, I would have prevented this, had it been in my power. But it was not. I could not help it. All I can do is to take steps that it shall not occur again in the future. I scarcely know what I am saying to you. My life, what with one thing and another, is well-nigh wearied out.”
Lucy had long seen that. But she did not say so.
“It will not be long now before papa is at home,” she answered, “and then I shall leave Deerham Court free. Thank you for speaking to me,” she simply said, as she was turning to leave the room.
He took both her hands in his; he drew her nearer to him, his head was bent down to hers, his whole frame shook with emotion. Was he tempted to take a caress from her sweet face, as he had taken it years ago? Perhaps he was. But Lionel Verner was not one to lose his self-control where there was real necessity for his retaining it. His position was different now from what it had been then; and, if the temptation was strong, it was kept in check, and Lucy never knew it had been there.
“You will forget it for my sake, Lucy? You will not resent it upon her? She is very ill.”
“It is what I wish to do,” she gently said. “I do not know what foolish things I might not say, were I suffering like Mrs. Verner.”
“God bless you for ever, Lucy!” he murmured. “May your future life be more fortunate than mine is.”
Relinquishing her hands, he watched her disappear through the darkness of the room. She was dearer to him than his own life; he loved her better than all earthly things. That the knowledge was all too palpable then, he was bitterly feeling, and he could not suppress it. He could neither suppress the knowledge, nor the fact; it had been very present with him for long and long. He could not help it, as he said. He believed, in his honest heart, that he had not encouraged the passion; that it had taken root and spread unconsciously to himself. He would have driven it away, had it been in his power; he would drive it away now, could he do it by any amount of energy or will. But it could not be. And Lionel Verner leaned in the dark there against the window-frame, resolving to do as he had done before — had done all along. To suppress it ever; to ignore it so far as might be; and to do his duty as honestly and lovingly by his wife, as though the love were not there.
