Works of Ellen Wood, page 387
A few minutes, and he set himself to arouse the sleepers. They might make themselves comfortable in the kitchen, he told them, for the rest of the night: he wanted room in the place to turn himself round, and they must go out of it. And so he bundled them out. Jan was not given to stand upon ceremony. But it is not a pleasant room to linger in, so we will leave Jan to it.
It was pleasanter at Lady Verner’s. Enough of air, and light, and accommodation there. But even in that desirable residence it was not all couleur de rose. Vexations intrude into the most luxurious home, whatever may be the superfluity of room, the admirable style of the architecture; and they were just now agitating Deerham Court.
On the morning which rose on the above night — as lovely a morning as ever September gave us — Lady Verner and Lucy Tempest received each a letter from India. Both were from Colonel Tempest. The contents of Lady Verner’s annoyed her, and the contents of Lucy’s annoyed her.
It appeared that some considerable time back, nearly, if not quite, twelve months, Lucy had privately written to Colonel Tempest, urgently requesting to be allowed to go out to join him. She gave no reason or motive for the request, but urged it strongly. That letter, in consequence of the moving about of Colonel Tempest, had only just reached him; and now had arrived the answer to it. He told Lucy that he should very shortly be returning to Europe; therefore it was useless for her to think of going out.
So far, so good. However Lucy might have been vexed or disappointed at the reply — and she was both; still more at the delay which had taken place — there the matter would have ended. But Colonel Tempest, having no idea that Lady Verner was a stranger to this request; inferring, on the contrary, that she was a party to it, and must, therefore, be growing tired of her charge, had also written to her an elaborate apology for leaving Lucy so long upon her hands, and for being unable to comply with her wish to be relieved of her. This enlightened Lady Verner as to what Lucy had done.
She was very angry. She was worse than angry; she was mortified. And she questioned Lucy a great deal more closely than that young lady liked, as to what her motive could have been, and why she was tired of Deerham Court.
Lucy, all self-conscious of the motive by which she had been really actuated, stood before her like a culprit. “I am not tired of Deerham Court, Lady Verner. But I wished to be with papa.”
“Which is equivalent to saying that you wish to be away from me,” retorted my lady. “I ask you why?”
“Indeed, Lady Verner, I am pleased to be with you; I like to be with you. It was not to be away from you that I wrote. It is a long while since I saw papa; so long, that I seem to have forgotten what he is like.”
“Can you assure me, in all open truth, that the wish to be with Colonel Tempest was your sole reason for writing, unbiassed by any private feeling touching Deerham?” returned Lady Verner, searching her face keenly. “I charge you answer me, Lucy.”
Lucy could not answer that it was her sole reason, unless she told an untruth. Her eyes fell under the gaze bent upon her.
“I see,” said Lady Verner. “You need not equivocate more. Is it to me that you have taken a dislike? or to any part of my arrangements?”
“Believe me, dear Lady Verner, that it is neither to you nor to your home,” she answered, the tears rising to her eyes. “Believe me, I am as happy here as I ever was; on that score I have no wish to change.”
It was an unlucky admission of Lucy’s, “on that score.” Of course, Lady Verner immediately pressed to know on what other score the wish might be founded. Lucy pleaded the desire to be with her father, which Lady Verner did not believe; and she pleaded nothing else. It was not satisfactory to my lady, and she kept Lucy the whole of the morning, harping upon the sore point.
Lionel entered, and interrupted the discussion. Lady Verner put him in possession of the facts. That for some cause which Lucy refused to explain, she wanted to leave Deerham Court; had been writing, twelve months back, to Colonel Tempest, to be allowed to join him in India; and the negative answer had arrived but that morning. Lady Verner would like the motive for her request explained; but Lucy was obstinate, and would not explain it.
Lionel turned his eyes on Lucy. If she had stood self-conscious before Lady Verner, she stood doubly self-conscious now. Her eyelashes were drooping, her cheeks were crimson.
“She says she has no fault to find with me, no fault to find with the arrangements of my house,” pursued Lady Verner. “Then I want to know what else it is that should drive her away from Deerham. Look at her, Lionel! That is how she stands — unable to give me an answer.”
Lady Verner might equally well have said, Look at Lionel. He stood self-conscious also. Too well he knew the motive — absence from him — which had actuated Lucy. From him, the married man; the man who had played her false; away, anywhere, from witnessing the daily happiness of him and his wife. He read it all, and Lucy saw that he did.
“It were no such strange wish, surely, to be where my dear papa is!” she exclaimed, the crimson of her cheeks turning to scarlet.
“No,” murmured Lionel, “no such strange wish. I wish I could go to India, and free the neighbourhood of my presence!”
A curious wish! Lady Verner did not understand it. Lionel gave her no opportunity to inquire its meaning, for he turned to quit the room and the house. She rose and laid her hand upon his arm to detain him.
“I have an engagement,” pleaded Lionel.
“A moment yet. Lionel, what is this nonsense that is disturbing the equanimity of Deerham? About a ghost!”
“Ah, what indeed?” returned Lionel, in a careless tone, as if he would make light of it. “You know what Deerham is, mother. Some think Dan Duff saw his own shadow; some, a white cow in the pound. Either is sufficient marvel for Deerham.”
“So vulgar a notion!” reiterated Lady Verner, resuming her seat, and taking her essence bottle in her delicately gloved hand. “I wonder you don’t stop it, Lionel.”
“I!” cried Lionel, opening his eyes in considerable surprise. “How am I to stop it?”
“You are the Lord of Deerham. It is vulgar, I say, to have such a report afloat on your estate.”
Lionel smiled. “I don’t know how you are to put away vulgarity from stargazers and villagers. Or ghosts either — if they once get ghosts in their heads.”
He finally left the Court, and turned towards home. His mother’s words about the ghost had brought the subject to his mind; if, indeed, it had required bringing; but the whispered communication of the vicar the previous night had scarcely been out of his thoughts since. It troubled him. In spite of himself, of his good sense and reason, there was an undercurrent of uneasiness at work within him. Why should there be? Lionel could not have explained had he been required to do it. That Frederick Massingbird was dead and buried, there could be no shade of doubt; and ghosts had no place in the creed of Lionel Verner. All true; but the consciousness of uneasiness was there, and he could not ignore it.
In the last few days, the old feeling touching Lucy had been revived with unpleasant force. Since that night which she had spent at his house, when they saw, or fancied they saw, a man hiding himself under the tree, he had thought of her more than was agreeable; more than was right, he would have said, but that he saw not how to avoid it. The little episode of this morning at his mother’s house had served to open his eyes most completely, to show him how intense was his love for Lucy Tempest. It must be confessed that his wife did little towards striving to retain his love.
He went along, thinking of these things. He would have put them from him; but he could not. The more he tried, the more unpleasantly vivid they became. “Tush!” said Lionel. “I must be getting nervous! I’ll ask Jan to give me a draught.”
He was passing Dr. West’s as he spoke, and he turned into the surgery. Sitting on the bung of a large stone jar was Master Cheese, his attitude a disconsolate one, his expression of countenance rebellious.
“Is Mr. Jan at home?” asked Lionel.
“No, he’s not at home, sir,” replied Master Cheese, as if the fact were some personal grievance of his own. “Here’s all the patients, all the making up of the physic left in my charge, and I’d like to know how I am to do it? I can’t go out to fifty folks at a time?”
“And so you expedite the matter by not going to one! Where is Mr. Jan?”
“He was fetched out in the night to that beautiful Ally Hook,” grumbled Master Cheese. “It’s a shame, sir, folks are saying, for him to give his time to her. I had to leave my warm bed and march out to that fanciful Mother Ellis, through it, who’s always getting the spasms. And I had about forty poor here this morning, and couldn’t get a bit of comfortable breakfast for ‘em. Miss Deb, she never kept my bacon warm, or anything; and somebody had eaten the meat out of the veal pie when I got back. Jan will have those horrid poor here twice a week, and if I speak against it, he tells me to hold my tongue.”
“But is Mr. Jan not back yet from Hook’s?”
“No, sir, he’s not,” was the resentful response. “He has never come back at all since he went, and that was at four o’clock this morning. If he had gone to cut off all the arms in the house, he couldn’t have been longer! And I wish him joy of it! He’ll get no breakfast. They have got nothing for themselves but bread and water.”
Lionel left his draught an open question, and departed. As he turned into the principal street again, he saw Master Dan Duff at the door of his mother’s shop. A hasty impulse prompted Lionel to question the boy of what he saw that unlucky night; or believed he saw. He crossed over; but Master Dan retreated inside the shop. Lionel followed him.
“Well, Dan! Have you overcome the fright of the cow yet?”
“‘Twarn’t a cow, please, sir,” replied Dan, timidly. “‘Twere a ghost.”
“Whose ghost?” returned Lionel.
Dan hesitated. He stood first on one leg, then on the other.
“Please, sir, ‘twarn’t Rachel’s,” said he, presently.
“Whose then?” repeated Lionel.
“Please, sir, mother said I warn’t to tell you. Roy, he said, if I told it to anybody, I should be took and hanged.”
“But I say that you are to tell me,” said Lionel. And his pleasant tone, combined, perhaps, with the fact that he was Mr. Verner, effected more with Dan Duff than his mother’s sharp tone or Roy’s threatening one.
“Please, sir,” glancing round to make sure that his mother was not within hearing, “‘twere Mr. Fred Massingbird’s. They can’t talk me out on’t, sir. I see’d the porkypine as plain as I see’d him. He were—”
Dan brought his information to a summary standstill. Bustling down the stairs was that revered mother. She came in, curtseying fifty times to Lionel. “What could she have the honour of serving him with?” He was leaning over the counter, and she concluded he had come to patronise the shop.
Lionel laughed. “I am a profitless customer, I believe, Mrs. Duff. I was only talking to Dan.”
Dan sidled off to the street door. Once there, he took to his heels, out of harm’s way. Mr. Verner might begin telling his mother more particulars, and it was as well to be at a safe distance.
Lionel, however, had no intention to betray trust. He stood chatting a few minutes with Mrs. Duff. He and Mrs. Duff had been great friends when he was an Eton boy; many a time had he ransacked her shop over for flies and gut and other fishing tackle, a supply of which Mrs. Duff professed to keep. She listened to him with a somewhat preoccupied manner; in point of fact, she was debating a question with herself.
“Sir,” said she, rubbing her hands nervously one over the other, “I should like to make bold to ask a favour of you. But I don’t know how it might be took. I’m fearful it might be took as a cause of offence.”
“Not by me. What is it?”
“It’s a delicate thing, sir, to have to ask about,” resumed she. “And I shouldn’t venture, sir, to speak to you, but that I’m so put to it, and that I’ve got it in my head it’s through the fault of the servants.”
She spoke with evident reluctance. Lionel, he scarcely knew why, leaped to the conclusion that she was about to say something regarding the subject then agitating Deerham — the ghost of Frederick Massingbird. Unconsciously to himself, the pleasant manner changed to one of constraint.
“Say what you have to say, Mrs. Duff.”
“Well, sir — but I’m sure I beg a hundred thousand pardings for mentioning of it — it’s about the bill,” she answered, lowering her voice. “If I could be paid, sir, it ‘ud be the greatest help to me. I don’t know hardly how to keep on.”
No revelation touching the ghost could have given Lionel the surprise imparted by these ambiguous words. But his constraint was gone.
“I do not understand you, Mrs. Duff. What bill?”
“The bill what’s owing to me, sir, from Verner’s Pride. It’s a large sum for me, sir — thirty-two pound odd. I have to keep up my payments for my goods, sir, whether or not, or I should be a bankrupt to-morrow. Things is hard upon me just now, sir; though I don’t want everybody to know it. There’s that big son o’ mine, Dick, out o’ work. If I could have the bill, or only part of it, it ‘ud be like a God-send.”
“Who owes you the bill?” asked Lionel.
“It’s your good lady, sir, Mrs. Verner.”
“Who?” echoed Lionel, his accent quite a sharp one.
“Mrs. Verner, sir.”
Lionel stood gazing at the woman. He could not take in the information; he believed there must be some mistake.
“It were for things supplied between the time Mrs. Verner came home after your marriage, sir, and when she went to London in the spring. The French madmizel, sir, came down and ordered some on ‘em; and Mrs. Verner herself, sir, ordered others.”
Lionel looked around the shop. He did not disbelieve the woman’s words, but he was in a maze of astonishment. Perhaps a doubt of the Frenchwoman crossed his mind.
“There’s nothing here that Mrs. Verner would wear!” he exclaimed.
“There’s many odds and ends of things here, sir, as is useful to a lady’s tilette — and you’d be surprised, sir, to find how such things mounts up when they be had continual. But the chief part o’ the bill, sir, is for two silk gownds as was had of our traveller. Mrs. Verner, sir, she happened to be here when he called in one day last winter, and she saw his patterns, and she chose two dresses, and said she’d buy ’em of me if I ordered ‘em. Which in course I did, sir, and paid for ‘em, and sent ’em home. I saw her wear ’em both, sir, after they was made up, and very nice they looked.”
Lionel had heard quite enough. “Where is the bill?” he inquired.
“It have been sent in, sir, long ago. When I found Mrs. Verner didn’t pay it afore she went away, I made bold to write and ask her. Miss West, she gave me the address in London, and said she wished she could pay me herself. I didn’t get a answer, sir, and I made bold to write again, and I never got one then. Twice I have been up to Verner’s Pride, sir, since you come home this time, but I can’t get to see Mrs. Verner. That French madmizel’s one o’ the best I ever see at putting folks off. Sir, it goes again the grain to trouble you; and if I could have got to see Mrs. Verner, I never would have said a word. Perhaps if you’d be so good as to tell her, sir, how hard I’m put to it, she’d send me a little.”
“I am sure she will,” said Lionel. “You shall have your money to-day, Mrs. Duff.”
He turned out of the shop, a scarlet spot of emotion on his cheek. Thirty-two pounds owing to poor Mrs. Duff! Was it thoughtlessness on Sibylla’s part? He strove to beat down the conviction that it was a less excusable error.
But the Verner pride had been wounded to its very core.
CHAPTER LV.
SELF WILL.
Gathered before a target on the lawn, in their archery costume gleaming with green and gold, was a fair group, shooting their arrows in the air. Far more went into the air than struck the target. They were the visitors of Verner’s Pride; and Sibylla, the hostess, was the gayest, the merriest, the fairest among them.
Lionel came on to the terrace, descended the steps, and crossed the lawn to join them — as courtly, as apparently gay, as if that bill of Mrs. Duff’s was not making havoc of his heartstrings. They all ran to surround him. It was not often they had so attractive a host to surround; and attractive men are, and always will be, welcome to women. A few minutes, a quarter of an hour given to them, an unruffled smoothness on his brow, a smile upon his lips, and then he contrived to draw his wife aside.
“Oh, Lionel, I forgot to tell you,” she exclaimed. “Poynton has been here. He knows of the most charming pair of gray ponies, he says. And they can be ours if secured at once.”
“I don’t want gray ponies,” replied Lionel.
“But I do,” cried Sibylla. “You say I am too timid to drive. It is all nonsense; I should soon get over the timidity. I will learn to drive, Lionel. Mrs. Jocelyn, come here,” she called out.
Mrs. Jocelyn, a young and pretty woman, almost as pretty as Sibylla, answered to the summons.
“Tell Mr. Verner what Poynton said about the ponies.”
“Oh, you must not miss the opportunity,” cried Mrs. Jocelyn to Lionel. “They are perfectly beautiful, the man said. Very dear, of course; but you know nobody looks at money when buying horses for a lady. Mrs. Verner must have them. You might secure them to-day.”
“I have no room in my stables for more horses,” said Lionel, smiling at Mrs. Jocelyn’s eagerness.
“Yes, you have, Lionel,” interposed his wife. “Or, if not, room must be made. I have ordered the ponies to be brought.”
“I shall send them back,” said Lionel, laughing.
“Don’t you wish your wife to take to driving, Mr. Verner? Don’t you like to see a lady drive? Some do not.”
“I think there is no necessity for a lady to drive, while she has a husband at her side to drive for her,” was the reply of Lionel.
