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VERNER'S PRIDE
MRS. HENRY WOOD
ILLUSTRATED BY HAROLD PIFFARD
[Illustration]
LONDON & GLASGOW
COLLINS' CLEAR-TYPE PRESS
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. RACHEL FROST 7
II. THE WILLOW POND 19
III. THE NEWS BROUGHT HOME 26
IV. THE CROWD IN THE MOONLIGHT 32
V. THE TALL GENTLEMAN IN THE LANE 36
VI. DINAH ROY'S "GHOST" 47
VII. THE REVELATION AT THE INQUEST 55
VIII. ROBIN'S VOW 60
IX. MR. VERNER'S ESTRANGEMENT 67
X. LADY VERNER 72
XI. LUCY TEMPEST 77
XII. DR. WEST'S HOME 86
XIII. A CONTEMPLATED VOYAGE 96
XIV. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING 104
XV. A TROUBLED MIND 106
XVI. AN ALTERED WILL 114
XVII. DISAPPEARED 118
XVIII. PERPLEXITY 125
XIX. THE REVELATION TO LADY VERNER 129
XX. DRY WORK 136
XXI. A WHISPERED SUSPICION 139
XXII. PECKABY'S SHOP 145
XXIII. DAYS AND NIGHTS OF PAIN 156
XXIV. DANGEROUS COMPANIONSHIP 164
XXV. HOME TRUTHS FOR LIONEL 168
XXVI. THE PACKET IN THE SHIRT-DRAWER 175
XXVII. DR. WEST'S SANCTUM 181
XXVIII. MISS DEBORAH'S ASTONISHMENT 191
XXIX. AN INTERCEPTED JOURNEY 196
XXX. NEWS FROM AUSTRALIA 200
XXXI. ROY EATING HUMBLE PIE 209
XXXII. "IT'S APPLEPLEXY" 215
XXXIII. JAN'S REMEDY FOR A COLD 218
XXXIV. IMPROVEMENTS 225
XXXV. BACK AGAIN 231
XXXVI. A MOMENT OF DELIRIUM 237
XXXVII. NEWS FOR LADY VERNER: AND FOR LUCY 248
XXXVIII. THE MISSES WEST EN PAPILLOTES 254
XXXIX. BROTHER JARRUM 258
XL. A VISIT OF CEREMONY 268
XLI. A SPECIAL VISION TOUCHING MRS. PECKABY 278
XLII. A SURPRISE FOR MRS. TYNN 287
XLIII. LIONEL'S PRAYER FOR FORGIVENESS 298
XLIV. FARMER BLOW'S WHITE-TAILED PONY 307
XLV. STIFLED WITH DISHONOUR 312
XLVI. SHADOWED-FORTH EMBARRASSMENT 318
XLVII. THE YEW-TREE ON THE LAWN 328
XLVIII. MR. DAN DUFF IN CONVULSIONS 336
XLIX. "I SEE'D A DEAD MAN!" 338
L. MR. AND MRS. VERNER 349
LI. COMMOTION IN DEERHAM 353
LII. MATTHEW FROST'S NIGHT ENCOUNTER 360
LIII. MASTER CHEESE'S FRIGHT--OTHER FRIGHTS 370
LIV. MRS. DUFF'S BILL 380
LV. SELF WILL 390
LVI. A LIFE HOVERING IN THE BALANCE 396
LVII. A WALK IN THE RAIN 401
LVIII. THE THUNDER-STORM 407
LIX. A CASUAL MEETING ON THE RIVER 412
LX. MISS DEB'S DISBELIEF 422
LXI. MEETING THE NEWS 430
LXII. TYNN PUMPED DRY 435
LXIII. LOOKING OUT FOR THE WORST 443
LXIV. ENDURANCE 449
LXV. CAPTAIN CANNONBY 453
LXVI. "DON'T THROTTLE ME, JAN!" 461
LXVII. DRESSING UP FOR A GHOST 464
LXVIII. A THREAT TO JAN 473
LXIX. NO HOME 478
LXX. TURNING OUT 485
LXXI. UNPREMEDITATED WORDS 493
LXXII. JAN'S SAVINGS 498
LXXIII. A PROPOSAL 505
LXXIV. TO NEW JERUSALEM ON A WHITE DONKEY 509
LXXV. AN EXPLOSION OF SIBYLLA'S 519
LXXVI. AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL 526
LXXVII. AN EVENING AT LADY VERNER'S 534
LXXVIII. AN APPEAL TO JOHN MASSINGBIRD 540
LXXIX. A SIN AND A SHAME 546
LXXX. RECOLLECTIONS OF A NIGHT GONE BY 550
LXXXI. A CRISIS IN SIBYLLA'S LIFE 558
LXXXII. TRYING ON WREATHS 565
LXXXIII. WELL-NIGH WEARIED OUT 573
LXXXIV. GOING TO THE BALL 578
LXXXV. DECIMA'S ROMANCE 586
LXXXVI. WAS IT A SPECTRE? 592
LXXXVII. THE LAMP BURNS OUT AT LAST 598
LXXXVIII. ACHING HEARTS 606
LXXXIX. MASTER CHEESE BLOWN UP 615
XC. LIGHT THROWN ON OBSCURITY 625
XCI. MEDICAL ATTENDANCE GRATIS 633
XCII. AT LAST! 641
XCIII. LADY VERNER'S "FEAR" 645
XCIV. IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN JAN! 654
XCV. SUNDRY ARRIVALS 659
CHAPTER I.
RACHEL FROST.
The slanting rays of the afternoon sun, drawing towards the horizon,
fell on a fair scene of country life; flickering through the young
foliage of the oak and lime trees, touching the budding hedges, resting
on the growing grass, all so lovely in their early green, and lighting
up with flashes of yellow fire the windows of the fine mansion, that,
rising on a gentle eminence, looked down on that fair scene as if it
were its master, and could boast the ownership of those broad lands, of
those gleaming trees.
Not that the house possessed much attraction for those whose taste
savoured of the antique. No time-worn turrets were there, or angular
gables, or crooked eaves, or mullioned Gothic casements, so chary of
glass that modern eyes can scarcely see in or out; neither was the
edifice constructed of gray stone, or of bricks gone black and green
with age. It was a handsome, well-built white mansion, giving the
promise of desirable rooms inside, whose chimneys did not smoke or their
windows rattle, and where there was sufficient space to turn in. The
lower windows opened on a gravelled terrace, which ran along the front
of the house, a flight of steps descending from it in its midst. Gently
sloping lawns extended from the terrace, on either side the steps and
the broad walks which branched from them; on which lawns shone gay
parterres of flowers already scenting the air, and giving promise of the
advancing summer. Beyond, were covered walks, affording a shelter from
the sultry noontide sun; shrubberies and labyrinths of many turnings and
windings, so suggestive of secret meetings, were secret meetings
desirable; groves of scented shrubs exhaling their perfume; cascades and
rippling fountains; mossy dells, concealing the sweet primrose, the
sweeter violet; and verdant, sunny spots open to the country round, to
the charming distant scenery. These open spots had their benches, where
you might sit and feast the eyes through the live-long summer day.
It was not summer yet--scarcely spring--and the sun, I say, was drawing
to its setting, lighting up the large clear panes of the windows as with
burnished gold. The house, the ornamental grounds, the estate around,
all belonged to Mr. Verner. It had come to him by bequest, not by
entailed inheritance. Busybodies were fond of saying that it never ought
to have been his; that, if the strict law of right and justice had been
observed, it would have gone to his elder brother; or, rather, to that
elder brother's son. Old Mr. Verner, the father of these two brothers,
had been a modest country gentleman, until one morning when he awoke to
the news that valuable mines had been discovered on his land. The mines
brought him in gold, and in his later years he purchased this estate,
pulled down the house that was upon it--a high, narrow, old thing,
looking like a crazy tower or a capacious belfry--and had erected this
one, calling it "Verner's Pride."
An appropriate name. For if ever poor human man was proud of a house he
has built, old Mr. Verner was proud of that--proud to folly. He laid out
money on it in plenty; he made the grounds belonging to it beautiful and
seductive as a fabled scene from fairyland; and he wound up by leaving
it to the younger of his two sons.
These two sons constituted all his family. The elder of them had gone
into the army early, and left for India; the younger had remained always
with his father, the helper of his money-making, the sharer of the
planning out and building of Verner's Pride, the joint resident there
after it was built. The elder son--Captain Verner then--paid one visit
only to England, during which visit he married, and took his wife out
with him when he went back. These long-continued separations, however
much we may feel inclined to gloss over the fact, do play strange havoc
with home affections, wearing them away inch by inch.
The years went on and on. Captain Verner became Colonel Sir Lionel
Verner, and a boy of his had been sent home in due course, and was at
Eton. Old Mr. Verner grew near to death. News went out to India that his
days were numbered, and Sir Lionel Verner was instructed to get leave of
absence, if possible, and start for home without a day's loss, if he
would see his father alive. "If possible," you observe, they put to the
request; for the Sikhs were at that time giving trouble in our Indian
possessions, and Colonel Verner was one of the experienced officers
least likely to be spared.
But there is a mandate that must be obeyed whenever it comes--grim,
imperative death. At the very hour when Mr. Verner was summoning his son
to his death-bed, at the precise time that military authority in India
would have said, if asked, that Colonel Sir Lionel Verner could _not_ be
spared, death had marked out that brave officer for his own especial
prey. He fell in one of the skirmishes that took place near Moultan, and
the two letters--one going to Europe with tidings of his death, the
other going to India with news of his father's illness--crossed each
other on the route.
"Steevy," said old Mr. Verner to his younger son, after giving a passing
lament to Sir Lionel, "I shall leave Verner's Pride to you."
"Ought it not to go to the lad at Eton, father?" was the reply of
Stephen Verner.
"What's the lad at Eton to me?" cried the old man. "I'd not have left it
away from Lionel, as he stood first, but it has always seemed to me that
you had the most right to it; that to leave it away from you savoured of
injustice. You were at its building, Steevy; it has been your home as
much as it has been mine; and I'll never turn you from it for a
stranger, let him be whose child he may. No, no! Verner's Pride shall be
yours. But, look you, Stephen! you have no children; bring up young
Lionel as your heir, and let it descend to him after you."
And that is how Stephen Verner had inherited Verner's Pride.
Neighbouring gossipers, ever fonder of laying down the law for other
people's business than of minding their own, protested against it among
themselves as a piece of injustice. Had they cause? Many very
just-minded persons would consider that Stephen Verner possessed more
fair claim to it than the boy at Eton.
I will tell you of one who did not consider so. And that was the widow
of Sir Lionel Verner. When she arrived from India with her other two
children, a son and daughter, she found old Mr. Verner dead, and Stephen
the inheritor. Deeply annoyed and disappointed, Lady Verner deemed that
a crying wrong had been perpetrated upon her and hers. But she had no
power to undo it.
Stephen Verner had strictly fulfilled his father's injunctions touching
young Lionel. He brought up the boy as his heir. During his educational
days at Eton and at college, Verner's Pride was his holiday home, and he
subsequently took up his permanent residence at it. Stephen Verner,
though long married, had no children. One daughter had been born to him
years ago, but had died at three or four years old. His wife had died a
very short while subsequent to the death of his father. He afterwards
married again, a widow lady of the name of Massingbird, who had two
nearly grown-up sons. She had brought her sons home with her to Verner's
Pride, and they had made it their home since.
Mr. Verner kept it no secret that his nephew Lionel was to be his heir;
and, as such, Lionel was universally regarded on the estate. "Always
provided that you merit it," Mr. Verner would say to Lionel in private;
and so he had said to him from the very first. "Be what you ought to
be--what I fondly believe my brother Lionel was: a man of goodness, of
honour, of Christian integrity; a _gentleman_ in the highest acceptation
of the term--and Verner's Pride shall undoubtedly be yours. But if I
find you forget your fair conduct, and forfeit the esteem of good men,
so surely will I leave it away from you."
And that is the introduction. And now we must go back to the golden
light of that spring evening.
Ascending the broad flight of steps and crossing the terrace, the house
door is entered. A spacious hall, paved with delicately-grained marble,
its windows mellowed by the soft tints of stained glass, whose pervading
hues are of rose and violet, gives entrance to reception rooms on either
side. Those on the right hand are mostly reserved for state occasions;
those on the left are dedicated to common use. All these rooms are just
now empty of living occupants, save one. That one is a small room on the
right, behind the two grand drawing-rooms, and it looks out on the side
of the house towards the south. It is called "Mr. Verner's study." And
there sits Mr. Verner himself in it, leaning back in his chair and
reading. A large fire burns in the grate, and he is close to it: he is
always chilly.
Ay, always chilly. For Mr. Verner's last illness--at least, what will in
all probability prove his last, his ending--has already laid hold of
him. One generation passes away after another. It seems but the other
day that a last illness seized upon his father, and now it is his turn:
but several years have elapsed since then. Mr. Verner is not sixty, and
he thinks that age is young for the disorder that has fastened on him.
It is no hurried disorder; he may live for years yet; but the end, when
it does come, will be tolerably sudden: and that he knows. It is water
on the chest. He is a little man with light eyes; very much like what
his father was before him: but not in the least like his late brother
Sir Lionel, who was a very fine and handsome man. He has a mild,
pleasing countenance: but there arises a slight scowl to his brow as he
turns hastily round at a noisy interruption.
Some one had burst into the room--forgetting, probably, that it was the
quiet room of an invalid. A tall, dark young man, with broad shoulders
and a somewhat peculiar stoop in them. His hair was black, his
complexion sallow; but his features were good. He might have been called
a handsome man, but for a strange, ugly mark upon his cheek. A very
strange-looking mark indeed, quite as large as a pigeon's egg, with what
looked like radii shooting from it on all sides. Some of the villagers,
talking familiarly among themselves, would call it a hedgehog, some
would call it a "porkypine"; but it resembled a star as much as
anything. That is, if you can imagine a black star. The mark was black
as jet; and his pale cheek, and the fact of his possessing no whiskers,
made it all the more conspicuous. He was born with the mark; and his
mother used to say--But that is of no consequence to us. It was
Frederick Massingbird, the present Mrs. Verner's younger son.
"Roy has come up, sir," said he, addressing Mr. Verner. "He says the
Dawsons have turned obstinate and won't go out. They have barricaded the
door, and protest that they'll stay, in spite of him. He wishes to know
if he shall use force."
"No," said Mr. Verner. "I don't like harsh measures, and I will not have
such attempted. Roy knows that."
"Well, sir, he waits your orders. He says there's half the village
collected round Dawson's door. The place is in a regular commotion."
Mr. Verner looked vexed. Of late years he had declined active management
on his estate; and, since he grew ill, he particularly disliked being
disturbed with details.
"Where's Lionel?" he asked in a peevish tone.
"I saw Lionel ride out an hour ago. I don't know where he is gone."
"Tell Roy to let the affair rest until to-morrow, when Lionel will see
about it. And, Frederick, I wish you would remember that a little noise
shakes me: try to come in more quietly. You burst in as if my nerves
were as strong as your own."
Mr. Verner turned to his fire again with an air of relief, glad to have
got rid of the trouble in some way, and Frederick Massingbird proceeded
to what was called the steward's room, where Roy waited. This Roy, a
hard-looking man with a face very much seamed with the smallpox, was
working bailiff to Mr. Verner. Until within a few years he had been but
a labourer on the estate. He was not liked among the poor tenants, and
was generally honoured with the appellation "Old Grips," or "Grip Roy."
"Roy," said Frederick Massingbird, "Mr. Verner says it is to be left
until to-morrow morning. Mr. Lionel will see about it then. He is out at
present."
"And let the mob have it all their own way for to-night?" returned Roy
angrily. "They be in a state of mutiny, they be; a-saying everything as
they can lay their tongues to."
"Let them say it," responded Frederick Massingbird. "Leave them alone,
and they'll disperse quietly enough. I shall not go in to Mr. Verner
again, Roy. I caught it now for disturbing him. You must let it rest
until you can see Mr. Lionel."
The bailiff went off, growling. He would have liked to receive
carte-blanche for dealing with the mob--as he was pleased to term
them--between whom and himself there was no love lost. As he was
crossing a paved yard at the back of the house, some one came hastily
out of the laundry in the detached premises to the side, and crossed his
path.
A very beautiful girl. Her features were delicate, her complexion was
fair as alabaster, and a bright colour mantled in her cheeks. But for
the modest cap upon her head, a stranger might have been puzzled to
guess at her condition in life. She looked gentle and refined as any
lady, and her manners and speech would not have destroyed the illusion.
She may be called a protegee of the house, as will be explained
presently; but she acted as maid to Mrs. Verner. The bright colour
deepened to a glowing one when she saw the bailiff.
He put out his hand and stopped her. "Well, Rachel, how are you?"
"Quite well, thank you," she answered, endeavouring to pass on. But he
would not suffer it.
"I say, I want to come to the bottom of this business between you and
Luke," he said, lowering his voice. "What's the rights of it?"
"Between me and Luke?" she repeated, turning upon the bailiff an eye
that had some scorn in it, and stopping now of her own accord. "There is
no business whatever between me and Luke. There never has been. What do
you mean?"
"Chut!" cried the bailiff. "Don't I know that he has followed your steps
everywhere like a shadder; that he has been ready to kiss the very
ground you trod on? And right mad I have been with him for it. You can't
deny that he has been after you, wanting you to be his wife."
"I do not wish to deny it," she replied. "You and the whole world are
quite welcome to know all that has passed between me and Luke. He asked
to be allowed to come here to see me--to 'court' me, he phrased
it--which I distinctly declined. Then he took to following me about. He
did not molest me, he was not rude--I do not wish to make it out worse
than it was--but it is not pleasant, Mr. Roy, to be followed whenever
you may take a walk. Especially by one you dislike."
"What is there to dislike in Luke?" demanded the bailiff.
"Perhaps I ought to have said by one you do not like," she resumed. "To
like Luke, in the way he wished, was impossible for me, and I told him
so from the first. When I found that he dodged my steps, I spoke to him
again, and threatened that I should acquaint Mr. Verner. I told him,
once for all, that I could not like him, that I never would have him;
and since then he has kept his distance. That is all that has ever
passed between me and Luke."
"Well, your hard-heartedness has done for him, Rachel Frost. It has
drove him away from his native home, and sent him, a exile, to rough it
in foreign lands. You may fix upon one as won't do for you and be your
slave as Luke would. He could have kept you well."
"I heard he had gone to London," she remarked.
"London!" returned the bailiff slightingly. "That's only the first halt
on the journey. And you have drove him to it!"
"I can't help it," she replied, turning to the house. "I had no natural
liking for him, and I could not force it. I don't believe he has gone
away for that trifling reason, Mr. Roy. If he has, he must be very
foolish."
"Yes, he is foolish," muttered the bailiff to himself, as he strode
away. "He's a idiot, that's what he is! and so be all men that loses
their wits a-sighing after a girl. Vain, deceitful, fickle creatures,
the girls be when they're young; but once let them get a hold on you,
your ring on their finger, and they turn into vixenish, snarling women!
Luke's a sight best off without her."
Rachel Frost proceeded indoors. The door of the steward's room stood
open, and she turned into it, fancying it was empty. Down on a chair sat
she, a marked change coming over her air and manner. Her bright colour
had faded, her hands hung down listless; and there was an expression on
her face of care, of perplexity. Suddenly she lifted her hands and
struck her temples, with a gesture that looked very like despair.
"What ails you, Rachel?"
The question came from Frederick Massingbird, who had been standing at
the window behind the high desk, unobserved by Rachel. Violently
startled, she sprang up from her seat, her face a glowing crimson,
muttering some disjointed words, to the effect that she did not know
anybody was there.
"What were you and Roy discussing so eagerly in the yard?" continued
Frederick Massingbird. But the words had scarcely escaped his lips, when
the housekeeper, Mrs. Tynn, entered the room. She had a mottled face and
mottled arms, her sleeves just now being turned up to the elbow.
"It was nothing particular, Mr. Frederick," replied Rachel.
"Roy is gone, is he not?" he continued to Rachel.
"Yes, sir."
"Rachel," interposed the housekeeper, "are those things not ready yet,
in the laundry?"
"Not quite. In a quarter of an hour, they say."
The housekeeper, with a word of impatience at the laundry's delay, went
out and crossed the yard towards it. Frederick Massingbird turned again
to Rachel.
"Roy seemed to be grumbling at you."
"He accused me of being the cause of his son's going away. He thinks I
ought to have noticed him."
Frederick Massingbird made no reply. He raised his finger and gently
rubbed it round and round the mark upon his cheek: a habit he had
acquired when a child, and they could not entirely break him of it. He
was seven-and-twenty years of age now, but he was sure to begin rubbing
that mark unconsciously, if in deep thought. Rachel resumed, her tone a
covert one, as if the subject on which she was about to speak might not
be breathed, even to the walls.
"Roy hinted that his son was going to foreign lands. I did not choose to
let him see that I knew anything, so remarked that I had heard he was
gone to London. 'London!' he answered; 'that was only the first
halting-place on the journey!'"
"Did he give any hint about John?"
"Not a word," replied Rachel. "He would not be likely to do that."
"No. Roy can keep counsel, whatever other virtues he may run short of.
Suppose you had joined your fortunes to sighing Luke's, Rachel, and gone
out with him to grow rich together?" added Frederick Massingbird, in a
tone which could be taken for either jest or earnest.
She evidently took it as the latter, and it appeared to call up an angry
spirit. She was vexed almost to tears. Frederick Massingbird detected
it.
"Silly Rachel!" he said, with a smile. "Do you suppose I should really
counsel your throwing yourself away upon Luke Roy?--Rachel," he
continued, as the housekeeper again made her appearance, "you must bring
up the things as soon as they are ready. My brother is waiting for
them."
"I'll bring them up, sir," replied Rachel.
Frederick Massingbird passed through the passages to the hall, and then
proceeded upstairs to the bedroom occupied by his brother. A
sufficiently spacious room for any ordinary purpose, but it did not look
half large enough now for the litter that was in it. Wardrobes and
drawers were standing open, their contents half out, half in; chairs,
tables, bed, were strewed; and boxes and portmanteaus were gaping open
on the floor. John Massingbird, the elder brother, was stowing away some
of this litter into the boxes; not all sixes and sevens, as it looked
lying there, but compactly and artistically. John Massingbird possessed
a ready hand at packing and arranging; and therefore he preferred doing
it himself to deputing it to others. He was one year older than his
brother, and there was a great likeness between them in figure and in
feature. Not in expression: in that, they were widely different. They
were about the same height, and there was the same stoop observable in
the shoulders; the features also were similar in cast, and sallow in
hue; the same the black eyes and hair. John had large whiskers,
otherwise the likeness would have been more striking; and his face was
not disfigured by the strange black mark. He was the better looking of
the two; his face wore an easy, good-natured, free expression; while
Frederick's was cold and reserved. Many people called John Massingbird a
handsome man. In character they were quite opposite. John was a
harum-scarum chap, up to every scrape; Fred was cautious and steady as
Old Time.
Seated in the only free chair in the room--free from litter--was a tall,
stout lady. But that she had so much crimson about her, she would have
borne a remarkable resemblance to those two young men, her sons. She
wore a silk dress, gold in one light, green in another, with broad
crimson stripes running across it; her cap was of white lace garnished
with crimson ribbons, and her cheeks and nose were crimson to match. As
if this were not enough, she wore crimson streamers at her wrists, and a
crimson bow on the front of her gown. Had you been outside, you might
have seen that the burnished gold on the window-panes had turned to
crimson, for the setting sun had changed its hue: but the panes could
not look more brightly, deeply crimson, than did Mrs. Verner. It seemed
as if you might light a match at her face. In that particular, there was
a contrast between her and the perfectly pale, sallow faces of her sons;
otherwise the resemblance was great.
"Fred," said Mrs. Verner, "I wish you would see what they are at with
the shirts and things. I sent Rachel after them, but she does not come
back, and then I sent Mary Tynn, and she does not come. Here's John as
impatient as he can be."
She spoke in a slow, somewhat indifferent tone, as if she did not care
to put herself out of the way about it. Indeed it was not Mrs. Verner's
custom to put herself out of the way for anything. She liked to eat,
drink, and sleep in undisturbed peace; and she generally did so.
"John's impatient because he wants to get it over," spoke up that
gentleman himself in a merry voice. "Fifty thousand things I have to do,
between now and to-morrow night. If they don't bring the clothes soon,
I shall close the boxes without them, and leave them a legacy for Fred."
"You have only yourself to thank, John," said his mother. "You never
gave the things out until after breakfast this morning, and then
required them to be done by the afternoon. Such nonsense, to say they
had grown yellow in the drawers! They'll be yellower by the time you get
there. It is just like you! driving off everything till the last moment.
You have known you were going for some days past."
John was stamping upon a box to get down the lid, and did not attend to
the reproach. "See if it will lock, Fred, will you?" said he.
Frederick Massingbird stooped and essayed to turn the key. And just then
Mrs. Tynn entered with a tray of clean linen, which she set down. Rachel
followed, having a contrivance in her hand, made of silk, for the
holding of needles, threads, and pins, all in one.
She looked positively beautiful as she held it out before Mrs. Verner.
The evening rays fell upon her exquisite face, with its soft, dark eyes
and its changing colour; they fell upon her silk dress, a relic of Mrs.
Verner's--but it had no crimson stripes across it; upon her lace collar,
upon the little edge of lace at her wrists. Nature had certainly
intended Rachel for a lady, with her graceful form, her charming
manners, and her delicate hands.
"Will this do, ma'am?" she inquired. "Is it the sort of thing you
meant?"
"Ay, that will do, Rachel," replied Mrs. Verner. "John, here's a huswife
for you!"
"A what?" asked John Massingbird, arresting his stamping.
"A needle-book to hold your needles and thread. Rachel has made it
nicely. Sha'n't you want a thimble?"
"Goodness knows," replied John. "That's it, Fred! that's it! Give it a
turn."
Frederick Massingbird locked the box, and then left the room. His mother
followed him, telling John she had a large steel thimble somewhere, and
would try to find it for him. Rachel began filling the huswife with
needles, and John went on with his packing.
"Hollo!" he presently exclaimed. And Rachel looked up.
"What's the matter, sir?"
"I have pulled one of the strings off this green case. You must sew it
on again, Rachel."
He brought a piece of green baize to her and a broken string. It looked
something like the cover of a pocket-book or of a small case of
instruments.
Rachel's nimble fingers soon repaired the damage. John stood before her,
looking on.
Looking not only at the progress of the work, but at her. Mr. John
Massingbird was one who had an eye for beauty; he had not seen much in
his life that could match with that before him. As Rachel held the case
up to him, the damage repaired, he suddenly bent his head to steal a
kiss.
But Rachel was too quick for him. She flung his face away with her hand;
she flushed vividly; she was grievously indignant. That she considered
it in the light of an insult was only too apparent; her voice was
pained--her words were severe.
"Be quiet, stupid! I was not going to eat you," laughed John
Massingbird. "I won't tell Luke."
"Insult upon insult!" she exclaimed, strangely excited. "You know that
Luke Roy is nothing to me, Mr. Massingbird; you know that I have never
in my life vouchsafed to give him an encouraging word. But, much as I
despise him--much as he is beneath me--I would rather submit to have my
face touched by him than by you."
What more she would have said was interrupted by the reappearance of
Mrs. Verner. That lady's ears had caught the sound of the contest; of
the harsh words; and she felt inexpressibly surprised.
"What has happened?" she asked. "What is it, Rachel?"
"She pricked herself with one of the needles," said John, taking the
explanation upon himself; "and then said I did it."
Mrs. Verner looked from one to the other. Rachel had turned quite pale.
John laughed; he knew his mother did not believe him.
"The truth is, mother, I began teasing Rachel about her admirer, Luke.
It made her angry."
"What absurdity!" exclaimed Mrs. Verner testily, to Rachel. "My opinion
is, you would have done well to encourage Luke. He was steady and
respectable; and old Roy must have saved plenty of money."
Rachel burst into tears.
"What now!" cried Mrs. Verner. "Not a word can anybody say to you
lately, Rachel, but you must begin to cry as if you were heart-broken.
What has come to you, child? Is anything the matter with you?"
The tears deepened into long sobs of agony, as though her heart were
indeed broken. She held her handkerchief up to her face, and went
sobbing from the room.
Mrs. Verner gazed after her in very astonishment. "What has taken her?
What can it possibly be?" she uttered. "John, you must know."
"I, mother! I declare to you that I know no more about it than Adam.
Rachel must be going a little crazed."