DANGEROUS COMPANIONSHIP.
Lionel Verner grew better. His naturally good constitution triumphed
over the disease, and his sick soreness of mind lost somewhat of its
sharpness. So long as he brooded in silence over his pain and his
wrongs, there was little chance of the sting becoming much lighter; it
was like the vulture preying upon its own vitals; but that season of
silence was past. When once a deep grief can be _spoken of_, its great
agony is gone. I think there is an old saying, or a proverb--"Griefs
lose themselves in telling," and a greater truism was never uttered. The
ice once broken, touching his feelings with regard to Sibylla, Lionel
found comfort in making it his theme of conversation, of complaint,
although his hearer and confidant was only Lucy Tempest. A strange
comfort, but yet a natural one, as those who have suffered as Lionel did
may be able to testify. At the time of the blow, when Sibylla deserted
him with coolness so great, Lionel could have died rather than give
utterance to a syllable betraying his own pain; but several months had
elapsed since, and the turning-point was come. He did not,
unfortunately, love Sibylla one shade less; love such as his cannot be
overcome so lightly; but the keenness of the disappointment, the blow to
his self-esteem--to his vanity, it may be said--was growing less
intense. In a case like this, of faithlessness, let it happen to man or
to woman, the wounding of the self-esteem is not the least evil that
must be borne. Lucy Tempest was, in Lionel's estimation, little more
than a child, yet it was singular how he grew to love to talk with her.
Not for love of _her_--do not fancy that--but for the opportunity it
gave him of talking of Sibylla. You may deem this an anomaly; I know
that it was natural; and, like oil poured upon a wound, so did it bring
balm to Lionel's troubled spirit.
He never spoke of her save at the dusk hour. During the broad, garish
light of day, his lips were sealed. In the soft twilight of the evening,
if it happened that Lucy was alone with him, then he would pour out his
heart--would tell of his past tribulation. As past he spoke of it; had
he not regarded it as past, he never would have spoken. Lucy listened,
mostly in silence, returning him her earnest sympathy. Had Lucy Tempest
been a little older in ideas, or had she been by nature and rearing less
entirely single-minded, she might not have sat unrestrainedly with him,
going into the room at any moment, and stopping there, as she would had
he been her brother. Lucy was getting to covet the companionship of
Lionel very much--too much, taking all things into consideration. It
never occurred to her that, for that very reason, she might do well to
keep away. She was not sufficiently experienced to define her own
sensations; and she did not surmise that there was anything inexpedient
or not perfectly orthodox in her being so much with Lionel. She liked to
be with him, and she freely indulged the liking upon any occasion that
offered.
"Oh, Lucy, I loved her! I did love her!" he would say, having repeated
the same words perhaps fifty times before in other interviews; and he
would lean back in his easy-chair, and cover his eyes with his hand, as
if willing to shut out all sight save that of the past. "Heaven knows
what she was to me! Heaven only knows what her faithlessness has cost!"
"Did you dream of her last night, Lionel?" answered Lucy, from her low
seat where she generally sat, near to Lionel, but with her face mostly
turned from him.
And it may as well be mentioned that Miss Lucy never thought of such a
thing as _discouraging_ Lionel's love and remembrance of Sibylla. Her
whole business in the matter seemed to be to listen to him, and help him
to remember her.
"Ay," said Lionel, in answer to the question. "Do you suppose I should
dream of anything else?"
Whatever Lucy may or may not have supposed, it was a positive fact,
known well to Lionel--known to him, and remembered by him to this
hour--that he constantly dreamed of Sibylla. Night after night, since
the unhappy time when he learned that she had left him for Frederick
Massingbird, had she formed the prominent subject of his dreams. It is
the strict truth; and it will prove to you how powerful a hold she must
have possessed over his imagination. This he had not failed to make an
item in his revelations to Lucy.
"What was your dream last night, Lionel?"
"It was only a confused one; or seemed to be when I awoke. It was full
of trouble. Sibylla appeared to have done something wrong, and I was
defending her, and she was angry with me for it. Unusually confused it
was. Generally my dreams are too clear and vivid."
"I wonder how long you will dream of her, Lionel? For a year, do you
think?"
"I hope not," heartily responded Lionel. "Lucy, I wish I could forget
her?"
"I wish you could--if you do wish to do it," simply replied Lucy.
"Wish! I wish I could have swallowed a draught of old Lethe's stream
last February, and never recalled her again!"
He spoke vehemently, and yet there was a little undercurrent of
suppressed consciousness deep down in his heart, whispering that his
greatest solace was to remember her, and to talk of her as he was doing
now. To talk of her as he would to his own soul: and that he had now
learned to do with Lucy Tempest. Not to any one else in the whole world
could Lionel have breathed the name of Sibylla.
"Do you suppose she will soon be coming home?" asked Lucy, after a
silence.
"Of course she will. The news of his inheritance went out shortly after
they started, and must have got to Melbourne nearly as soon as they did.
There's little doubt they are on their road home now. Massingbird would
not care to stop to look after what was left by John, when he knows
himself to be the owner of Verner's Pride."
"I wish Verner's Pride had not been left to Frederick Massingbird!"
exclaimed Lucy.
"Frankly speaking, so do I," confessed Lionel. "It ought to be mine by
all good right. And, putting myself entirely out of consideration, I
judge Frederick Massingbird unworthy to be its master. That's between
ourselves, mind, Lucy."
"It is all between ourselves," returned Lucy.
"Ay. What should I have done without you, my dear little friend?"
"I am glad you have not had to do without me," simply answered Lucy. "I
hope you will let me be your friend always!"
"That I will. Now Sibylla's gone, there's nobody in the whole world I
care for, but you."
He spoke it without any double meaning: he might have used the same
words, been actuated by precisely the same feelings, to his mother or
his sister. His all-absorbing love for Sibylla barred even the idea of
any other love to his mind, yet awhile.
"Lionel!" cried Lucy, turning her face full upon him in her earnestness,
"_how_ could she choose Frederick Massingbird, when she might have
chosen you?"
"Tastes differ," said Lionel, speaking lightly, a thing he rarely did
when with Lucy. "There's no accounting for them. Some time or other,
Lucy, you may be marrying an ugly fellow with a wooden leg and red
beard; and people will say, 'How could Lucy Tempest have chosen him?'"
Lucy coloured. "I do not like you to speak in that joking way, if you
please," she gravely said.
"Heigh ho, Lucy!" sighed he. "Sometimes I fancy a joke may cheat me out
of a minute's care. I wish I was well, and away from this place. In
London I shall have my hands full, and can rub off the rust of old
grievances with hard work."
"You will not like London better than Deerham."
"I shall like it ten thousand times better," impulsively answered
Lionel. "I have no longer a place in Deerham, Lucy. That is gone."
"You allude to Verner's Pride?"
"Everything's gone that I valued in Deerham," cried Lionel, with the
same impulse--"Verner's Pride amongst the rest. I would never stop here
to see the rule of Fred Massingbird. Better that John had lived to take
it, than that it should have come to him."
"Was John better than his brother?"
"He would have made a better master. He was, I believe, a better man.
Not but that John had his faults, as we all have."
"All!" echoed Lucy. "What are your faults?"
Lionel could not help laughing. She asked the question, as she did all
her questions, in the most genuine, earnest manner, really seeking the
information. "I think for some time back, Lucy, my chief fault has been
grumbling. I am sure you must find it so. Better days may be in store
for us both."
Lucy rose. "I think it must be time for me to go and make Lady Verner's
tea. Decima will not be home for it."
"Where is Decima this evening?"
"She is gone her round to the cottages. She does not find time for it in
the day, since you were ill. Is there anything I can do for you before I
go down?"
"Yes," he answered, taking her hand. "You can let me thank you for your
patience and kindness. You have borne with me bravely, Lucy. God bless
you, my dear child."
She neither went away, nor drew her hand away. She stood there--as he
had phrased it--patiently, until he should release it. He soon did so,
with a weary movement: all he did was wearisome to him then, save the
thinking and talking of the theme which ought to have been a barred
one--Sibylla.
"Will you please to come down to tea this evening?" asked Lucy.
"I don't care for tea; I'd rather be alone."
"Then I will bring you some up."
"No, no; you shall not be at the trouble. I'll come down, then,
presently."
Lucy Tempest disappeared. Lionel leaned against the window, looking out
on the night landscape, and lost himself in thoughts of his faithless
love. He aroused himself from them with a stamp of impatience.
"I must shake it off," he cried to himself; "I _will_ shake it off.
None, save myself or a fool, but would have done it months ago. And yet,
Heaven alone knows how I have tried and battled, and how vain the battle
has been!"