NEWS FOR LADY VERNER: AND FOR LUCY.
If he did not recall it then, he recalled it later, when he was upon his
bed, turning and tossing from side to side. His conscience was smiting
him--smiting him from more points than one. Carried away by the impulse
of the moment, he had spoken words that night, in his hot passion, which
might not be redeemed; and now that the leisure for reflection was come,
he could not conceal from himself that he had been too hasty. Lionel
Verner was one who possessed excessive conscientiousness; even as a boy,
had impetuosity led him into a fault--as it often did--his silent,
inward repentance would be always keenly real, more so than the case
deserved. It was so now. He loved Sibylla--there had been no mistake
there; but it is certain that the unexpected delight of meeting her, her
presence palpably before him in all its beauty, her manifested sorrow
and grief, her lonely, unprotected position, had all worked their effect
upon his heart and mind, had imparted to his love a false intensity.
However the agitation of the moment may have caused him to fancy it, he
did _not_ love Sibylla as he had loved her of old; else why should the
image of Lucy Tempest present itself to him surrounded by a halo of
regret? The point is as unpleasant for us to touch upon, as it was to
Lionel to think of: but the fact was all too palpable, and cannot be
suppressed. He did love Sibylla: nevertheless there obtruded the
unwelcome reflection that, in asking her to be his wife, he had been
hasty; that it had been better had he taken time for consideration. He
almost doubted whether Lucy would not have been more acceptable to him;
not loved _yet_ so much as Sibylla, but better suited to him in all
other ways; worse than this, he doubted whether he had not in honour
bound himself tacitly to Lucy that very day.
The fit of repentance was upon him, and he tossed and turned from side
to side upon his uneasy bed. But, toss and turn as he would, he could
not undo his night's work. There remained nothing for him but to carry
it out, and make the best of it; and he strove to deceive his conscience
with the hope that Lucy Tempest, in her girlish innocence, had not
understood his hinted allusions to her becoming his wife; that she had
looked upon his snatched caresses as but trifling pastime, such as he
might offer to a child. Most unjustifiable he now felt those hints,
those acts to have been, and his brow grew red with shame at their
recollection. One thing he did hope, hope sincerely--that Lucy did not
care for him. That she liked him very much, and had been on most
confidential terms with him, he knew; but he did hope her liking went no
deeper. Strange sophistry! how it will deceive the human heart! how
prone we are to admit it! Lionel was honest enough in his hope now: but,
not many hours before, he had been hugging his heart with the delusion
that Lucy did love him.
Towards morning he dropped into an uneasy sleep. He awoke later than his
usual hour from a dream of Frederick Massingbird. Dreams play us strange
fantasies. Lionel's had taken him to that past evening, prior to
Frederick Massingbird's marriage, when he had sought him in his chamber,
to offer a word of warning against the union. He seemed to be living the
interview over again, and the first words when he awoke, rushing over
his brain with minute and unpleasant reality, were those he had himself
spoken in reference to Sibylla:--"Were she free as air this moment, were
she to come to my feet, and say 'Let me be your wife,' I should tell her
that the whole world was before her to choose from, save myself. She can
never again be anything to me."
Brave words: fully believed in when they were spoken: but what did
Lionel think of them now?
He went down to breakfast. He was rather late, and found they had
assembled. Lady Verner, who had just heard for the first time of
Lionel's presence in the house, made no secret now of Lionel's note to
her. Therefore Decima and Lucy knew that the "invasion" of Verner's
Pride had been caused by Mrs. Massingbird.
She--Lady Verner--scarcely gave herself time to greet Lionel before she
commenced upon it. She did not conceal, or seek to conceal, her
sentiments--either of Sibylla herself, or of the step she had taken. And
Lionel had the pleasure of hearing his intended bride alluded to in a
manner that was not altogether complimentary.
He could not stop it. He could not take upon himself the defence of
Sibylla, and say, "Do you know that you are speaking of my future wife?"
No, for Lucy Tempest was there. Not in her presence had he the courage
to bring home to himself his own dishonour: to avow that, after wooing
her (it was very like it), he had turned round and asked another to
marry him. The morning sun shone into the room upon the snowy cloth,
upon the silver breakfast service, upon the exquisite cups of painted
porcelain, upon those seated round the table. Decima sat opposite to
Lady Verner, Lionel and Lucy were face to face on either side. The walls
exhibited a few choice paintings; the room and its appurtenances were in
excellent taste. Lady Verner liked things that pleased the eye. That
silver service had been a recent present of Lionel's, who had delighted
in showering elegancies and comforts upon his mother since his
accession.
"What could have induced her ever to think of taking up her residence at
Verner's Pride on her return?" reiterated Lady Verner to Lionel.
"She believed she was coming to her aunt. It was only at the station,
here, that she learned Mrs. Verner was dead."
"She did learn it there?"
"Yes. She learned it there."
"And she could come to Verner's Pride _after_ that? knowing that you,
and you alone, were its master?"
Lionel toyed with his coffee-cup. He wished his mother would spare her
remarks.
"She was so fatigued, so low-spirited, that I believed she was scarcely
conscious where she drove," he returned. "I am certain that the idea of
there being any impropriety in it never once crossed her mind."
Lady Verner drew her shawl around her with a peculiar movement. If ever
action expressed scorn, that one did--scorn of Sibylla, scorn of her
conduct, scorn of Lionel's credulity in believing in her. Lionel read it
all. Happening to glance across the table, he caught the eyes of Lucy
Tempest fixed upon him with an open expression of wonder. Wonder at
what? At his believing in Sibylla? It might be. With all Lucy's
straightforward plainness, she would have been one of the last to storm
Lionel's abode, and take refuge in it. A retort, defending Sibylla, had
been upon Lionel's tongue, but that gaze stopped it.
"How long does she purpose honouring Verner's Pride with her presence,
and keeping you out of it?" resumed Lady Verner.
"I do not know what her plans for the present may be," he answered, his
cheeks burning at the thought of the avowal he had to make--that her
future plans would be contingent upon his. Not the least painful of the
results which Lionel's haste had brought in its train, was the knowledge
of the shock it would prove to his mother, whom he so loved and
reverenced. Why had he not thought of it at the time?
Breakfast over, Lionel went out, a very coward. A coward, in so far as
that he had shrunk from making yet the confession. He was aware that it
ought to be done. The presence of Decima and Lucy Tempest had been his
mental excuse for putting off the unwelcome task.
But a better frame of mind came over him ere he had gone many paces from
the door; better, at any rate, as regarded the cowardice.
"A Verner never shrank yet from his duty," was his comment, as he bent
his steps back again. "Am I turning renegade?"
He went straight up to Lady Verner, and asked her, in a low tone, to
grant him a minute's private interview. They had breakfasted in the room
which made the ante-room to the drawing-room; it was their usual
morning-room. Lady Verner answered her son by stepping into the
drawing-room.
He followed her and closed the door. The fire was but just lighted,
scarcely giving out any heat. She slightly shivered, and requested him
to stir it. He did so mechanically--wholly absorbed by the revelation he
had to impart. He remembered how she had once fainted at nearly the same
revelation.
"Mother, I have a communication to make to you," he began with desperate
energy, "and I don't know how to do it. It will pain you greatly.
Nothing that I can think of, or imagine, would cause you so much pain."
Lady Verner seated herself in her low violet-velvet chair, and looked
composedly at Lionel. She did not dread the communication very much. He
was secure in Verner's Pride; what could there be that she need fear?
She no more cast a glance to the possibility of his marrying the widow
of Frederick Massingbird, than she would have done to his marrying that
gentleman's wife. Buried in this semi-security, the shock must be all
the greater.
"I am about to marry," said Lionel, plunging into the news headlong.
"And I fear that you will not approve my choice. Nay, I know you will
not."
A foreshadowing of the truth came across her then. She grew deadly pale,
and put up her hands, as if to ward off the blow. "Oh, Lionel! don't say
it! don't say it!" she implored. "I never can receive her."
"Yes, you will, mother," he whispered, his own face pale too, his tone
one of painful entreaty. "You will receive her for my sake."
"Is it--_she_?"
The aversion with which the name was avoided was unmistakable. Lionel
only nodded a grave affirmative.
"Have you engaged yourself to her?"
"I have. Last night."
"Were you mad?" she asked in a whisper.
"Stay, mother. When you were speaking against Sibylla at breakfast, I
refrained from interference, for you did not then know that defence of
her was my duty. Will you forgive me for reminding you that I cannot
permit it to be continued, even by you?"
"But do you forget that it is not a respectable alliance for you?"
resumed Lady Verner. "No, not a respectable--"
"I cannot listen to this; I pray you cease!" he broke forth, a blaze of
anger lighting his face. "Have you forgotten of whom you are speaking,
mother? Not respectable!"
"I say that it is not a respectable alliance for you--Lionel Verner,"
she persisted. "An obscure surgeon's daughter, he of not too good
repute, who has been out to the end of the world, and found her way back
alone, a widow, is _not_ a desirable alliance for a Verner. It would not
be desirable for Jan; it is terrible for you?"
"We shall not agree upon this," said Lionel, preparing to take his
departure. "I have acquainted you, mother, and I have no more to say,
except to urge--if I may do so--that you will learn to speak of Sibylla
with courtesy, remembering that she will shortly be my wife."
Lady Verner caught his hand as he was retreating.
"Lionel, my son, tell me how you came to do it," she wailed. "You cannot
_love_ her! the wife, the widow of another man! It must have been the
work of a moment of folly. Perhaps she drew you into it!"
The suggestion, "the work of a moment of folly," was so very close a
representation of what it had been, of what Lionel was beginning to see
it to have been now, that the rest of the speech was lost to him in the
echo of that one sentence. Somehow, he did not care to refute it.
"She will be my wife, respected and honoured," was all he answered, as
he quitted the room.
Lady Verner followed him. He went straight out, and she saw him walk
hastily across the courtyard, putting on his hat as he traversed it. She
wrung her hands, and broke into a storm of wailing despair, ignoring the
presence of Decima and Lucy Tempest.
"I had far rather that she had stabbed him!"
The words excited their amazement. They turned to Lady Verner, and were
struck with the marks of agitation on her countenance.
"Mamma, what are you speaking of?" asked Decima.
Lady Verner pointed to Lionel, who was then passing through the front
gates. "I speak _of him_," she answered: "my darling; my pride; my
much-loved son. That woman has worked his ruin."
Decima verily thought her mother must be wandering in her intellect.
Lucy could only gaze at Lady Verner in consternation.
"What woman?" repeated Decima.
"_She_. She who has been Lionel's bane. She who came and thrust herself
into his home last night in her unseemly conduct. What passed between
them Heaven knows; but she has contrived to cajole him out of a promise
to marry her."
Decima's pale cheek turned to a burning red. She was afraid to ask
questions.
"Oh, mamma! it cannot be!" was all she uttered.
"It _is_, Decima. I told Lionel that he could not love _her_, who had
been the wife of another man; and he did not refute it. I told him she
must have drawn him into it; and that he left unanswered. He replied
that she would be his wife, and must be honoured as such. Drawn in to
marry her! one who is so utterly unworthy of him! whom he does not even
love! Oh, Lionel, my son, my son!"
In their own grievous sorrow they noticed not the face of Lucy Tempest,
or what they might have read there.