THE YEW-TREE ON THE LAWN.
The rooms were lighted at Verner's Pride; the blaze from the chandeliers
fell on gay faces and graceful forms. The dinner was over, its scene "a
banquet hall deserted"; and the guests were filling the drawing-rooms.
The centre of an admiring group, its chief attraction, sat Sibylla, her
dress some shining material that glimmered in the light, and her hair
confined with a band of diamonds. Inexpressibly beautiful by this light
she undoubtedly was, but she would have been more charming had she less
laid herself out for attraction. Lionel, Lord Garle, Decima, and young
Bitterworth--he was generally called young Bitterworth, in
contradistinction to his father, who was "old Bitterworth"--formed
another group; Sir Rufus Hautley was talking to the Countess of Elmsley;
and Lucy Tempest sat apart near the window.
Sir Rufus had but just moved away from Lucy, and for the moment she was
alone. She sat within the embrasure of the window, and was looking on
the calm scene outside. How different from the garish scene within! See
the pure moonlight, side by side with the most brilliant light we
earthly inventors can produce, and contrast them! Pure and fair as the
moonlight looked Lucy, her white robes falling softly round her, and her
girlish face wearing a thoughtful expression. It was a remarkably light
night; the terrace, the green slopes beyond it, and the clustering trees
far away, all standing out clear and distinct in the moon's rays.
Suddenly her eye rested on a particular spot. She possessed a very clear
sight, and it appeared to detect something dark there; which dark
something had not been there a few moments before.
Lucy strained her eyes, and shaded them, and gazed again. Presently she
turned her head, and glanced at Lionel. An expression in her eyes seemed
to call him, and he advanced.
"What is it, Lucy? We must have a set of gallant men here to-night, to
leave you alone like this!"
The compliment fell unheeded on her ear. Compliments from _him_! Lionel
only so spoke to hide his real feelings.
"Look on the lawn, right before us," said Lucy to him, in a low tone.
"Underneath the spreading yew-tree. Do you not fancy the trunk looks
remarkably dark and thick?"
"The trunk remarkably dark and thick!" echoed Lionel. "What do you mean,
Lucy?" For he judged by her tone that she had some hidden meaning.
"I believe that some man is standing there. He must be watching this
room."
Lionel could not see it. His eyes had not been watching so long as
Lucy's, consequently objects were less distinct. "I think you must be
mistaken, Lucy," he said. "No one would be at the trouble of standing
there to watch the room. It is too far off to see much, whatever may be
their curiosity."
Lucy held her hands over her eyes, gazing attentively from beneath them.
"I feel convinced of it now," she presently said. "There is some one,
and it looks like a man, standing behind the trunk, as if hiding
himself. His head is pushed out on this side, certainly, as though he
were watching these windows. I have seen the head move twice."
Lionel placed his hands in the same position, and took a long gaze. "I
do think you are right, Lucy!" he suddenly exclaimed. "I saw something
move then. What business has any one to plant himself there?"
He stepped impulsively out as he spoke--the windows opened to the
ground--crossed the terrace, descended the steps, and turned on the
lawn, to the left hand. A minute, and he was up at the tree.
But he gained no satisfaction. The spreading tree, with its imposing
trunk--which trunk was nearly as thick as a man's body--stood all
solitary on the smooth grass, no living thing being near it.
"We must have been mistaken, after all," thought Lionel.
Nevertheless, he stood under the tree, and cast his keen glances around.
Nothing could he see; nothing but what ought to be there. The wide lawn,
the sweet flowers closed to the night, the remoter parts where the trees
were thick, all stood cold and still in the white moonlight. But of
human disturber there was none.
Lionel went back again, plucking a white geranium blossom and a sprig
of sweet verbena on his way. Lucy was sitting alone, as he had left her.
"It was a false alarm," he whispered. "Nothing's there, except the
tree."
"It was not a false alarm," she answered. "I saw him move away as you
went on to the lawn. He drew back towards the thicket."
"Are you sure?" questioned Lionel, his tone betraying that he doubted
whether she was not mistaken.
"Oh, yes, I am sure," said Lucy. "Do you know what my old nurse used to
tell me when I was a child?" she asked, lifting her face to his. "She
said I had the Indian sight, because I could see so far and so
distinctly. Some of the Indians have the gift greatly, you know. I am
quite certain that I saw the object--and it looked like the figure of a
man--go swiftly away from the tree across the grass. I could not see him
to the end of the lawn, but he must have gone into the plantation. I
dare say he saw you coming towards him."
Lionel smiled. "I wish I had caught the spy. He should have answered to
me for being there. Do you like verbena, Lucy?"
He laid the verbena and geranium on her lap, and she took them up
mechanically.
"I do not like spies," she said, in a dreamy tone. "In India they have
been known to watch the inmates of a house in the evening, and to
bow-string one of those they were watching before the morning. You are
laughing! Indeed, my nurse used to tell me tales of it."
"We have no spies in England--in that sense, Lucy. When I used the word
spy, it was with no meaning attached to it. It is not impossible but it
may be a sweetheart of one of the maid-servants, come up from Deerham
for a rendezvous. Be under no apprehension."
At that moment, the voice of his wife came ringing through the room.
"Mr. Verner!"
He turned to the call. Waiting to say another word to Lucy, as a thought
struck him. "You would prefer not to remain at the window, perhaps. Let
me take you to a more sheltered seat."
"Oh, no, thank you," she answered impulsively. "I like being at the
window. It is not of myself that I am thinking." And Lionel moved away.
"Is it not true that the fountains at Versailles played expressly for
me?" eagerly asked Sibylla, as he approached her. "Sir Rufus won't
believe that they did. The first time we were in Paris, you know."
Sir Rufus Hautley was by her side then. He looked at Lionel. "They never
play for private individuals, Mr. Verner. At least, if they do, things
have changed."
"My wife thought they did," returned Lionel, with a smile. "It was all
the same."
"They did, Lionel, you know they did," vehemently asserted Sibylla. "De
Coigny told me so; and he held authority in the Government."
"I know that De Coigny told you so, and that you believed him," answered
Lionel, still smiling. "I did not believe him."
Sibylla turned her head away petulantly from her husband. "You are
saying it to annoy me. I'll never appeal to you again. Sir Rufus, they
did play expressly for me."
"It may be bad taste, but I'd rather see the waterworks at St. Cloud
than at Versailles," observed a Mr. Gordon, some acquaintance that they
had picked up in town, and to whom it had been Sibylla's pleasure to
give an invitation. "Cannonby wrote me word last week from Paris----"
"Who?" sharply interrupted Sibylla.
Mr. Gordon looked surprised. Her tone had betrayed something of eager
alarm, not to say terror.
"Captain Cannonby, Mrs. Verner. A friend of mine just returned from
Australia. Business took him to Paris as soon as he landed."
"Is he from the Melbourne port? Is his Christian name Lawrence?" she
reiterated breathlessly.
"Yes--to both questions," replied Mr. Gordon.
Sibylla shrieked, and lifted her handkerchief to her face. They gathered
round her in consternation. One offering smelling-salts, one running for
water. Lionel gently drew the handkerchief from her face. It was white
as death.
"What ails you, my dear?" he whispered.
She seemed to recover her equanimity as suddenly as she had lost it, and
the colour began to appear in her cheeks again.
"His name--Cannonby's--puts me in mind of those unhappy days," she said,
not in the low tone used by her husband, but aloud--speaking, in fact,
to all around her. "I did not know Captain Cannonby had returned. When
did he come, Mr. Gordon?"
"About eight or nine days ago."
"Has he made his fortune?"
Mr. Gordon laughed. "I fancy not. Cannonby was always of a roving
nature. I expect he got tired of the Australian world before fortune had
time to find him out."
Sibylla was soon deep in her flirtations again. It is not erroneous to
call them so. But they were innocent flirtations--the result of vanity.
Lionel moved away.
Another commotion. Some great long-legged fellow, without ceremony or
warning, came striding in at the window close to Lucy Tempest. Lucy's
thoughts had been buried--it is hard to say where, and her eyes were
strained to the large yew-tree upon the grass. The sudden entrance
startled her, albeit she was not of a nervous temperament. With Indian
bow-strings in the mind, and fancied moonlight spies before the sight, a
scream was inevitable.
Whom should it be but Jan! Jan, of course. What other guest would be
likely to enter in that unceremonious fashion? Strictly speaking, Jan
was not a guest--at any rate, not an invited one.
"I had got a minute to spare this evening, so thought I'd come up and
have a look at you," proclaimed unfashionable Jan to the room, but
principally addressing Lionel and Sibylla.
And so Jan had come, and stood there without the least shame, in drab
trousers, and a loose, airy coat, shaking hands with Sir Rufus, shaking
hands with anybody who would shake hands with him. Sibylla looked
daggers at Jan, and Lionel cross. Not from the same cause. Sibylla's
displeasure was directed to Jan's style of evening costume; Lionel felt
vexed with him for alarming Lucy. But Lionel never very long retained
displeasure, and his sweet smile stole over his lips as he spoke.
"Jan, I shall be endorsing Lady Verner's request--that you come into a
house like a Christian--if you are to startle ladies in this fashion."
"Whom did I startle?" asked Jan.
"You startled Lucy."
"Nonsense! Did I, Miss Lucy?"
"Yes, you did a little, Jan," she replied.
"What a stupid you must be!" retorted gallant Jan. "I should say you
want doctoring, if your nerves are in that state. You take--"
"Oh, Jan, that will do," laughed Lucy. "I am sure I don't want medicine.
You know how I dislike it."
They were standing together within the large window, Jan and Lionel,
Lucy sitting close to them. She sat with her head a little bent,
scenting her verbena.
"The truth is, Jan, I and Lucy have been watching some intruder who had
taken up his station on the lawn, underneath the yew-tree," whispered
Lionel. "I suppose Lucy thought he was bursting in upon us."
"Yes, I did really think he was," said Lucy, looking up with a smile.
"Who was it?" asked Jan.
"He did not give us the opportunity of ascertaining," replied Lionel. "I
am not quite sure, mind, that I did see him; but Lucy is positive upon
the point. I went to the tree, but he had disappeared. It is rather
strange why he should be watching."
"He was watching this room attentively," said Lucy, "and I saw him move
away when Mr. Verner went on the lawn. I am sure he was a spy of some
sort."
"I can tell you who it was," said Jan. "It was Roy."
"Roy!" repeated Lionel. "Why do you say this?"
"Well," said Jan, "as I turned in here, I saw Roy cross the road to the
opposite gate. I don't know where he could have sprung from, except from
these grounds. That he was neither behind me nor before me as I came up
the road, I can declare."
"Then it was Roy!" exclaimed Lionel. "He would have had about time to
get into the road, from the time we saw him under the tree. That the
fellow is prying into my affairs and movements, I was made aware of
to-day; but why he should watch my house I cannot imagine. We shall have
an account to settle, Mr. Roy!"
Decima came up, asking what private matter they were discussing, and
Lionel and Lucy went over the ground again, acquainting her with what
had been seen. They stood together in a group, conversing in an
undertone. By and by, Mrs. Verner passed, moving from one part of the
room to another, on the arm of Sir Rufus Hautley.
"Quite a family conclave," she exclaimed, with a laugh. "Decima, however
much you may wish for attention, it is scarcely fair to monopolise that
of Mr. Verner in his own house. If he forgets that he has guests
present, you should not help him in the forgetfulness."
"It would be well if all wished for attention as little as does Miss
Verner," exclaimed Lord Garle. His voice rung out to the ends of the
room, and a sudden stillness fell upon it; his words may have been taken
as a covert reproof to Mrs. Verner. They were not meant as such. There
was no living woman of whom Lord Garle thought so highly as he thought
of Decima Verner; and he had spoken in his mind's impulse.
Sibylla believed he had purposely flung a shaft at her. And she flung
one again--not at him, but at Decima. She was of a terribly jealous
nature, and could bear any reproach to herself, better than that another
woman should be praised beside her.
"When young ladies find themselves neglected, their charms wasted on the
desert air, they naturally do covet attention, although it be but a
brother's."
Perhaps the first truly severe glance that Lionel Verner ever gave his
wife he gave her then. Disdaining any defence off his sister, he stood,
haughty, impassive, his lips drawn in, his eyes fixed sternly on
Sibylla. Decima remained quiet under the insult, save that she flushed
scarlet. Lord Garle did not. Lord Garle spoke up again, in the
impetuosity of his open, honest nature.
"I can testify that if Miss Verner is neglected, it is her own fault
alone. You are mistaken in your premises, Mrs. Verner."
The tone was pointedly significant, the words were unmistakably clear,
and the room could not but become enlightened to the fact that Miss
Verner might have been Lady Garle. Sibylla laughed a little laugh of
disbelief, as she went onwards with Sir Rufus Hautley; and Lionel
remained enshrined in his terrible mortification. That his wife should
so have forgotten herself!
"I must be going off," cried Jan, good-naturedly interrupting the
unpleasant silence.
"You have not long come," said Lucy.
"I didn't leave word where I was coming, and somebody may be going dead
while they are scouring the parish for me. Good-night to you all;
good-night, Miss Lucy."
With a nod to the room, away went Jan as unceremoniously as he had come;
and, not very long afterwards, the first carriage drew up. It was Lady
Verner's. Lord Garle hastened to Decima, and Lionel took out Lucy
Tempest.
"Will you think me very foolish, if I say a word of warning to you?"
asked Lucy, in a low tone to Lionel, as they reached the terrace.
"A word of warning to me, Lucy!" he repeated. "Of what nature?"
"That Roy is not a good man. He was greatly incensed at your putting him
out of his place when you succeeded to Verner's Pride, and it is said
that he cherishes vengeance. He may have been watching to-night for an
opportunity to injure you. Take care of him."
Lionel smiled as he looked at her. Her upturned face looked pale and
anxious in the moonlight. Lionel could not receive the fear at all: he
would as soon have thought to dread the most improbable thing
imaginable, as to dread this sort of violence, whether from Roy, or from
any one else.
"There's no fear whatever, Lucy."
"I know you will not see it for yourself, and that is the reason why I
am presumptive enough to suggest the idea to you. Pray be cautious! pray
take care of yourself!"
He shook his head laughingly as he looked down upon her. "Thank you
heartily all the same for your consideration, Lucy," said he, and for
the very life of him he could not help pressing her hand warmer than was
needful as he placed her in the carriage.
They drove away. Lord Garle returned to the room; Lionel stood against
one of the outer pillars, looking forth on the lovely moonlight scene.
The part played by Roy--if it was Roy--in the night's doings disturbed
him not; but that his wife had shown herself so entirely unlike a lady
did disturb him. In bitter contrast to Lucy did she stand out to his
mind that night. He turned away, after some minutes, with an impatient
movement, as if he would fain throw remembrance and vexation from him,
Lionel had himself chosen his companion in life, and none knew better
than he that he must abide by it; none could be more firmly resolved to
do his full duty by her in love. Sibylla was standing outside the window
alone. Lionel approached her, and gently laid his hand upon her
shoulder.
"Sibylla, what caused you to show agitation when Cannonby's name was
mentioned?"
"I told you," answered Sibylla. "It is dreadful to be reminded of that
miserable time. It was Cannonby, you know, who buried my husband."
And before Lionel could say more, she had shaken his hand from her
shoulder, and was back amidst her guests.