MR. AND MRS. VERNER.
Lionel Verner sat over his morning letters, bending upon one of them a
perplexed brow. A claim which he had settled the previous spring--at
least, which he believed had been settled--was now forwarded to him
again. That there was very little limit to his wife's extravagance, he
had begun to know.
In spite of Sibylla's extensive purchases made in Paris at the time of
their marriage, she had contrived by the end of the following winter to
run up a tolerable bill at her London milliner's. When they had gone to
town in the early spring, this bill was presented to Lionel. Four
hundred and odd pounds. He gave Sibylla a cheque for its amount, and
some gentle, loving words of admonition at the same time--not to spend
him out of house and home.
A second account from the same milliner had arrived this morning--been
delivered to him with other London letters. Why it should have been sent
to him, and not to his wife, he was unable to tell--unless it was meant
as a genteel hint that payment would be acceptable. The whole amount was
for eleven hundred pounds, but part of this purported to be "To bill
delivered"--four hundred and odd pounds--the precise sum which Lionel
believed to have been paid. Eleven hundred pounds! and all the other
claims upon him! No wonder he sat with a bent brow. If things went on at
this rate, Verner's Pride would come to the hammer.
He rose, the account in his hand, and proceeded to his wife's
dressing-room. Among other habits, Sibylla was falling into that of
indolence, scarcely ever rising to breakfast now. Or, if she rose, she
did not come down. Mademoiselle Benoite came whisking out of a side room
as he was about to enter.
"Madame's toilette is not made, sir," cried she, in a tart tone, as if
she thought he had no right to enter.
"What of that?" returned Lionel. And he went in.
Just as she had got out of bed, save that she had a blue quilted silk
dressing-gown thrown on, and her feet were thrust into blue quilted
slippers, sat Sibylla, before a good fire. She leaned in an easy-chair,
reading; a miniature breakfast service of Sevres china, containing
chocolate, on a low table at her side. Some people like to read a word
or two of the Bible, as soon as conveniently may be, after getting up in
the morning. Was that good book the study of Sibylla? Not at all. Her
study was a French novel. By dint of patience, and the assistance of
Mademoiselle Benoite in the hard words and complicated sentences, Mrs.
Verner contrived to arrive tolerably well at its sense.
"Good gracious!" she exclaimed, when Lionel appeared, "are you not gone
shooting with the rest?"
"I did not go this morning," he answered, closing the door and
approaching her.
"Have you taken breakfast?" she asked.
"Breakfast has been over a long while. Were I you, Sibylla, when I had
guests staying in the house, I should try and rise to breakfast with
them."
"Oh, you crafty Lionel! To save you the trouble of presiding. Thank
you," she continued good-humouredly, "I am more comfortable here. What
is this story about a ghost? The kitchen's in a regular commotion,
Benoite says."
"To what do you allude?" asked Lionel.
"Dan Duff is dying, or dead," returned Sibylla. "Benoite was in Deerham
last night, and brought him home to carry her parcels. In going back
again, he saw, as he says, Rachel Frost's ghost, and it terrified him
out of his senses. Old Roy saw it too, and the news has travelled up
here."
Sibylla laughed as she spoke. Lionel looked vexed.
"They are very stupid," he said. "A pity but they kept such stories to
themselves. If they were only as quiet as poor Rachel's ghost is, it
might be better for some of them."
"Of course _you_ would wish it kept quiet," said Sibylla, in a tone full
of significance. "I like to hear of these frights--it is good fun."
He did not fathom in the remotest degree the meaning of her tone. But he
had not gone thither to dispute about ghosts.
"Sibylla," he gravely said, putting the open account into her hand, "I
have received this bill this morning."
Sibylla ran her eyes over it with indifference; first at the bill's
head, to see whence it came, next at its sum total.
"What an old cheat! Eleven hundred pounds! I am sure I have not had the
half."
Lionel pointed to the part "bill delivered." "Was that not paid in the
spring?"
"How can I recollect?" returned Sibylla, speaking as carelessly as
before.
"I think you may recollect if you try. I gave you a cheque for the
amount."
"Oh, yes, I do recollect now. It has not been paid."
"But, my dear, I say I gave the cheque for it."
"I cashed the cheque myself. I wanted some money just then. You can't
think how fast money goes in London, Lionel."
The avowal proved only what he suspected. Nevertheless it hurt him
greatly--grieved him to his heart's core. Not so much the spending of
the money, as the keeping the fact from him. What a lack of good
feeling, of confidence, it proved.
He bent towards her, speaking gently, kindly. Whatever might be her
faults to him, her provocations, he could never behave otherwise to her
than as a thorough gentleman, a kind husband.
"It was not right to use that cheque, Sibylla. It was made out in Madame
Lebeau's name, and should have been paid to her. But why did you not
tell me?"
Sibylla shrugged her shoulders in place of answer. She had picked up
many such little national habits of Mademoiselle Benoite's. Very
conspicuous just then was the upright line on Lionel's brow.
"The amount altogether is, you perceive, eleven hundred pounds," he
continued.
"Yes," said Sibylla. "She's a cheat, that Madame Lebeau. I shall make
Benoite write her a French letter, and tell her so."
"It must be paid. But it is a great deal of money. I cannot continue to
pay these large sums, Sibylla. I have not the money to do it with."
"Not the money! When you know you are paying heaps for Lady Verner!
Before you tell me not to spend, you should cease supplying her."
Lionel's very brow flushed. "My mother has a claim upon me only in a
degree less than you have," he gravely said. "Part of the revenues of
Verner's Pride ought to have been hers years ago; and they were not."
"If my husband had lived--if he had left me a little child--Verner's
Pride would have been his and mine, and never yours at all."
"Hush, Sibylla! You don't know how these allusions hurt me," he
interrupted, in a tone of intense pain.
"They are true," said Sibylla.
"But not--forgive me, my dear, for saying it--not the less unseemly."
"Why do you grumble at me, then?"
"I do not grumble," he answered in a kind tone. "Your interests are
mine, Sibylla, and mine are yours. I only tell you the fact--and a fact
it is--that our income will not stand these heavy calls upon it. Were I
to show you how much you have spent in dress since we were married--what
with Paris, London, and Heartburg--the sum total would frighten you."
"You should not keep the sum total," resentfully spoke Sibylla. "Why do
you add it up?"
"I must keep my accounts correctly. My uncle taught me that."
"I am sure he did not teach you to grumble at me," she rejoined. "I look
upon Verner's Pride as mine, more than yours; if it had not been for the
death of my husband, you would never have had it."
Inexpressibly vexed--vexed beyond the power to answer, for he would not
trust himself to answer--Lionel prepared to quit the room. He began to
wish he had not had Verner's Pride, if this was to be its domestic
peace. Sibylla petulantly threw the French book from her lap upon the
table, and it fell down with its page open.
Lionel's eyes caught its title, and a flush, not less deep than the
preceding flush, darkened his brow. He laid his open palm upon the page
with an involuntary movement, as if he would guard it from the eyes of
his wife. That she should be reading that notorious work!
"Where did you get this?" he cried. "It is not a fit book for you."
"There's nothing-the matter with the book as far as I have gone."
"Indeed you must not read it! Pray don't, Sibylla! You will be sorry for
it afterwards."
"How do you know it is not a fit book?"
"Because I have read it."
"There! _You_ have read it! And you would like to deny the pleasure to
me! Don't say you are never selfish."
"Sibylla! What is fit for me to read may be most unfit for you. I read
the book when I was a young man; I would not read it now. Is it
Benoite's?" he inquired, seeing the name in the first page.
"Yes, it is."
Lionel closed the book. "Promise me, Sibylla, that you will not attempt
to read more of it. Give it her back at once, and tell her to send it
out of the house, or to keep it under lock and key while it remains
within it."
Sibylla hesitated.
"Is it so very hard a promise?" he tenderly asked. "I would do a great
deal more for you."
"Yes, Lionel, I will promise," she replied, a better feeling coming over
her. "I will give it her back now. Benoite!"
She called loudly. Benoite heard, and came in.
"Mr. Verner says this is not a nice book. You may take it away."
Mademoiselle Benoite advanced with a red face, and took the book.
"Have you any more such books?" inquired Lionel, looking at her.
"No, sir, I not got one other," hardily replied she.
"Have the goodness to put this one away. Had your mistress been aware of
the nature of the book, she had not suffered you to produce it."
Mademoiselle went away, her skirts jerking. Lionel bent down to his
wife.
"You know that it _pains_ me to find fault, Sibylla," he fondly
whispered. "I have ever your welfare and happiness at heart. More
anxiously, I think, than you have mine."