A WALK IN THE RAIN.
The fine September morning had turned to a rainy afternoon. A heavy mist
hung upon the trees, the hedges, the ground--something akin to the mist
which had fallen upon Lionel Verner's spirit. The day had grown more
like a November one; the clouds were leaden-coloured, the rain fell.
Even the little birds sought the shelter of their nests.
One there was who walked in it, his head uncovered, his brow bared. He
was in the height of his fever dream. It is not an inapt name for his
state of mind. His veins coursed as with fever; his thoughts took all
the vague uncertainty of a dream. Little heeded he that the weather had
become chilly, or that the waters fell upon him!
What must be his course? What ought it to be? The more he dwelt on the
revelation of that day, the deeper grew his conviction that Frederick
Massingbird was alive, breathing the very air that he breathed. What
ought to be his course? If this were so, his wife was--not his wife.
It was obvious that his present, immediate course ought to be to solve
the doubt--to set it at rest. But how? It could only be done by
unearthing Frederick Massingbird; or he who bore so strange a
resemblance to him. And where was he to be looked for? To track the
hiding-place of a "ghost" is not an easy matter; and Lionel had no clue
where to find the track of this one. If staying in the village, he must
be concealed in some house; lying _perdu_ by day. It was very strange
that it should be so; that he should not openly show himself.
There was another way by which perhaps the doubt might be solved--as it
suddenly occurred to Lionel. And that was through Captain Cannonby. If
this gentleman really was with Frederick Massingbird when he died, and
saw him buried, it was evident that it could not be Frederick come back
to life. In that case, who or what it might be, Lionel did not stay to
speculate; his business lay in ascertaining by the most direct means in
his power, whether it was, or was not, Frederick Massingbird. How was it
possible to do this? how could it be possible to set the question at
rest?
By a very simple process, it may be answered--the waiting for time and
chance. Ay, but do you know what that waiting involves, in a case like
this? Think of the state of mind that Lionel Verner must live under
during the suspense!
He made no doubt that the man who had been under the tree on the lawn a
few nights before, watching his window, whom they had set down as being
Roy, was Frederick Massingbird. And yet, it was scarcely believable.
Where now was Lionel to look for him? He could not, for Sibylla's sake,
make inquiries in the village in secret or openly; he could not go to
the inhabitants and ask--have you seen Frederick Massingbird? or say to
each individual, I must send a police officer to search your house, for
I suspect Frederick Massingbird is somewhere concealed, and I want to
find him. For _her_ sake he could not so much as breathe the name, in
connection with his being alive.
Given that it was Frederick Massingbird, what could possibly prevent his
making himself known? As he dwelt upon this problem, trying to solve it,
the idea taken up by Lucy Tempest--that the man under the tree was
watching for an opportunity to harm him--came into his mind. _That_,
surely, could not be the solution! If he had taken Frederick
Massingbird's wife to be his wife, he had done it in all innocence.
Lionel spurned the notion as a preposterous one; nevertheless, a
remembrance crossed him of the old days when the popular belief at
Verner's Pride had been, that the younger of the Massingbirds was of a
remarkably secretive and also of a revengeful nature. But all that he
barely glanced at; the terrible fear touching Sibylla absorbed him.
He was leaning against a tree in the covered walk near Verner's Pride,
the walk which led to the Willow Pond, his head bared, his brow bent
with the most unmistakable signs of care, when something not unlike a
small white balloon came flying down the path. A lady, with her silk
dress turned over her shoulders, leaving only the white lining exposed
to view. She was face to face with Lionel before she saw him.
"Lucy!" he exclaimed, in extreme surprise.
Lucy Tempest laughed, and let her dress drop into a more dignified
position. "I and Decima went to call on Mrs. Bitterworth," she
explained, "and Decima is staying there. It began to rain as I came
out, so I turned into the back walk and put my dress up to save it. Am I
not economical, Mr. Verner?"
She spoke quickly. Lionel thought it was done with a view to hide her
agitation. "You cannot go home through this rain, Lucy. Let me take you
indoors; we are close to Verner's Pride."
"No, thank you," said Lucy hastily, "I must go back to Lady Verner. She
will not be pleased at Decima's staying out, therefore I must return.
Poor Mrs. Bitterworth has had an attack of--what did they call
it?--spasmodical croup, I think. She is better now, and begged Decima to
stay with her the rest of the day; Mr. Bitterworth and the rest of them
are out. Jan says it is highly dangerous for the time it lasts."
"She has had something of the same sort before, I remember," observed
Lionel. "I wish you would come in, Lucy. If you must go home, I will
send you in the carriage; but I think you might stay and dine with us."
A soft colour mantled in Lucy's cheeks. She had never made herself a
familiar acquaintance at Lionel Verner's. He had observed it, if no one
else had. Sibylla had once said to her that she hoped they should be
great friends, that Verner's Pride would see a great deal of her. Lucy
had never responded to the wish. A formal visit with Decima or Lady
Verner when she could not help herself; but alone, in a social manner,
she had never put her foot over the threshold of Verner's Pride.
"You are very kind. I must go home at once. The rain will not hurt me."
Lionel, self-conscious, did not urge it further. "Will you remain here,
then, under the trees, while I go home and get an umbrella?"
"Oh, dear, no, I don't want an umbrella; thank you all the same. I have
my parasol, you see."
She took her dress up again as she spoke; not high, as it was
previously, but turning it a little. "Lady Verner scolds me so if I
spoil my things," she said, in a tone of laughing apology. "She buys me
very good ones, and orders me to take care of them. Good-bye, Mr.
Verner."
Lionel took the hand in his which she held out. But he turned with her,
and then loosed it again.
"You are not coming with me, Mr. Verner?"
"I shall see you home."
"But--I had rather you did not. I prefer--not to trouble you."
"Pardon me, Lucy. I cannot suffer you to go alone."
It was a calm reply, quietly spoken. There were no fine phrases of its
being "no trouble," that the "trouble was a pleasure," as others might
indulge in. Fine phrases from them! from the one to the other! Neither
could have spoken them.
Lucy said no more, and they walked on side by side in silence, both
unpleasantly self-conscious. Lionel's face had resumed its strange
expression of care. Lucy had observed it when she came up to him; she
observed it still.
"You look as though you had some great trouble upon you, Mr. Verner,"
she said, after a while.
"Then I look what is the truth. I have one, Lucy."
"A heavy one?" asked Lucy, struck with his tone.
"A grievously heavy one. One that does not often fall to the lot of
man."
"May I know it?" she timidly said.
"No, Lucy. If I could speak it, it would only give you pain; but it is
of a private nature. Possibly it may be averted; it is at present a
suspected dread, not a confirmed one. Should it become confirmed, you
will learn it in common with all the world."
She looked up at him, puzzled; sympathy in her mantling blush, in her
soft, dark, earnest eyes. He could not avoid contrasting that truthful
face with another's frivolous one; and I can't help it if you blame him.
He did his best to shake off the feeling, and looked down at her with a
careless smile.
"Don't let it give you concern, Lucy. My troubles must rest upon my own
head.".
"Have you seen any more of that man who was watching? Roy."
"No. But I don't believe now that it was Roy. He strongly denies it, and
I have had my suspicions diverted to another quarter."
"To one who may be equally wishing to do you harm?"
"I cannot say. If it be the party I--I suspect, he may deem that I have
done him harm."
"You!" echoed Lucy. "And have you?"
"Yes. Unwittingly. It seems to be my fate, I think, to work harm
upon--upon those whom I would especially shield from it."
Did he allude to her? Lucy thought so, and the flush on her cheeks
deepened. At that moment the rain began to pour down heavily. They were
then passing the thicket of trees where those adventurous ghost-hunters
had taken up their watch a few nights previously, in view of the Willow
Pond. Lucy stepped underneath their branches.
"Now," said Lionel, "should you have done well to accept my offer of
Verner's Pride as a shelter, or not?"
"It may only be a passing storm," observed Lucy. "The rain then was
nothing."
Lionel took her parasol and shook the wet off it. He began to wonder how
Lucy would get home. No carriage could be got to that spot, and the
rain, coming down now, was not, in his opinion, a passing storm.
"Will you promise to remain here, Lucy, while I get an umbrella?" he
presently asked.
"Why! where could you get an umbrella from?"
"From Hook's, if they possess such a thing. If not, I can get one from
Broom's."
"But you would get so wet, going for it!"
Lionel laughed as he went off.
"I don't wear a silk dress; to be scolded for it, if it gets spoiled."
Not ten steps had he taken, however, when who should come striding
through an opening in the trees, but Jan. Jan was on his way from Hook's
cottage, a huge brown cotton umbrella over his head, more useful than
elegant.
"What, is that you, Miss Lucy! Well, I should as soon have thought of
seeing Mrs. Peckaby's white donkey!"
"I am weather-bound, Jan," said Lucy. "Mr. Verner was about to get me an
umbrella."
"To see if I could get one," corrected Lionel. "I question if the Hooks
possess such a commodity."
"Not they," cried Jan. "The girl's rather better," added he
unceremoniously. "She may get through it now; at least there's a shade
of a chance. You can have my umbrella, Miss Lucy."
"Won't you let me go with you, Jan?" she asked.
"Oh, I can't stop to take you to Deerham Court," was Jan's answer, given
with his accustomed plainness. "Here, Lionel!"
He handed over the umbrella, and was walking off.
"Jan, Jan, you will get wet," said Lucy.
It amused Jan. "A wetting more or less is nothing to me," he called out,
striding on.
"Will you stay under shelter a few minutes yet, and see whether it
abates?" asked Lionel.
Lucy looked up at the skies, stretching her head beyond the trees to do
so.
"Do you think it will abate?" she rejoined.
"Honestly to confess it, I think it will get worse," said Lionel. "Lucy,
you have thin shoes on! I did not see that until now."
"Don't you tell Lady Verner," replied Lucy, with the pretty dependent
manner which she had brought from school with her, and which she
probably would never lose. "She would scold me for walking out in them."
Lionel smiled, and held the great umbrella--large enough for a
carriage--close to the trees, that it might shelter her as she came
forth.
"Take my arm, Lucy."
She hesitated for a single moment--a hesitation so temporary that any
other than Lionel could not have observed it, and then took his arm. And
again they walked on in silence. In passing down Clay Lane--the way
Lionel took--Mrs. Peckaby was standing at her door.
"On the look-out for the white donkey, Mrs. Peckaby?" asked Lionel.
The husband inside heard the words, and flew into a tantrum.
"She's never on the look-out for nothing else, sir, asking pardon for
saying it to you."
Mrs. Peckaby clasped her hands together.
"It'll come!" she murmured. "Sometimes, sir, when my patience is well
nigh exhausted, I has a vision of the New Jerusalem in the night, and is
revived. It'll come, sir, the quadruple'll come!"
"I wonder," laughed Lucy, as they walked on, "whether she will go on to
the end of her life expecting it?"
"If her husband will allow her," answered Lionel. "But by what I have
heard since I came home, his patience is--as she says by her own with
reference to the white 'quadruple'--well nigh exhausted."
"He told Decima, the other day, that he was sick of the theme and of her
folly, and he wished the New Jerusalem had her and the white donkey
together. Here we are!" added Lucy, as they came in front of Deerham
Court. "Lionel, please, let me go in the back way--Jan's way. And then
Lady Verner will not see me. She will say I ought not to have come
through the rain."
"She'll see the shoes and the silk dress, and she'll say you should have
stopped at Verner's Pride, as a well-trained young lady ought," returned
Lionel.
He took her safely to the back door, opened it, and sent her in.
"Thank you very much," said she, holding out her hand to him. "I have
given you a disagreeable walk, and now I must give you one back again."
"Change your shoes at once, and don't talk foolish things," was Lionel's
answer.