AN EXPLOSION OF SIBYLLA'S.
Sibylla Verner sat at the window of her sitting-room in the twilight--a
cold evening in early winter. Sibylla was in an explosive temper. It was
nothing unusual for her to be in an explosive temper now; but she was in
a worse than customary this evening. Sibylla felt the difference between
Verner's Pride and Deerham Court. She lived but in excitement; she cared
but for gaiety. In removing to Deerham Court she had gone readily,
believing that she should there find a large portion of the gaiety she
had been accustomed to at Verner's Pride; that she should, at any rate,
be living with the appliances of wealth about her, and should go out a
great deal with Lady Verner. She had not bargained for Lady Verner's
establishment being reduced to simplicity and quietness, for her laying
down her carriage and discharging her men-servants and selling her
horses, and living again the life of a retired gentlewoman. Yet all
these changes had come to pass, and Sibylla's inward spirit turned
restive. She had everything that any reasonable mind could possibly
desire, every comfort; but quiet comfort and Sibylla's taste did not
accord. Her husband was out a great deal at Verner's Pride and on the
estate. As he had resolved to do over John Massingbird's dinner-table,
so he was doing--putting his shoulder to the wheel. He had never looked
after things as he was looking now. To be the master of Verner's Pride
was one thing, to be the hired manager of Verner's Pride was another;
and Lionel found every hour of his time occupied. His was no
eye-service; his conscience was engaged in his work and he did it
efficiently.
Sibylla still sat at the window, looking out into the twilight. Decima
stood near the fire in a thoughtful mood. Lucy was downstairs in the
drawing-room at the piano. They could hear the faint echo of her soft
playing as they sat there in silence. Sibylla was in no humour to talk:
she had repulsed Decima rudely--or it may rather be said
fractiously--when the latter had ventured on conversation. Lady Verner
had gone out to dinner. The Countess of Elmsley had been there that day,
and she had asked Lady Verner to go over in the evening and take a
friendly dinner with her. "Bring any of them that you like with you,"
had been her careless words in parting. But Lady Verner had not chosen
to take "any of them." She had dressed and driven off in the hired fly
alone; and this it was that was exciting the anger of Sibylla. She
thought Lady Verner might have taken her.
Lucy came in and knelt down on the rug before the fire, half shivering.
"I am so cold!" she said. "Do you know what I did, Decima? I let the
fire go out. Some time after Lady Verner went up to dress, I turned
round and found the fire was out. My hands are quite numbed."
"You have gone on playing there without a fire!" cried Decima.
"I shall be warm again directly," said Lucy cheerily. "As I passed
through the hall, the reflection of the blaze came out of the
dining-room. We shall get warm there. Is your head still aching, Mrs.
Verner?"
"It is always aching," snapped Sibylla.
Lucy, kind and gentle in spirit, unretorting, ever considerate for the
misfortunes which had come upon Mrs. Verner, went to her side. "Shall I
get you a little of your aromatic vinegar?" she asked.
"You need not trouble to get anything for me," was the ungracious
answer.
Lucy, thus repulsed, stood in silence at the window. The window on this
side of the house overlooked the road which led to Sir Rufus Hautley's.
A carriage, apparently closely shut up, so far as she could see in the
dusk, its coachman and footman attending it, was bowling rapidly down
towards the village.
"There's Sir Rufus Hautley's carriage," said Lucy. "I suppose he is
going out to dinner."
Decima drew to the window and looked out. The carriage came sweeping
round the point, and turned on its road to the village, as they
supposed. In the still silence of the room, they could hear its wheels
on the frosty road, after they lost sight of it; could hear it bowl
before their house and--pull up at the gates.
"It has stopped here!" exclaimed Lucy.
Decima moved quietly back to the fire and sat down. A fancy arose to
Lucy that she, Decima, had turned unusually pale. Was it so?--or was it
fancy? If it was fancy, why should the fancy have arisen? Ghastly pale
her face certainly looked, as the blaze played upon it.
A few minutes, and one of the servants came in, handing a note to
Decima.
"Bring lights," said Decima, in a low tone.
The lights were brought; and then Decima's agitation was apparent. Her
hands shook as she broke the seal of the letter. Lucy gazed in surprise;
Sibylla, somewhat aroused from her own grievances, in curiosity.
"Desire the carriage to wait," said Decima.
"It is waiting, Miss Decima. The servants said they had orders."
Decima crushed the note into her pocket as well as her shaking fingers
would allow her, and left the room. What could have occurred, thus to
agitate calm and stately Decima? Before Lucy and Mrs. Verner had
recovered their surprise she was back again, dressed to go out.
"I am sorry to leave you so abruptly, as mamma is not here," she said.
"I dare say Lionel will be in to dinner. If not, you must for once
entertain each other."
"But where are you going?" cried Mrs. Verner.
"To Sir Rufus Hautley's. He wishes to see me."
"What does he want with you?" continued Sibylla.
"I do not know," replied Decima.
She quitted the room and went down to the carriage, which had waited for
her. Mrs. Verner and Lucy heard it drive away again as quickly as it had
driven up. As it turned the corner and pursued its way up the road, past
the window they were looking from, but at some distance from it, they
fancied they saw the form of Decima inside, looking out at them.
"Sir Rufus is taken ill," said old Catherine to them, by way of news.
"The servants say that it's feared he won't live through the night. Mr.
Jan is there, and Dr. Hayes."
"But what can he want with Miss Verner?" reiterated Sibylla.
Catherine shook her head. She had not the remotest idea.
Lionel Verner did not come in for dinner, and they descended to it
without him. His non-appearance was no improvement to the temper of his
wife. It had occurred lately that Lionel did not always get home to
dinner.
Sometimes, when detained at Verner's Pride, he would take it with John
Massingbird; if out on the estate, and unable to reach home in time, he
would eat something when he came in. Her fractious state of mind did not
tend to soothe the headache she had complained of earlier in the day.
Every half-hour that passed without her husband's entrance, made her
worse in all ways, head and temper; and about nine o'clock she went up
to her sitting-room and lay down on the sofa, saying that her temples
were splitting.
Lucy followed her. Lucy thought she must really be ill. She could not
understand that any one should be so fractious, except from wearing
pain. "I will bathe your temples," she gently said.
Sibylla did not appear to care whether her temples were bathed or not.
Lucy got some water in a basin and two thin handkerchiefs, wringing out
one and placing it on Mrs. Verner's head and forehead, kneeling to her
task. That her temples were throbbing and her head hot, there was no
question; the handkerchief was no sooner on, than it was warm, and Lucy
had to exchange it for the other.
"It is Lionel's fault," suddenly burst forth Sibylla.
"His fault?" returned Lucy. "How can it be his fault?"
"What business has he to stop out?"
"But if he cannot help it?" returned Lucy. "The other evening, don't you
remember, Mr. Verner said when he came in, that he could not help being
late sometimes now?"
"_You_ need not defend him," said Sibylla. "It seems to me that you are
all ready to take his part against me."
Lucy made no reply. An assertion more unfounded could not have been
spoken. At that moment the step of Lionel was heard on the stairs. He
came in, looking jaded and tired.
"Up here this evening!" he exclaimed, laying down a paper or parchment
which he had in his hand. "Catherine says my mother and Decima are out.
Why, Sibylla, what is the matter?"
Sibylla dashed the handkerchief off her brow as he advanced to her, and
rose up, speaking vehemently. The sight of her husband appeared to have
brought the climax to her temper.
"Where have you been? Why were you not in to dinner?"
"I could not get home in time. I have been detained."
"It is false," she retorted, her blue eyes flashing fire. "Business,
business! it is always your excuse now! You stay out for no good
purpose."
The outbreak startled Lucy. She backed a few paces, looking scared.
"Sibylla!" was all the amazed reply returned by Lionel.
"You leave me here, hour after hour, to solitude and tears, while you
are out, taking your pleasure! I have all the endurance of our position,
and you the enjoyment."
He battled for a moment with his rising feelings; battled for calmness,
for forbearance, for strength to bear. There were moments when he was
tempted to answer her in her own spirit.
"Pleasure and I have not been very close friends of late, Sibylla," he
gravely said. "None can know that better than you. My horse fell lame,
and I have been leading him these last two hours. I have now to go to
Verner's Pride. Something has arisen on which I must see Mr.
Massingbird."
"It is false, it is false," reiterated Sibylla. "You are not going to
Verner's Pride; you are not going to see Mr. Massingbird. You know best
where you are going; but it is not there. It is the old story of Rachel
Frost over again."
The words confounded Lionel; both that they were inexplicable and spoken
in passion so vehement.
"What do you say about Rachel Frost?" he asked.
"You know what I say, and what I mean. When Deerham looked far and near
for the man who did the injury to Rachel, they little thought they might
have found him in Lionel Verner. Lucy Tempest, it is true. He----"
But Lionel had turned imperatively to Lucy, drawing her to the door,
which he opened. It was no place for her, a discussion such as this.
"Will you be so kind as to go down and make me a cup of tea, Lucy?" he
said, in a wonderfully calm tone, considering the provocation he was
receiving. Then he closed the door on Lucy, and turned to his wife.
"Sibylla, allow me to request, nay, to insist, that when you have fault
to find, or reproach to cast to me, you choose a moment when we are
alone. If you have no care for what may be due to me and to yourself,
you will do well to bear in mind that something is due to others. Now,
then, tell me what you mean about Rachel Frost."
"I won't," said Sibylla. "You are killing me," and she burst into tears.
Oh, it was weary work!--weary work for him. Such a wife as this!
"In what way am I killing you?"
"Why do you leave me so much alone?"
"I have undertaken work, and I must do it. But, as to leaving you alone,
when I am with you, you scarcely ever give me a civil word."
"You are leaving me now--you are wanting to go to Verner's Pride
to-night," she reiterated with strange inconsistency, considering that
she had just insinuated he did _not_ want to go there.
"I must go there, Sibylla. I have told you why; and I have told you
truth. Again I ask you what you meant about Rachel Frost."
Sibylla flung up her hands petulantly. "I won't tell you, I say. And you
can't make me. I wish, I _wish_ Fred had not died."
She turned round on the sofa and buried her face in the cushions.
Lionel, true to the line of conduct he had carved out for himself, to
give her all possible token of respect and affection ever, whatever
might be her provocation--and all the more true to it from the very
consciousness that the love of his inmost heart grew less hers, more
another's, day by day, bent over her and spoke kindly. She flung back
her hand in a repelling manner towards him, and maintained an obstinate
silence. Lionel, sick and weary, at length withdrew, taking up the
parchment.
_How_ sick and weary, none, save himself, could know. Lucy Tempest had
the tea before her, apparently ready, when he looked into the
drawing-room.
"I am going on now to Verner's Pride, Lucy. You can tell my mother so,
should she ask after me when she returns. I may be late."
"But you will take some tea, first?" cried Lucy, in a hasty tone. "You
asked me to make it for you."
He knew he had--asked her as an excuse to get her from the room.
"I don't care for it," he wearily answered.
"I am sure you are tired," said Lucy. "When did you dine?"
"I have not dined. I have taken nothing since I left home this
morning."
"Oh!" She was hastening to the bell. Lionel stopped her, laying his hand
upon her arm.
"I could not eat it, Lucy. Just one cup of tea, if you will."
She, returned to the table, poured out the cup of tea, and he drank it
standing.
"Shall I take Mrs. Verner up a cup?" asked Lucy. "Will she drink it, do
you think?"
"Thank you, Lucy. It may do her head good. I think it aches much
to-night."
He turned, and departed. Lucy noticed that he had left the parchment
behind him, and ran after him with it, catching him as he was about to
close the hall door. She knew that all such business-looking papers went
up to Verner's Pride.
"Did you mean to leave it? Or have you forgotten it?"
He had forgotten it. He took it from her, retaining her hand for a
moment. "Lucy, _you_ will not misjudge me?" he said, in a strange tone
of pain.
Lucy looked up at him with a bright smile and a very emphatic shake of
the head. She knew by instinct that he alluded to the accusation of his
wife, touching Rachel Frost. Lucy misjudge _him!_
"You should have waited to eat some dinner," she gaily said. "Take care
you don't faint by the way, as that sick patient of Jan's did the other
morning."
Lionel went on. At any rate there was peace outside, if not within; the
peace of outward calm. He lifted his hat; he bared his brow, aching with
its weight of trouble, to the clear night air; he wondered whether he
should have this to bear his whole life long. At the moment of passing
the outer gates, the carriage of Sir Rufus Hautley drew up, bearing
Decima.
Lionel waited to receive her. He helped her out, and gave her his arm to
the hall door. Decima walked with her head down.
"You are silent, Decima. Are you sad?"
"Yes," she answered. "Sir Rufus is dead."
"Dead!" echoed Lionel, in very astonishment, for he had heard nothing of
the sudden illness.
"It is so," she replied, breaking into sobs. "Spasms at the heart, they
say. Jan and Dr. Hayes were there, but they could not save him."