ACHING HEARTS.
If there be one day in the whole year more gladdening to the heart than
all others, it is surely the first day of early spring. It may come and
give us a glimpse almost in mid-winter; it may not come until winter
ought to have been long past: but, appear when it will, it brings
rejoicing with it. How many a heart, sinking under its bitter burden of
care, is reawakened to hope by that first spring day of brightness! It
seems to promise that there shall be yet a change in the dreary lot; it
whispers that trouble may not last: that sickness may be superseded by
health; that this dark wintry world will be followed by heaven.
Such a day was smiling over Deerham. And they were only in the first
days of February. The sun was warm, the fields were green, the sky was
blue; all Nature seemed to have put on her brightness. As Mrs. Duff
stood at her door and exchanged greetings with sundry gossips passing
by--an unusual number of whom were abroad--she gave it as her opinion
that the charming weather had been vouchsafed as a special favour to
Miss Decima Verner; for it was the wedding-day of that young lady and
Sir Edmund Hautley.
Sir Edmund would fain have been married immediately after his return.
Perhaps Decima would also. But Lady Verner, always given to study the
proprieties of life, considered that it would be more seemly to allow
first a few months to roll on after the death of her son's wife. So the
autumn and part of the winter were allowed to go by; and in this, the
first week of February, they were united; being favoured with weather
that might have cheated them into a belief that it was May-day.
How anxious Deerham was to get a sight of her, as the carriages
conveying the party to church drove to and fro! Lionel gave her away,
and her bride's-maids were Lady Mary Elmsley and Lucy Tempest. The story
of the long engagement between her and Edmund Hautley had electrified
Deerham; and some began to wish that they had not called her an old maid
quite so prematurely. Should it unfortunately have reached her ears, it
might tend to place them in the black books of the future Lady Hautley.
Lady Verner was rather against Jan's going to church. Lady Verner's
private opinion was--indeed it may be said her proclaimed opinion as
well as her private one--that Jan would be no ornament to a wedding
party. But Decima had already got Jan's promise to be present, which Jan
had given conditionally--that no patients required him at the time. But
Jan's patients proved themselves considerate that day; and Jan appeared
not only at the church, but at the breakfast.
At the dinner, also, in the evening. Sir Edmund and Lady Hautley had
left then; but those who remained of course wanted some dinner; and had
it. It was a small party, more social than formal: Mr. and Mrs.
Bitterworth, Lord Garle and his sister, Miss Hautley and John
Massingbird. Miss Hautley was again staying temporarily at Deerham Hall,
but she would leave it on the following day. John Massingbird was
invited at the special request of Lionel. Perhaps John was less of an
ornament to a social party than even Jan, but Lionel had been anxious
that no slight should be placed upon him. It would have been a slight
for the owner of Verner's Pride to be left out at Decima Verner's
wedding. Lady Verner held out a little while; she did not like John
Massingbird: never had liked any of the Massingbirds; but Lionel carried
his point. John Massingbird showed himself presentable that day, and had
left his pipe at home.
In one point Mr. Massingbird proved himself as little given to ceremony
as Jan could be. The dinner hour, he had been told, was seven o'clock;
and he arrived shortly after six. Lucy Tempest and Mary Elmsley were in
the drawing-room. Fair, graceful girls, both of them, in their floating
white bride's-maid's robes, which they would wear for the day; Lucy
always serene and quiet; Mary, merry-hearted, gay-natured. Mary was to
stay with them for some days. They looked somewhat scared at the early
entrance of John Massingbird. Curious tales had gone about Deerham of
John's wild habits at Verner's Pride, and, it may be, they felt half
afraid of him. Lucy whispered to the servant to find Mr. Verner and tell
him. Lady Verner had gone to her room to make ready for dinner.
"I say, young ladies, is it six or seven o'clock that we are to dine?"
he began. "I could not remember."
"Seven," replied Lucy.
"I am too soon by an hour, then," returned he, sitting down in front of
the fire. "How are you by this time, Lionel?"
Lionel shook hands with him as he came in. "Never mind; we are glad to
see you," he said in answer to a half apology from John Massingbird
about the arriving early. "I can show you those calculations now, if you
like."
"Calculations be hanged!" returned John. "When a fellow comes out to
dinner, he does not want to be met with 'calculations.' What else,
Lionel?"
Lionel Verner laughed. They were certain calculations drawn out by
himself, connected with unavoidable work to be commenced on the Verner's
Pride estate. For the last month he had been vainly seeking an
opportunity of going over them with John Massingbird; that gentleman,
who hated details as much as Master Cheese hated work, continually
contrived to put it off.
"Have you given yourself the pleasure of making them out in duplicate,
that you propose to show them here?" asked he, some irony in his tone.
"I thought they were in the study at Verner's Pride."
"I brought them home a day or two ago," replied Lionel. "Some alteration
was required, and I thought I would do it quietly here."
"You are a rare--I suppose if I say 'steward' I shall offend your pride,
Lionel? 'Bailiff' would be worse. If real stewards were as faithful and
indefatigable as you, landlords might get on better than they do. You
can't think how he plagues me with his business details, Miss Tempest."
"I can," said Lady Mary freely. "I think he is terribly conscientious."
"All the more so, that he is not going to be a steward long," answered
Lionel in a tone through which ran a serious meaning, light as it was.
"The time is approaching when I shall render up an account of my
stewardship, so far as Verner's Pride is concerned."
"What do you mean by that?" cried John Massingbird.
"I'll tell you to-morrow," answered Lionel.
"I'd like to know now, if it's all the same to you, sir," was John's
answer. "You are not going to give up the management of Verner's Pride?"
"Yes, I am," replied Lionel. "I should have resigned it when my wife
died, but that--that--Decima wished me to remain in Deerham until her
marriage," he concluded after some perceptible hesitation.
"What has Deerham done to you that you want to quit it?" asked John
Massingbird.
"I would have left Deerham years ago, had it been practicable," was the
remark of Lionel.
"I ask you why?"
"Why? Do you think Deerham and its reminiscences can be so pleasant to
me that I should care to stop in it, unless compelled?"
"Bother reminiscences!" rejoined Mr. Massingbird. "I conclude you make
believe to allude to the ups and downs you have had in regard to
Verner's Pride. _That's_ not the cause, Lionel Verner--if you do want to
go away. You have had time to get over that. Perhaps some lady is in the
way? Some cross-grained disappointment in that line? Have you been
refusing to marry him, Lady Mary?"
Lady Mary threw her laughing blue eyes full in the face of the
questioner. "He never asked me, Mr. Massingbird."
"No!" said John.
"No," said she, the lips laughing now, as well as the eyes. "In the old
days--I declare I don't mind letting out the secret--in the old days
before he was married at all, mamma and Lady Verner contrived to let me
know, by indirect hints, that Lionel Verner might be expected
to--to--solicit the honour of my becoming his wife. How I laughed behind
their backs! It would have been time enough to turn rebellious when the
offer came--which I was quite sure never would come--to make them and
him a low curtsy, and say, 'You are very kind, but I must decline the
honour.' Did you get any teasings on your side, Lionel?" asked she
frankly.
A half smile flitted over Lionel's lips. He did not speak.
"No," added Lady Mary, her joking tone turning to seriousness, her blue
eyes to earnestness, "I and Lionel have ever been good friends, fond of
each other, I believe, in a sober kind of way: but--any closer
relationship, we should both have run apart from, as wide as the two
poles. I can answer for myself; and I think I can for him."
"I see," said John Massingbird. "To be husband and wife would go against
the grain: you'd rather be brother and sister."
What there could be in the remark to disturb the perfect equanimity of
Mary Elmsley, she best knew. Certain it was that her face turned of a
fiery red, and it seemed that she did not know where to look. She spoke
rapid words, as if to cover her confusion.
"So you perceive, Mr. Massingbird, that _I_ have nothing to do with Mr.
Verner's plans and projects; with his stopping at Deerham or going away
from it. I should not think any lady has. You are not going, are you?"
she asked turning to Lionel.
"Yes, I shall go, Mary," he answered. "As soon as Mr. Massingbird can
find somebody to replace me-----"
"Mr. Massingbird's not going to find anybody to replace you," burst
forth John. "I declare, Lionel, if you do go, I'll take on Roy, just to
spite you and your old tenants. By the way, though, talking of Roy, who
do you think has come back to Deerham?" he broke off, rather less
vehemently.
"How can I guess?" asked Lionel. "Some of the Mormons, perhaps."
"No. Luke Roy. He has arrived this afternoon."
"Has he indeed?" replied Lionel, a shade of sadness in his tone, more
than surprise, for somehow the name of Luke, coupled with his return,
brought back all too vividly the recollection of his departure, and the
tragic end of Rachel Frost which had followed so close upon it.
"I have not seen him," rejoined Mr. Massingbird. "I met Mrs. Roy as I
came on here, and she told me. She was scuttering along with some
muffins in her hand--to regale him on, I suppose."
"How glad she must be!" exclaimed Lucy.
"Rather sorry, I thought," returned John. "She looked very quaky and
shivery. I tell you what, Lionel," he continued, turning to him, "your
dinner will not be ready this three-quarters of an hour yet. I'll just
go as far as old Roy's, and have a word with Luke. I have got a top-coat
in the hall."
He went out without ceremony. Lionel walked with him to the door. It was
a fine, starlight evening. When he, Lionel, returned, Lucy was alone.
Mary Elmsley had left the room.
Lucy had quitted the chair of state she had been sitting in, and was in
her favourite place on a low stool on the hearth-rug. She was more
kneeling than sitting. The fire-light played on her sweet face, so young
and girlish still in its outlines, on her pretty hands clasped on her
knees, on her arms which glittered with pearls, on the pearls that
rested on her neck. Lionel stood on the other side of the hearth-rug,
leaning, as usual, on the mantel-piece.
At least five minutes passed in silence. And then Lucy raised her eyes
to his.
"Was it a joke, what you said to John Massingbird--about leaving
Deerham?"
"It was sober earnest, Lucy. I shall go as soon as I possibly can now."
"But why?" she presently asked.
"I should have left, as you heard me say, after Mrs. Verner's death, but
for one or two considerations. Decima very much wished me to remain
until her marriage; and--I did not see my way particularly clear to
embark in a new course of life. I do not see it yet."
"Why should you go?" asked Lucy.
"Because I--because it is expedient that I should, for many reasons," he
answered.
"You do not like to remain subservient to John Massingbird?"
"It is not that. I have got over that. My prospects have been so utterly
blighted, Lucy, that I think some of the old pride of the Verner race
has gone out of me. I do not see a chance of getting anything to do half
as good as this stewardship--as he but now called it--under John
Massingbird. But I shall try at it."
"What shall you try, do you think?"
"I cannot tell. I should like to get something abroad; I should like to
go to India. I do not suppose I have any real chance of getting an
appointment there; but stopping in Deerham will certainly not bring it
to me: that, or anything else."
Lucy's lips had parted. "You will not think of going to India now!" she
breathlessly exclaimed.
"Indeed I do think of it, Lucy."
"So far off as that!"
The words were uttered with a strange sound of pain. Lionel passed his
hand over his brow, the action betokening pain quite as great as Lucy's
tone. Lucy rose from her seat and stood near him, her thoughtful face
upturned.
"What is left for me in England?" he resumed. "What am I here? A man
without home, fortune, hope. I have worse than no prospects. The
ceremony at which we have been assisting this day seems to have brought
the bare facts more palpably before me in all their naked truth. Other
men can have a home, can form social ties to bless it. I cannot."
"But why?" asked Lucy, her lips trembling.
_"Why!_ Can you ask it, Lucy? There are moments--and they are all too
frequent--when a fond vision comes over me of what my future might be;
of the new ties I might form, and find the happiness in, that--that I
did not find in the last. The vision, I say, comes all too frequently
for my peace of mind, when I realise the fact that it can never be
realised."
Lucy stood, her hands tightly clasped before her, a world of sadness in
her fair, young face. One less entirely single-hearted, less _true_ than
Lucy Tempest, might have professed to ignore the drift of his words. Had
Lucy, since Mrs. Verner's death, cast a thought to the possibility of
certain happy relations arising between her and Lionel--those social
ties he now spoke of? No, not intentionally. If any such dreams did lurk
in her heart unbidden, there she let them lie, in entire abeyance.
Lionel Verner had never spoken a word to her, or dropped a hint that he
contemplated such; his intercourse with her had been free and open, just
as it was with Decima. She was quite content; to be with him, to see him
daily, was enough of happiness for her, without looking to the future.
"The farther I get away from England the better," he resumed. "India,
from old associations, naturally suggests itself, but I care not whither
I go. You threw out a suggestion once, Lucy, that Colonel Tempest might
be able to help me to something there, by which I may get a living.
Should I have found no success in London by the time he arrives, it is
my intention to ask him the favour. He will be home in a few weeks now."
"And you talk of leaving Deerham immediately!" cried Lucy. "Where's the
necessity? You should wait until he comes."
"I have waited too long, as it is. Deerham will be glad to get rid of
me. It may hold a jubilee the day it hears I have shipped myself off for
India. I wonder if I shall ever come back? Probably not. I and old
friends may never meet again on this side heaven."
He had been affecting to speak lightly, jokingly, toying at the same
time with some trifle on the mantel-piece. But as he turned his eyes on
Lucy at the conclusion of his sentence, he saw that the tears were
falling on her cheeks. The words, the ideas they conjured up, had jarred
painfully on every fibre of her heart. Lionel's light mood was gone.
"Lucy," he whispered, bending to her, his tone changing to one of
passionate earnestness, "I dare not stay here longer. There are moments
when I am tempted to forget my position, to forget honour, and speak
words that--that--I ought not to speak. Even now, as I look down upon
you, my heart is throbbing, my veins are tingling; but I must not touch
you with my finger, or tell you of my impassioned love. All I can do is
to carry it away with me, and battle with it alone."
Her face had grown white with emotion. She raised her wet eyes
yearningly to his; but she still spoke the simple truth, unvarnished,
the great agony that was lying at her heart.
"How shall I live on, with you away? It will be more lonely than I can
bear."
"Don't, child!" he said in a wailing tone of entreaty. "The temptation
from my own heart is all too present to me. Don't _you_ tempt me. Strong
man though I am, there are things that I cannot bear."
He leaned on the mantel-piece, shading his face with his hand. Lucy
stood in silence, striving to suppress her emotion from breaking forth.
"In the old days--very long ago, they seem now, to look back upon--I had
the opportunity of assuring my life's happiness," he continued in a low,
steady tone. "I did not do it; I let it slip from me, foolishly,
wilfully; of my now free act. But, Lucy--believe me or not as you
like--I loved the one I rejected, more than the one I took. Before the
sound of my marriage bells had yet rung out on my ears, the terrible
conviction was within me that I loved that other better than all created
things. You may judge, then, what my punishment has been."
She raised her eyes to his face, but he did not see them, did not look
at her. He continued--
"It was the one great mistake of my life; made by myself alone. I cannot
plead the excuse which so many are able to plead for life's
mistakes--that I was drawn into it. I made it deliberately, as may be
said; of my own will. It is but just, therefore, that I should expiate
it. How I have suffered in the expiation, Heaven alone knows. It is true
that I bound myself in a moment of delirium, of passion; giving myself
no time for thought. But I have never looked upon that fact as an
excuse; for a man who has come to the years I had should hold his
feelings under his own control. Yes; I missed that opportunity, and the
chance went by for life."
"For life?" repeated Lucy, with streaming eyes. It was too terribly real
a moment for any attempt at concealment. A little reticence, in her
maiden modesty; but of concealment, none.
"I am a poor man now, Lucy," he explained; "worse than without
prospects, if you knew all. And I do not know why you should not know
all," he added after a pause: "I am in debt. Such a man cannot marry."
The words were spoken quietly, temperately; their tone proving how
hopeless could be any appeal against them, whether from him, from her,
or from without. It was perfectly true: Lionel Verner's position placed
him beyond the reach of social ties.
Little more was said. It was a topic which Lucy could not urge or
gainsay; and Lionel did not see fit to continue it. He may have felt
that it was dangerous ground, even for the man of honour that he strove
to be. He held out his hand to Lucy.
"Will you forgive me?" he softly whispered.
Her sobs choked her. She strove to speak, as she crept closer to him,
and put out her hands in answer; but the words would not come. She
lifted her face to glance at his.
"Not a night passes but I pray God to forgive me," he whispered, his
voice trembling with emotion, as he pressed her hands between his, "to
forgive the sorrow I have brought upon you. Oh, Lucy! forgive--forgive
me!"
"Yes, yes," was all her answer, her sobs impeding her utterance, her
tears blinding her. Lionel kept the hands strained to him; he looked
down on the upturned face, and read its love there; he kept his own
bent, with its mingled expression of tenderness and pain; but he did not
take from it a single caress. What right had he? Verily, if he had not
shown control over himself once in his life, he was showing it now.
He released one of his hands and laid it gently upon her head for a
minute, his lips moving silently. Then he let her go. It was over.
She sat down on the low stool again on the opposite side the hearth, and
buried her face and her anguish. Lionel buried _his_ face, his elbow on
the mantel-piece, his hand uplifted. He never looked at her again, or
spoke; she never raised her head; and when the company began to arrive,
and came in, the silence was still unbroken.
And, as they talked and laughed that night, fulfilling the usages of
society amidst the guests, how little did any one present suspect the
scene which had taken place but a short while before! How many of the
smiling faces we meet in society cover aching hearts!