VERNER'S PRIDE

MRS. HENRY WOOD

ILLUSTRATED BY HAROLD PIFFARD

[Illustration]

LONDON & GLASGOWCOLLINS' CLEAR-TYPE PRESS

CONTENTS. 

 CHAP. PAGE I. RACHEL FROST 7

 II. THE WILLOW POND 19

 III. THE NEWS BROUGHT HOME 26

 IV. THE CROWD IN THE MOONLIGHT 32

 V. THE TALL GENTLEMAN IN THE LANE 36

 VI. DINAH ROY'S "GHOST" 47

 VII. THE REVELATION AT THE INQUEST 55

 VIII. ROBIN'S VOW 60

 IX. MR. VERNER'S ESTRANGEMENT 67

 X. LADY VERNER 72

 XI. LUCY TEMPEST 77

 XII. DR. WEST'S HOME 86

 XIII. A CONTEMPLATED VOYAGE 96

 XIV. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING 104

 XV. A TROUBLED MIND 106

 XVI. AN ALTERED WILL 114

 XVII. DISAPPEARED 118

 XVIII. PERPLEXITY 125

 XIX. THE REVELATION TO LADY VERNER 129

 XX. DRY WORK 136

 XXI. A WHISPERED SUSPICION 139

 XXII. PECKABY'S SHOP 145

 XXIII. DAYS AND NIGHTS OF PAIN 156

 XXIV. DANGEROUS COMPANIONSHIP 164

 XXV. HOME TRUTHS FOR LIONEL 168

 XXVI. THE PACKET IN THE SHIRT-DRAWER 175

 XXVII. DR. WEST'S SANCTUM 181

 XXVIII. MISS DEBORAH'S ASTONISHMENT 191

 XXIX. AN INTERCEPTED JOURNEY 196

 XXX. NEWS FROM AUSTRALIA 200

 XXXI. ROY EATING HUMBLE PIE 209

 XXXII. "IT'S APPLEPLEXY" 215

 XXXIII. JAN'S REMEDY FOR A COLD 218

 XXXIV. IMPROVEMENTS 225

 XXXV. BACK AGAIN 231

 XXXVI. A MOMENT OF DELIRIUM 237

 XXXVII. NEWS FOR LADY VERNER: AND FOR LUCY 248

 XXXVIII. THE MISSES WEST EN PAPILLOTES 254

 XXXIX. BROTHER JARRUM 258

 XL. A VISIT OF CEREMONY 268

 XLI. A SPECIAL VISION TOUCHING MRS. PECKABY 278

 XLII. A SURPRISE FOR MRS. TYNN 287

 XLIII. LIONEL'S PRAYER FOR FORGIVENESS 298

 XLIV. FARMER BLOW'S WHITE-TAILED PONY 307

 XLV. STIFLED WITH DISHONOUR 312

 XLVI. SHADOWED-FORTH EMBARRASSMENT 318

 XLVII. THE YEW-TREE ON THE LAWN 328

 XLVIII. MR. DAN DUFF IN CONVULSIONS 336

 XLIX. "I SEE'D A DEAD MAN!" 338

 L. MR. AND MRS. VERNER 349

 LI. COMMOTION IN DEERHAM 353

 LII. MATTHEW FROST'S NIGHT ENCOUNTER 360

 LIII. MASTER CHEESE'S FRIGHT--OTHER FRIGHTS 370

 LIV. MRS. DUFF'S BILL 380

 LV. SELF WILL 390

 LVI. A LIFE HOVERING IN THE BALANCE 396

 LVII. A WALK IN THE RAIN 401

 LVIII. THE THUNDER-STORM 407

 LIX. A CASUAL MEETING ON THE RIVER 412

 LX. MISS DEB'S DISBELIEF 422

 LXI. MEETING THE NEWS 430

 LXII. TYNN PUMPED DRY 435

 LXIII. LOOKING OUT FOR THE WORST 443

 LXIV. ENDURANCE 449

 LXV. CAPTAIN CANNONBY 453

 LXVI. "DON'T THROTTLE ME, JAN!" 461

 LXVII. DRESSING UP FOR A GHOST 464

 LXVIII. A THREAT TO JAN 473

 LXIX. NO HOME 478

 LXX. TURNING OUT 485

 LXXI. UNPREMEDITATED WORDS 493

 LXXII. JAN'S SAVINGS 498

 LXXIII. A PROPOSAL 505

 LXXIV. TO NEW JERUSALEM ON A WHITE DONKEY 509

 LXXV. AN EXPLOSION OF SIBYLLA'S 519

 LXXVI. AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL 526

 LXXVII. AN EVENING AT LADY VERNER'S 534

 LXXVIII. AN APPEAL TO JOHN MASSINGBIRD 540

 LXXIX. A SIN AND A SHAME 546

 LXXX. RECOLLECTIONS OF A NIGHT GONE BY 550

 LXXXI. A CRISIS IN SIBYLLA'S LIFE 558

 LXXXII. TRYING ON WREATHS 565

 LXXXIII. WELL-NIGH WEARIED OUT 573

 LXXXIV. GOING TO THE BALL 578

 LXXXV. DECIMA'S ROMANCE 586

 LXXXVI. WAS IT A SPECTRE? 592

 LXXXVII. THE LAMP BURNS OUT AT LAST 598

 LXXXVIII. ACHING HEARTS 606

 LXXXIX. MASTER CHEESE BLOWN UP 615

 XC. LIGHT THROWN ON OBSCURITY 625

 XCI. MEDICAL ATTENDANCE GRATIS 633

 XCII. AT LAST! 641

 XCIII. LADY VERNER'S "FEAR" 645

 XCIV. IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN JAN! 654

 XCV. SUNDRY ARRIVALS 659

CHAPTER I. 

RACHEL FROST. 

The slanting rays of the afternoon sun, drawing towards the horizon, fell on a fair scene of country life; flickering through the youngfoliage of the oak and lime trees, touching the budding hedges, restingon the growing grass, all so lovely in their early green, and lightingup with flashes of yellow fire the windows of the fine mansion, that, rising on a gentle eminence, looked down on that fair scene as if itwere its master, and could boast the ownership of those broad lands, ofthose gleaming trees. 

Not that the house possessed much attraction for those whose tastesavoured of the antique. No time-worn turrets were there, or angulargables, or crooked eaves, or mullioned Gothic casements, so chary ofglass that modern eyes can scarcely see in or out; neither was theedifice constructed of gray stone, or of bricks gone black and greenwith age. It was a handsome, well-built white mansion, giving thepromise of desirable rooms inside, whose chimneys did not smoke or theirwindows rattle, and where there was sufficient space to turn in. Thelower windows opened on a gravelled terrace, which ran along the frontof the house, a flight of steps descending from it in its midst. Gentlysloping lawns extended from the terrace, on either side the steps andthe broad walks which branched from them; on which lawns shone gayparterres of flowers already scenting the air, and giving promise of theadvancing summer. Beyond, were covered walks, affording a shelter fromthe sultry noontide sun; shrubberies and labyrinths of many turnings andwindings, so suggestive of secret meetings, were secret meetingsdesirable; groves of scented shrubs exhaling their perfume; cascades andrippling fountains; mossy dells, concealing the sweet primrose, thesweeter violet; and verdant, sunny spots open to the country round, tothe charming distant scenery. These open spots had their benches, whereyou might sit and feast the eyes through the live-long summer day. 

It was not summer yet--scarcely spring--and the sun, I say, was drawingto its setting, lighting up the large clear panes of the windows as withburnished gold. The house, the ornamental grounds, the estate around, all belonged to Mr. Verner. It had come to him by bequest, not byentailed inheritance. Busybodies were fond of saying that it never oughtto have been his; that, if the strict law of right and justice had beenobserved, it would have gone to his elder brother; or, rather, to thatelder brother's son. Old Mr. Verner, the father of these two brothers, had been a modest country gentleman, until one morning when he awoke tothe news that valuable mines had been discovered on his land. The minesbrought him in gold, and in his later years he purchased this estate, pulled down the house that was upon it--a high, narrow, old thing, looking like a crazy tower or a capacious belfry--and had erected thisone, calling it "Verner's Pride. "

An appropriate name. For if ever poor human man was proud of a house hehas built, old Mr. Verner was proud of that--proud to folly. He laid outmoney on it in plenty; he made the grounds belonging to it beautiful andseductive as a fabled scene from fairyland; and he wound up by leavingit to the younger of his two sons. 

These two sons constituted all his family. The elder of them had goneinto the army early, and left for India; the younger had remained alwayswith his father, the helper of his money-making, the sharer of theplanning out and building of Verner's Pride, the joint resident thereafter it was built. The elder son--Captain Verner then--paid one visitonly to England, during which visit he married, and took his wife outwith him when he went back. These long-continued separations, howevermuch we may feel inclined to gloss over the fact, do play strange havocwith home affections, wearing them away inch by inch. 

The years went on and on. Captain Verner became Colonel Sir LionelVerner, and a boy of his had been sent home in due course, and was atEton. Old Mr. Verner grew near to death. News went out to India that hisdays were numbered, and Sir Lionel Verner was instructed to get leave ofabsence, if possible, and start for home without a day's loss, if hewould see his father alive. "If possible, " you observe, they put to therequest; for the Sikhs were at that time giving trouble in our Indianpossessions, and Colonel Verner was one of the experienced officersleast likely to be spared. 

But there is a mandate that must be obeyed whenever it comes--grim, imperative death. At the very hour when Mr. Verner was summoning his sonto his death-bed, at the precise time that military authority in Indiawould have said, if asked, that Colonel Sir Lionel Verner could _not_ bespared, death had marked out that brave officer for his own especialprey. He fell in one of the skirmishes that took place near Moultan, andthe two letters--one going to Europe with tidings of his death, theother going to India with news of his father's illness--crossed eachother on the route. 

"Steevy, " said old Mr. Verner to his younger son, after giving a passinglament to Sir Lionel, "I shall leave Verner's Pride to you. "

"Ought it not to go to the lad at Eton, father?" was the reply ofStephen Verner. 

"What's the lad at Eton to me?" cried the old man. "I'd not have left itaway from Lionel, as he stood first, but it has always seemed to me thatyou had the most right to it; that to leave it away from you savoured ofinjustice. You were at its building, Steevy; it has been your home asmuch as it has been mine; and I'll never turn you from it for astranger, let him be whose child he may. No, no! Verner's Pride shall beyours. But, look you, Stephen! you have no children; bring up youngLionel as your heir, and let it descend to him after you. "

And that is how Stephen Verner had inherited Verner's Pride. Neighbouring gossipers, ever fonder of laying down the law for otherpeople's business than of minding their own, protested against it amongthemselves as a piece of injustice. Had they cause? Many veryjust-minded persons would consider that Stephen Verner possessed morefair claim to it than the boy at Eton. 

I will tell you of one who did not consider so. And that was the widowof Sir Lionel Verner. When she arrived from India with her other twochildren, a son and daughter, she found old Mr. Verner dead, and Stephenthe inheritor. Deeply annoyed and disappointed, Lady Verner deemed thata crying wrong had been perpetrated upon her and hers. But she had nopower to undo it. 

Stephen Verner had strictly fulfilled his father's injunctions touchingyoung Lionel. He brought up the boy as his heir. During his educationaldays at Eton and at college, Verner's Pride was his holiday home, and hesubsequently took up his permanent residence at it. Stephen Verner, though long married, had no children. One daughter had been born to himyears ago, but had died at three or four years old. His wife had died avery short while subsequent to the death of his father. He afterwardsmarried again, a widow lady of the name of Massingbird, who had twonearly grown-up sons. She had brought her sons home with her to Verner'sPride, and they had made it their home since. 

Mr. Verner kept it no secret that his nephew Lionel was to be his heir;and, as such, Lionel was universally regarded on the estate. "Alwaysprovided that you merit it, " Mr. Verner would say to Lionel in private;and so he had said to him from the very first. "Be what you ought tobe--what I fondly believe my brother Lionel was: a man of goodness, ofhonour, of Christian integrity; a _gentleman_ in the highest acceptationof the term--and Verner's Pride shall undoubtedly be yours. But if Ifind you forget your fair conduct, and forfeit the esteem of good men, so surely will I leave it away from you. "

And that is the introduction. And now we must go back to the goldenlight of that spring evening. 

Ascending the broad flight of steps and crossing the terrace, the housedoor is entered. A spacious hall, paved with delicately-grained marble, its windows mellowed by the soft tints of stained glass, whose pervadinghues are of rose and violet, gives entrance to reception rooms on eitherside. Those on the right hand are mostly reserved for state occasions;those on the left are dedicated to common use. All these rooms are justnow empty of living occupants, save one. That one is a small room on theright, behind the two grand drawing-rooms, and it looks out on the sideof the house towards the south. It is called "Mr. Verner's study. " Andthere sits Mr. Verner himself in it, leaning back in his chair andreading. A large fire burns in the grate, and he is close to it: he isalways chilly. 

Ay, always chilly. For Mr. Verner's last illness--at least, what will inall probability prove his last, his ending--has already laid hold ofhim. One generation passes away after another. It seems but the otherday that a last illness seized upon his father, and now it is his turn:but several years have elapsed since then. Mr. Verner is not sixty, andhe thinks that age is young for the disorder that has fastened on him. It is no hurried disorder; he may live for years yet; but the end, whenit does come, will be tolerably sudden: and that he knows. It is wateron the chest. He is a little man with light eyes; very much like whathis father was before him: but not in the least like his late brotherSir Lionel, who was a very fine and handsome man. He has a mild, pleasing countenance: but there arises a slight scowl to his brow as heturns hastily round at a noisy interruption. 

Some one had burst into the room--forgetting, probably, that it was thequiet room of an invalid. A tall, dark young man, with broad shouldersand a somewhat peculiar stoop in them. His hair was black, hiscomplexion sallow; but his features were good. He might have been calleda handsome man, but for a strange, ugly mark upon his cheek. A verystrange-looking mark indeed, quite as large as a pigeon's egg, with whatlooked like radii shooting from it on all sides. Some of the villagers, talking familiarly among themselves, would call it a hedgehog, somewould call it a "porkypine"; but it resembled a star as much asanything. That is, if you can imagine a black star. The mark was blackas jet; and his pale cheek, and the fact of his possessing no whiskers, made it all the more conspicuous. He was born with the mark; and hismother used to say--But that is of no consequence to us. It wasFrederick Massingbird, the present Mrs. Verner's younger son. 

"Roy has come up, sir, " said he, addressing Mr. Verner. "He says theDawsons have turned obstinate and won't go out. They have barricaded thedoor, and protest that they'll stay, in spite of him. He wishes to knowif he shall use force. "

"No, " said Mr. Verner. "I don't like harsh measures, and I will not havesuch attempted. Roy knows that. "

"Well, sir, he waits your orders. He says there's half the villagecollected round Dawson's door. The place is in a regular commotion. "

Mr. Verner looked vexed. Of late years he had declined active managementon his estate; and, since he grew ill, he particularly disliked beingdisturbed with details. 

"Where's Lionel?" he asked in a peevish tone. 

"I saw Lionel ride out an hour ago. I don't know where he is gone. "

"Tell Roy to let the affair rest until to-morrow, when Lionel will seeabout it. And, Frederick, I wish you would remember that a little noiseshakes me: try to come in more quietly. You burst in as if my nerveswere as strong as your own. "

Mr. Verner turned to his fire again with an air of relief, glad to havegot rid of the trouble in some way, and Frederick Massingbird proceededto what was called the steward's room, where Roy waited. This Roy, ahard-looking man with a face very much seamed with the smallpox, wasworking bailiff to Mr. Verner. Until within a few years he had been buta labourer on the estate. He was not liked among the poor tenants, andwas generally honoured with the appellation "Old Grips, " or "Grip Roy. "

"Roy, " said Frederick Massingbird, "Mr. Verner says it is to be leftuntil to-morrow morning. Mr. Lionel will see about it then. He is out atpresent. "

"And let the mob have it all their own way for to-night?" returned Royangrily. "They be in a state of mutiny, they be; a-saying everything asthey can lay their tongues to. "

"Let them say it, " responded Frederick Massingbird. "Leave them alone, and they'll disperse quietly enough. I shall not go in to Mr. Verneragain, Roy. I caught it now for disturbing him. You must let it restuntil you can see Mr. Lionel. "

The bailiff went off, growling. He would have liked to receivecarte-blanche for dealing with the mob--as he was pleased to termthem--between whom and himself there was no love lost. As he wascrossing a paved yard at the back of the house, some one came hastilyout of the laundry in the detached premises to the side, and crossed hispath. 

A very beautiful girl. Her features were delicate, her complexion wasfair as alabaster, and a bright colour mantled in her cheeks. But forthe modest cap upon her head, a stranger might have been puzzled toguess at her condition in life. She looked gentle and refined as anylady, and her manners and speech would not have destroyed the illusion. She may be called a protégée of the house, as will be explainedpresently; but she acted as maid to Mrs. Verner. The bright colourdeepened to a glowing one when she saw the bailiff. 

He put out his hand and stopped her. "Well, Rachel, how are you?"

"Quite well, thank you, " she answered, endeavouring to pass on. But hewould not suffer it. 

"I say, I want to come to the bottom of this business between you andLuke, " he said, lowering his voice. "What's the rights of it?"

"Between me and Luke?" she repeated, turning upon the bailiff an eyethat had some scorn in it, and stopping now of her own accord. "There isno business whatever between me and Luke. There never has been. What doyou mean?"

"Chut!" cried the bailiff. "Don't I know that he has followed your stepseverywhere like a shadder; that he has been ready to kiss the veryground you trod on? And right mad I have been with him for it. You can'tdeny that he has been after you, wanting you to be his wife. "

"I do not wish to deny it, " she replied. "You and the whole world arequite welcome to know all that has passed between me and Luke. He askedto be allowed to come here to see me--to 'court' me, he phrasedit--which I distinctly declined. Then he took to following me about. Hedid not molest me, he was not rude--I do not wish to make it out worsethan it was--but it is not pleasant, Mr. Roy, to be followed wheneveryou may take a walk. Especially by one you dislike. "

"What is there to dislike in Luke?" demanded the bailiff. 

"Perhaps I ought to have said by one you do not like, " she resumed. "Tolike Luke, in the way he wished, was impossible for me, and I told himso from the first. When I found that he dodged my steps, I spoke to himagain, and threatened that I should acquaint Mr. Verner. I told him, once for all, that I could not like him, that I never would have him;and since then he has kept his distance. That is all that has everpassed between me and Luke. "

"Well, your hard-heartedness has done for him, Rachel Frost. It hasdrove him away from his native home, and sent him, a exile, to rough itin foreign lands. You may fix upon one as won't do for you and be yourslave as Luke would. He could have kept you well. "

"I heard he had gone to London, " she remarked. 

"London!" returned the bailiff slightingly. "That's only the first halton the journey. And you have drove him to it!"

"I can't help it, " she replied, turning to the house. "I had no naturalliking for him, and I could not force it. I don't believe he has goneaway for that trifling reason, Mr. Roy. If he has, he must be veryfoolish. "

"Yes, he is foolish, " muttered the bailiff to himself, as he strodeaway. "He's a idiot, that's what he is! and so be all men that losestheir wits a-sighing after a girl. Vain, deceitful, fickle creatures, the girls be when they're young; but once let them get a hold on you, your ring on their finger, and they turn into vixenish, snarling women!Luke's a sight best off without her. "

Rachel Frost proceeded indoors. The door of the steward's room stoodopen, and she turned into it, fancying it was empty. Down on a chair satshe, a marked change coming over her air and manner. Her bright colourhad faded, her hands hung down listless; and there was an expression onher face of care, of perplexity. Suddenly she lifted her hands andstruck her temples, with a gesture that looked very like despair. 

"What ails you, Rachel?"

The question came from Frederick Massingbird, who had been standing atthe window behind the high desk, unobserved by Rachel. Violentlystartled, she sprang up from her seat, her face a glowing crimson, muttering some disjointed words, to the effect that she did not knowanybody was there. 

"What were you and Roy discussing so eagerly in the yard?" continuedFrederick Massingbird. But the words had scarcely escaped his lips, whenthe housekeeper, Mrs. Tynn, entered the room. She had a mottled face andmottled arms, her sleeves just now being turned up to the elbow. 

"It was nothing particular, Mr. Frederick, " replied Rachel. 

"Roy is gone, is he not?" he continued to Rachel. 

"Yes, sir. "

"Rachel, " interposed the housekeeper, "are those things not ready yet, in the laundry?"

"Not quite. In a quarter of an hour, they say. "

The housekeeper, with a word of impatience at the laundry's delay, wentout and crossed the yard towards it. Frederick Massingbird turned againto Rachel. 

"Roy seemed to be grumbling at you. "

"He accused me of being the cause of his son's going away. He thinks Iought to have noticed him. "

Frederick Massingbird made no reply. He raised his finger and gentlyrubbed it round and round the mark upon his cheek: a habit he hadacquired when a child, and they could not entirely break him of it. Hewas seven-and-twenty years of age now, but he was sure to begin rubbingthat mark unconsciously, if in deep thought. Rachel resumed, her tone acovert one, as if the subject on which she was about to speak might notbe breathed, even to the walls. 

"Roy hinted that his son was going to foreign lands. I did not choose tolet him see that I knew anything, so remarked that I had heard he wasgone to London. 'London!' he answered; 'that was only the firsthalting-place on the journey!'"

"Did he give any hint about John?"

"Not a word, " replied Rachel. "He would not be likely to do that. "

"No. Roy can keep counsel, whatever other virtues he may run short of. Suppose you had joined your fortunes to sighing Luke's, Rachel, and goneout with him to grow rich together?" added Frederick Massingbird, in atone which could be taken for either jest or earnest. 

She evidently took it as the latter, and it appeared to call up an angryspirit. She was vexed almost to tears. Frederick Massingbird detectedit. 

"Silly Rachel!" he said, with a smile. "Do you suppose I should reallycounsel your throwing yourself away upon Luke Roy?--Rachel, " hecontinued, as the housekeeper again made her appearance, "you must bringup the things as soon as they are ready. My brother is waiting forthem. "

"I'll bring them up, sir, " replied Rachel. 

Frederick Massingbird passed through the passages to the hall, and thenproceeded upstairs to the bedroom occupied by his brother. Asufficiently spacious room for any ordinary purpose, but it did not lookhalf large enough now for the litter that was in it. Wardrobes anddrawers were standing open, their contents half out, half in; chairs, tables, bed, were strewed; and boxes and portmanteaus were gaping openon the floor. John Massingbird, the elder brother, was stowing away someof this litter into the boxes; not all sixes and sevens, as it lookedlying there, but compactly and artistically. John Massingbird possesseda ready hand at packing and arranging; and therefore he preferred doingit himself to deputing it to others. He was one year older than hisbrother, and there was a great likeness between them in figure and infeature. Not in expression: in that, they were widely different. Theywere about the same height, and there was the same stoop observable inthe shoulders; the features also were similar in cast, and sallow inhue; the same the black eyes and hair. John had large whiskers, otherwise the likeness would have been more striking; and his face wasnot disfigured by the strange black mark. He was the better looking ofthe two; his face wore an easy, good-natured, free expression; whileFrederick's was cold and reserved. Many people called John Massingbird ahandsome man. In character they were quite opposite. John was aharum-scarum chap, up to every scrape; Fred was cautious and steady asOld Time. 

Seated in the only free chair in the room--free from litter--was a tall, stout lady. But that she had so much crimson about her, she would haveborne a remarkable resemblance to those two young men, her sons. Shewore a silk dress, gold in one light, green in another, with broadcrimson stripes running across it; her cap was of white lace garnishedwith crimson ribbons, and her cheeks and nose were crimson to match. Asif this were not enough, she wore crimson streamers at her wrists, and acrimson bow on the front of her gown. Had you been outside, you mighthave seen that the burnished gold on the window-panes had turned tocrimson, for the setting sun had changed its hue: but the panes couldnot look more brightly, deeply crimson, than did Mrs. Verner. It seemedas if you might light a match at her face. In that particular, there wasa contrast between her and the perfectly pale, sallow faces of her sons;otherwise the resemblance was great. 

"Fred, " said Mrs. Verner, "I wish you would see what they are at withthe shirts and things. I sent Rachel after them, but she does not comeback, and then I sent Mary Tynn, and she does not come. Here's John asimpatient as he can be. "

She spoke in a slow, somewhat indifferent tone, as if she did not careto put herself out of the way about it. Indeed it was not Mrs. Verner'scustom to put herself out of the way for anything. She liked to eat, drink, and sleep in undisturbed peace; and she generally did so. 

"John's impatient because he wants to get it over, " spoke up thatgentleman himself in a merry voice. "Fifty thousand things I have to do, between now and to-morrow night. If they don't bring the clothes soon, I shall close the boxes without them, and leave them a legacy for Fred. "

"You have only yourself to thank, John, " said his mother. "You nevergave the things out until after breakfast this morning, and thenrequired them to be done by the afternoon. Such nonsense, to say theyhad grown yellow in the drawers! They'll be yellower by the time you getthere. It is just like you! driving off everything till the last moment. You have known you were going for some days past. "

John was stamping upon a box to get down the lid, and did not attend tothe reproach. "See if it will lock, Fred, will you?" said he. 

Frederick Massingbird stooped and essayed to turn the key. And just thenMrs. Tynn entered with a tray of clean linen, which she set down. Rachelfollowed, having a contrivance in her hand, made of silk, for theholding of needles, threads, and pins, all in one. 

She looked positively beautiful as she held it out before Mrs. Verner. The evening rays fell upon her exquisite face, with its soft, dark eyesand its changing colour; they fell upon her silk dress, a relic of Mrs. Verner's--but it had no crimson stripes across it; upon her lace collar, upon the little edge of lace at her wrists. Nature had certainlyintended Rachel for a lady, with her graceful form, her charmingmanners, and her delicate hands. 

"Will this do, ma'am?" she inquired. "Is it the sort of thing youmeant?"

"Ay, that will do, Rachel, " replied Mrs. Verner. "John, here's a huswifefor you!"

"A what?" asked John Massingbird, arresting his stamping. 

"A needle-book to hold your needles and thread. Rachel has made itnicely. Sha'n't you want a thimble?"

"Goodness knows, " replied John. "That's it, Fred! that's it! Give it aturn. "

Frederick Massingbird locked the box, and then left the room. His motherfollowed him, telling John she had a large steel thimble somewhere, andwould try to find it for him. Rachel began filling the huswife withneedles, and John went on with his packing. 

"Hollo!" he presently exclaimed. And Rachel looked up. 

"What's the matter, sir?"

"I have pulled one of the strings off this green case. You must sew iton again, Rachel. "

He brought a piece of green baize to her and a broken string. It lookedsomething like the cover of a pocket-book or of a small case ofinstruments. 

Rachel's nimble fingers soon repaired the damage. John stood before her, looking on. 

Looking not only at the progress of the work, but at her. Mr. JohnMassingbird was one who had an eye for beauty; he had not seen much inhis life that could match with that before him. As Rachel held the caseup to him, the damage repaired, he suddenly bent his head to steal akiss. 

But Rachel was too quick for him. She flung his face away with her hand;she flushed vividly; she was grievously indignant. That she consideredit in the light of an insult was only too apparent; her voice waspained--her words were severe. 

"Be quiet, stupid! I was not going to eat you, " laughed JohnMassingbird. "I won't tell Luke. "

"Insult upon insult!" she exclaimed, strangely excited. "You know thatLuke Roy is nothing to me, Mr. Massingbird; you know that I have neverin my life vouchsafed to give him an encouraging word. But, much as Idespise him--much as he is beneath me--I would rather submit to have myface touched by him than by you. "

What more she would have said was interrupted by the reappearance ofMrs. Verner. That lady's ears had caught the sound of the contest; ofthe harsh words; and she felt inexpressibly surprised. 

"What has happened?" she asked. "What is it, Rachel?"

"She pricked herself with one of the needles, " said John, taking theexplanation upon himself; "and then said I did it. "

Mrs. Verner looked from one to the other. Rachel had turned quite pale. John laughed; he knew his mother did not believe him. 

"The truth is, mother, I began teasing Rachel about her admirer, Luke. It made her angry. "

"What absurdity!" exclaimed Mrs. Verner testily, to Rachel. "My opinionis, you would have done well to encourage Luke. He was steady andrespectable; and old Roy must have saved plenty of money. "

Rachel burst into tears. 

"What now!" cried Mrs. Verner. "Not a word can anybody say to youlately, Rachel, but you must begin to cry as if you were heart-broken. What has come to you, child? Is anything the matter with you?"

The tears deepened into long sobs of agony, as though her heart wereindeed broken. She held her handkerchief up to her face, and wentsobbing from the room. 

Mrs. Verner gazed after her in very astonishment. "What has taken her?What can it possibly be?" she uttered. "John, you must know. "

"I, mother! I declare to you that I know no more about it than Adam. Rachel must be going a little crazed. "

CHAPTER II. 

THE WILLOW POND. 

Before the sun had well set, the family at Verner's Pride wereassembling for dinner. Mr. And Mrs. Verner, and John Massingbird:neither Lionel Verner nor Frederick Massingbird was present. The usualcustom appeared somewhat reversed on this evening: while roving Johnwould be just as likely to absent himself from dinner as not, hisbrother and Lionel Verner nearly always appeared at it. Mr. Vernerlooked surprised. 

"Where are they?" he cried, as he waited to say grace. 

"Mr. Lionel has not come in, sir, " replied the butler, Tynn, who washusband to the housekeeper. 

"And Fred has gone out to keep some engagement with Sibylla West, " spokeup Mrs. Verner. "She is going to spend the evening at the Bitterworths, and Fred promised, I believe, to see her safely thither. He will takehis dinner when he comes in. "

Mr. Verner bent his head, said the grace, and the dinner began. 

Later--but not much later, for it was scarcely dark yet--Rachel Frostwas leaving the house to pay a visit in the adjoining village, Deerham. Her position may be at once explained. It was mentioned in the lastchapter that Mr. Verner had had one daughter, who died young. The motherof Rachel Frost had been this child's nurse, Rachel being an infant atthe same time, so that the child, Rachel Verner, and Rachel Frost--namedafter her--had been what is called foster-sisters. It had caused Mr. Verner, and his wife also while she lived, to take an interest in RachelFrost; it is very probable that their own child's death only made thisinterest greater. They were sufficiently wise not to lift the girlpalpably out of her proper sphere; but they paid for a decent educationfor her at a day-school, and were personally kind to her. Rachel--Iwas going to say fortunately, but it may be as just to say_un_fortunately--was one of those who seem to make the best of everytrifling advantage: she had grown, without much effort of her own, intowhat might be termed a lady, in appearance, in manners, and in speech. The second Mrs. Verner also took an interest in her; and nearly a yearbefore this period, on Rachel's eighteenth birthday, she took her toVerner's Pride as her own attendant. 

A fascinating, lovable child had Rachel Frost ever been: she was afascinating, lovable girl. Modest, affectionate, generous, everybodyliked Rachel; she had not an enemy, so far as was known, in all Deerham. Her father was nothing but a labourer on the Verner estate; but in mindand conduct he was superior to his station; an upright, conscientious, and, in some degree, a proud man: her mother had been dead severalyears. Rachel was proud too, in her way; proud and sensitive. 

Rachel, dressed in her bonnet and shawl, passed out of the house by thefront entrance. She would not have presumed to do so by daylight; but itwas dusk now, the family not about, and it cut off a few yards of theroad to the village. The terrace--which you have heard of as runningalong the front of the house--sloped gradually down at either end to thelevel ground, so as to admit the approach of carriages. 

Riding up swiftly to the door, as Rachel appeared at it, was a gentlemanof some five or six and twenty years. Horse and man both lookedthoroughbred. Tall, strong, and slender, with a keen, dark blue eye, andregular features of a clear, healthy paleness, he--the man--would draw asecond glance to himself wherever he might be met. His face was notinordinately handsome; nothing of the sort; but it wore an air ofcandour, of noble truth. A somewhat impassive face in repose, somewhatcold; but, in speaking, it grew expressive to animation, and the franksmile that would light it up made its greatest charm. The smile stoleover it now, as he checked his horse and bent towards Rachel. 

"Have they thought me lost? I suppose dinner is begun?"

"Dinner has been in this half-hour, sir. "

"All right. I feared they might wait. What's the matter, Rachel? You'vebeen making your eyes red. "

"The matter! There's nothing the matter with me, Mr. Lionel, " wasRachel's reply, her tone betraying a touch of annoyance. And she turnedand walked swiftly along the terrace, beyond reach of the glare of thegas-lamp. 

Up stole a man at this moment, who must have been hidden amid thepillars of the portico, watching the transient meeting, watching for anopportunity to speak. It was Roy, the bailiff; and he accosted thegentleman with the same complaint, touching the ill-doings of theDawsons and the village in general, that had previously been carried toMr. Verner by Frederick Massingbird. 

"I was told to wait and take my orders from you, sir, " he wound up with. "The master don't like to be troubled, and he wouldn't give none. "

"Neither shall I give any, " was the answer, "until I know more aboutit. "

"They ought to be got out to-night, Mr. Lionel!" exclaimed the man, striking his hand fiercely against the air. "They sow all manner ofincendiarisms in the place, with their bad example. "

"Roy, " said Lionel Verner, in a quiet tone, "I have not, as you know, interfered actively in the management of things. I have not opposed myopinion against my uncle's, or much against yours; I have not comebetween you and him. When I have given orders, they have been hisorders, not mine. But many things go on that I disapprove of; and I tellyou very candidly that, were I to become master to-morrow, my first actwould be to displace you, unless you could undertake to give up thesenasty acts of petty oppression. "

"Unless some of 'em was oppressed and kept under, they'd be for ridingroughshod over the whole of us, " retorted Roy. 

"Nonsense!" said Lionel. "Nothing breeds rebellion like oppression. Youare too fond of oppression, Roy, and Mr. Verner knows it. "

"They be a idle, poaching, good-for-nothing lot, them Dawsons, " pursuedRoy. "And now that they be behind-hand with their rent, it is a gloriousopportunity to get rid of 'em. I'd turn 'em into the road, without a bedto lie on, this very night!"

"How would you like to be turned into the road, without a bed to lieon?" demanded Lionel. 

"Me!" returned Roy, in deep dudgeon. "Do you compare me to that Dawsonlot? When I give cause to be turned out, then I hope I may be turnedout, sir, that's all. Mr. Lionel, " he added, in a more conciliatingtone, "I know better about out-door things than you, and I say it'snecessary to be shut of the Dawsons. Give me power to act in this. "

"I will not, " said Lionel. "I forbid you to act in it at all, until thecircumstances shall have been inquired into. "

He sprung from his horse, flung the bridle to the groom, who was at thatmoment coming forward, and strode into the house with the air of a youngchieftain. Certainly Lionel Verner appeared fitted by nature to be theheir of Verner's Pride. 

Rachel Frost, meanwhile, gained the road and took the path to the lefthand; which would lead her to the village. Her thoughts were bent onmany sources, not altogether pleasant, one of which was the annoyanceshe had experienced at finding her name coupled with that of thebailiff's son, Luke Roy. There was no foundation for it. She haddisliked Luke, rather than liked him, her repugnance to him no doubtarising from the very favour he felt disposed to show to her; and heraccount of past matters to the bailiff was in accordance with the facts. As she walked along, pondering, she became aware that two people wereadvancing towards her in the dark twilight. She knew them instantly, almost by intuition, but they were too much occupied with each other yetto have noticed her. One was Frederick Massingbird, and the young ladyon his arm was his cousin, Sibylla West, a girl young and fascinating aswas Rachel. Mr. Frederick Massingbird had been suspected of a liking, more than ordinary, for this young lady; but he had protested inRachel's hearing, as in that of others, that his was only cousin's love. Some impulse prompted Rachel to glide in at a field-gate which she wasthen passing, and stand behind the hedge until they should have goneby. Possibly she did not care to be seen. 

It was a still night, and their voices were borne distinctly to Rachelas they slowly advanced. The first words to reach her came from theyoung lady. 

"You will be going out after him, Frederick. That will be the next thingI expect. "

"Sibylla, " was the answer, and his accents bore that earnest, tender, confidential tone which of itself alone betrays love, "be you very sureof one thing: that I go neither there nor elsewhere without taking you. "

"Oh, Frederick, is not John enough to go?"

"If I saw a better prospect there than here, I should follow him. Afterhe has arrived and is settled, he will write and report. My darling, Iam ever thinking of the future for your sake. "

"But is it not a dreadful country? There are wolves and bears in it thateat people up. "

Frederick Massingbird slightly laughed at the remark. "Do you think Iwould take my wife into the claws of wolves and bears?" he asked, in atone of the deepest tenderness. "She will be too precious to me forthat, Sibylla. "

The voices and the footsteps died away in the distance, and Rachel cameout of her hiding-place, and went quickly on towards the village. Herfather's cottage was soon gained. He did not live alone. His only son, Robert--who had a wife and family--lived with him. Robert was the son ofhis youth; Rachel the daughter of his age; the children of two wives. Matthew Frost's wife had died in giving birth to Robert, and twentyyears elapsed ere he married a second. He was seventy years of age now, but still upright as a dart, with a fine fresh complexion, a clearbright eye, and snow-white hair that fell in curls behind, on the collarof his white smock-frock. 

He was sitting at a small table apart when Rachel entered, a candle anda large open Bible on it. A flock of grandchildren crowded round him, two of them on his knees. He was showing them the pictures. To gazewonderingly on those pictures, and never tire of asking explanations oftheir mysteries, was the chief business of the little Frosts' lives. Robert's wife--but he was hardly ever called anything but Robin--waspreparing something over the fire for the evening meal. Rachel went upand kissed her father. He scattered the children from him to make roomfor her. He loved her dearly. Robin loved her dearly. When Robin was agrown-up young man the pretty baby had come to be his plaything. Robinseemed to love her still better than he loved his own children. 

"Thee'st been crying, child!" cried old Matthew Frost. "What has ailedthee?"

Had Rachel known that the signs of her past tears were so palpable as tocall forth remark from everybody she met, as it appeared they weredoing, she might have remained at home. Putting on a gay face, shelaughed off the matter. Matthew pressed it. 

"Something went wrong at home, and I got a scolding, " said Rachel atlength. "It was not worth crying over, though. "

Mrs. Frost turned round from her saucepan. 

"A scolding from the missis, Rachel?"

"There's nobody else at Verner's Pride should scold me, " respondedRachel, with a charming little air of self-consequence. "Mrs. Vernersaid a cross word or two, and I was so stupid as to burst out crying. Ihave had a headache all day, and that's sure to put me out of sorts. "

"There's always things to worry one in service, let it be ever so goodon the whole, " philosophically observed Mrs. Frost, bestowing herattention again upon the saucepan. "Better be one's own missus on acrust, say I, than at the beck and call of others. "

"Rachel, " interrupted old Matthew, "when I let you go to Verner's Pride, I thought it was for your good. But I'd not keep you there a day, child, if you be unhappy. "

"Dear father, don't take up that notion, " she quickly rejoined. "I amhappier at Verner's Pride than I should be anywhere else. I would notleave it. Where is Robin this evening?"

"Robin--"

The answer was interrupted by the entrance of Robin himself. A short manwith a red face, somewhat obstinate-looking. His eye lighted up when hesaw Rachel; Mrs. Frost poured out the contents of her saucepan, whichappeared to be a compound of Scotch oatmeal and treacle. Rachel wasinvited to take some, but declined. She lifted one of the children onher knee--a pretty little girl named after herself. The child did notseem well, and Rachel hushed it to her, bringing down her own sweetface caressingly upon the little one's. 

"So I hear as Mr. John Massingbird's a-going to London on a visit?"cried Robin to his sister, holding out his basin for a second supply ofthe porridge. 

The question had to be repeated three times, and then Rachel seemed toawake to it with a start. She had been gazing at vacancy, as if buriedin a dream. 

"Mr. John? A visit to London? Oh, yes, yes; he is going to London. "

"Do he make much of a stay?"

"I can't tell, " said Rachel slightingly. A certain confidence had beenreposed in her at Verner's Pride; but it was not her business to make itknown, even in her father's home. Rachel was not a good hand atdeception, and she changed the subject. "Has there not been somedisturbance with the Dawsons to-day? Old Roy was at Verner's Pride thisafternoon, and the servants have been saying he came up about theDawsons. "

"He wanted to turn 'em out, " replied Robin. 

"He's Grip Roy all over, " said Mrs. Frost. 

Old Matthew Frost shook his head. "There has been ill-feelingsmouldering between Roy and old Dawson this long while, " said he. "Nowthat it's come to open war, I misdoubt me but there'll be violence. "

"There's ill-feeling between Roy and a many more, father, besides theDawsons, " observed Robin. 

"Ay! Rachel, child"--turning his head to the hearth, where his daughtersat apart--"folks have said that young Luke wants to make up to you. ButI'd not like it. Luke's a good-meaning, kind-hearted lad himself, butI'd not like you to be daughter-in-law to old Roy. "

"Be easy, father dear. I'd not have Luke Roy if he were made of gold. Inever yet had anything to say to him, and I never will have. We can'thelp our likes and dislikes. "

"Pshaw!" said Robin, with pardonable pride. "Pretty Rachel is not for adaft chap like Luke Roy, that's a head and ears shorter nor other men. Be you, my dear one?"

Rachel laughed. Her conscience told her that she enjoyed a joke atLuke's undersize. She took a shower of kisses from the little girl, puther down, and rose. 

"I must go, " she said. "Mrs. Verner may be calling for me. "

"Don't she know you be come out?" asked old Matthew. 

"No. But do not fear that I came clandestinely--or, as our servantswould say, on the sly, " added Rachel, with a smile. "Mrs. Verner hastold me to run down to see you whenever I like, after she has gone in todinner. Good-night, dear father. "

The old man pressed her to his heart: "Don't thee get fretting again myblessing. I don't care to see thee with red eyes. "

For answer, Rachel burst into tears then--a sudden, violent burst. Shedashed them away again with a defiant, reckless sort of air, broke, intoa laugh, and laid the blame on her headache. Robin said he would walkhome with her. 

"No, Robin, I would rather you did not to-night, " she replied. "I havetwo or three things to get at Mother Duff's, and I shall stop there abit, gossiping. After that, I shall be home in a trice. It's not dark;and, if it were, who'd harm me?"

They laughed. To imagine harm of any sort occurring, through walking amile or so alone at night, would never enter the head of honest countrypeople. Rachel departed; and Robin, who was a domesticated man upon thewhole, helped his wife to put the children to bed. 

Scarcely an hour later, a strange commotion arose in the village. Peopleran about wildly, whispering dread words to one another. A woman hadjust been drowned in the Willow Pond. 

The whole place flocked down to the Willow Pond. On its banks, thecentre of an awe-struck crowd, which had been quickly gathering, lay abody, recently taken out of the water. It was all that remained of poorRachel Frost--cold, and white, and DEAD!

CHAPTER III. 

THE NEWS BROUGHT HOME. 

Seated in the dining-room at Verner's Pride, comfortably asleep in anarm-chair, her face turned to the fire and her feet on a footstool, wasMrs. Verner. The dessert remained on the table, but nobody was there topartake of it. Mr. Verner had retired to his study upon the withdrawalof the cloth, according to his usual custom. Always a man of sparehabits, shunning the pleasures of the table, he had scarcely takensufficient to support nature since his health failed. Mrs. Verner wouldremonstrate; but his medical attendant, Dr. West, said it was better forhim that it should be so. Lionel Verner (who had come in for the tail ofthe dinner) and John Massingbird had likewise left the room and thehouse, but not together. Mrs. Verner sat on alone. She liked to take hershare of dessert, if the others did not, and she generally remained inthe dining-room for the evening, rarely caring to move. Truth to say, Mrs. Verner was rather addicted to dropping asleep with her last glassof wine and waking up with the tea-tray, and she did so this evening. 

Of course work goes on downstairs (or is supposed to go on) whether themistress of a house be asleep or awake. It really was going on thatevening in the laundry at Verner's Pride, whatever it may have beendoing in the other various branches and departments. The laundry-maidshad had heavy labour on their hands that day, and they were hard at workstill, while Mrs. Verner slept. 

"Here's Mother Duff's Dan a-coming in!" exclaimed one of the women, glancing over her ironing-board to the yard. "What do he want, Iwonder?"

"Who?" cried Nancy, the under-housemaid, a tart sort of girl, whosebusiness it was to assist in the laundry on busy days. 

"Dan Duff. Just see what he wants, Nancy. He's got a parcel. "

The gentleman familiarly called Dan Duff was an urchin of ten years old. He was the son of Mrs. Duff, linen-draper-in-ordinary to Deerham--a ladypopularly spoken of as "Mother Duff, " both behind her back and beforeher face. Nancy darted out at the laundry-door and waylaid the intruderin the yard. 

"Now, Dan Duff!" cried she, "what do you want?"

"Please, here's this, " was Dan Duff's reply, handing over the parcel. "And, please, I want to see Rachel Frost. "

"Who's it for? What's inside it?" sharply asked Nancy, regarding theparcel on all sides. 

"It's things as Rachel Frost have been a-buying, " he replied. "Please, Iwant to see her. "

"Then want must be your master, " retorted Nancy. "Rachel Frost's not athome. "

"_Ain't_ she?" returned Dan Duff, with surprised emphasis. "Why, sheleft our shop a long sight afore I did! Mother says, please, would shemind having some o' the dark lavender print instead o' the light, 'causeSusan Peckaby's come in, and she wants the whole o' the light lavenderfor a gownd, and there's only just enough of it. And, please, I be totake word back. "

"How are you to take word back if she's not in?" asked Nancy, whosetemper never was improved by extra work. "Get along, Dan Duff! You mustcome along again to-morrow if you want her. "

Dan Duff turned to depart, in meek obedience, and Nancy carried theparcel into the laundry and flung it down on the ironing-board. 

"It's fine to be Rachel Frost, " she sarcastically cried. "Going shoppinglike any lady, and having her things sent home for her! And messagesabout her gownds coming up--which will she have, if you please, andwhich won't she have! I'll borror one of the horses to-morrow, and goshopping myself on a side-saddle!"

"Has Rachel gone shopping to-night?" cried one of the women, pausing inher ironing. "I did not know she was out. "

"She has been out all the evening, " was Nancy's answer. "I met hercoming down the stairs, dressed. And she could tell a story over it, too, for she said she was going to see her old father. "

But Master Dan Duff is not done with yet. If that gentleman stood in aweof one earthly thing more than another, it was of the anger of hisrevered mother. Mrs. Duff, in her maternal capacity, was rather freeboth with her hands and tongue. Being sole head of her flock, for shewas a widow, she deemed it best to rule with firmness, not to sayseverity; and her son Dan, awed by his own timid nature, tried hard tosteer his course so as to avoid shoals and quicksands. He crossed theyard, after the rebuff administered by Nancy, and passed out at thegate, where he stood still to revolve affairs. His mother hadimperatively ordered him to _bring back_ the answer touching theintricate question of the light and the dark lavender prints; and SusanPeckaby--one of the greatest idlers in all Deerham--said she would waitin the shop until he came with it. He stood softly whistling, his handsin his pockets, and balancing himself on his heels. 

"I'll get a basting, for sure, " soliloquised he. "Mother'll lose thesale of the gownd, and then she'll say it's my fault, and baste me forit. What's of her? Why couldn't she ha' come home, as she said?"

He set his wits to work to divine what _could_ have "gone ofher"--alluding, of course, to Rachel. And a bright thought occurred tohim--really not an unnatural one--that she had probably taken the otherroad home. It was a longer round, through the fields, and there werestiles to climb, and gates to mount; which might account for the delay. He arrived at the conclusion, though somewhat slow of drawingconclusions in general, that if he returned home that way, he shouldmeet Rachel; and could then ask the question. 

If he turned to his left hand--standing as he did at the gate with hisback to the back of the house--he would regain the high road, whence hecame. Did he turn to the right, he would plunge into fields and lanes, and covered ways, and emerge at length, by a round, in the midst of thevillage, almost close to his own house. It was a lonely way at night, and longer than the other, but Master Dan Duff regarded those aspleasant evils, in comparison with a "basting. " He took his hands out ofhis pockets, brought down his feet to a level, and turned to it, whistling still. 

It was a tolerably light night. The moon was up, though not very high, and a few stars might be seen here and there in the blue canopy above. Mr. Dan Duff proceeded on his way, not very quickly. Some dim idea waspenetrating his brain that the slower he walked, the better chance theremight be of his meeting Rachel. 

"She's just a cat, is that Susan Peckaby!" decided he, with acrimony, inthe intervals of his whistling. "It was her as put mother up to thethought o' sending me to-night: Rachel Frost said the things 'ud do inthe morning. 'Let Dan carry 'em up now, ' says Dame Peckaby, 'and ask herabout the print, and then I'll take it home along o' me. ' And if I go inwithout the answer, she'll be the first to help mother to baste me! Hi!ho! hur! hur-r-r-r!"

This last exclamation was caused by his catching sight of some smallanimal scudding along. He was at that moment traversing a narrow, winding lane; and, in the field to the right, as he looked in at theopen gate, he saw the movement. It might be a cat, it might be a hare, it might be a rabbit, it might be some other animal; it was all one toMr. Dan Duff; and he had not been a boy had he resisted the propensityto pursue it. Catching up a handful of earth from the lane, he shied itin the proper direction, and tore in at the gate after it. 

Nothing came of the pursuit. The trespasser had earthed itself, and Mr. Dan came slowly back again. He had nearly approached the gate, whensomebody passed it, walking up the lane with a very quick step, from thedirection in which he, Dan, was bound. Dan saw enough to know that itwas not Rachel, for it was the figure of a man; but Dan set off to run, and emerged from the gate just in time to catch another glimpse of theperson, as he disappeared beyond the windings of the lane. 

"'Twarn't Rachel, at all events, " was his comment. And he turned andpursued his way again. 

It was somewhere about this time that Tynn made his appearance in thedining-room at Verner's Pride, to put away the dessert, and set the tea. The stir woke up Mrs. Verner. 

"Send Rachel to me, " said she, winking and blinking at the tea-cups. 

"Yes, ma'am, " replied Tynn. 

He left the room when he had placed the cups and things to hissatisfaction. He called for Rachel high and low, up and down. All to nopurpose. The servants did not appear to know anything of her. One ofthem went to the door and shouted out to the laundry to know whetherRachel was there, and the answering shout "No" came back. The footman atlength remembered that he had seen her go out at the hall door while thedinner was in. Tynn carried this item of information to Mrs. Verner. Itdid not please her. 

"Of course!" she grumbled. "Let me want any one of you particularly, andyou are sure to be away! If she did go out, she ought not to stay aslong as this. Who's this coming in?"

It was Frederick Massingbird. He entered, singing a scrap of a song;which was cut suddenly short when his eye fell on the servant. 

"Tynn, " said he, "you must bring me something to eat. I have had nodinner. "

"You cannot be very hungry, or you'd have come in before, " remarked Mrs. Verner to him. "It is tea-time now. "

"I'll take tea and dinner together, " was his answer. 

"But you ought to have been in before, " she persisted; for, though aneasy mistress and mother, Mrs. Verner did not like the order of meals tobe displaced. "Where have you stayed, Fred? You have not been all thiswhile taking Sibylla West to Bitterworth's. "

"You must talk to Sibylla West about that, " answered Fred. "When youngladies keep you a good hour waiting, while they make themselves ready tostart, you can't get back precisely to your own time. "

"What did she keep you waiting for?" questioned Mrs. Verner. 

"Some mystery of the toilette, I conclude. When I got there, Amilly saidSibylla was dressing; and a pretty prolonged dressing it appeared to be!Since I left her at Bitterworth's, I have been to Poynton's about mymare. She was as lame as ever to-day. "

"And there's Rachel out now, just as I am wanting her!" went on Mrs. Verner, who, when she did lapse into a grumbling mood, was fond ofcalling up a catalogue of grievances. 

"At any rate, that's not my fault, mother, " observed Frederick. "I daresay she will soon be in. Rachel is not given to stay out, I fancy, ifthere's a chance of her being wanted. "

Tynn came in with his tray, and Frederick Massingbird sat down to it. Tynn then waited for Mr. Verner's tea, which he carried into the study. He carried a cup in every evening, but Mr. Verner scarcely ever touchedit. Then Tynn returned to the room where the upper servants took theirmeals and otherwise congregated, and sat down to read a newspaper. Hewas a little man, very stout, his plain clothes always scrupulouslyneat. 

A few minutes, and Nancy came in, the parcel left by Dan Duff in herhand. The housekeeper asked her what it was. She explained in her crustyway, and said something to the same effect that she had said in thelaundry--that it was fine to be Rachel Frost. "She's long enough makingher way up here!" Nancy wound up with. 

"Dan Duff says she left their shop to come home before he did. If LukeRoy was in Deerham one would know what to think!"

"Bah!" cried the housekeeper. "Rachel Frost has nothing to say to LukeRoy. "

Tynn laid down his paper, and rose. "I'll just tell the mistress thatRachel's on her way home, " said he. "She's put up like anything at herbeing out--wants her for something particular, she says. "

Barely had he departed on his errand, when a loud commotion was heard inthe passage. Mr. Dan Duff had burst in at the back door, uttering soundsof distress--of fright--his eyes starting, his hair standing on end, hiswords nearly unintelligible. 

"Rachel Frost is in the Willow Pond--drownded!"

The women shrieked when they gathered in the sense. It was enough tomake them shriek. Dan Duff howled in concert. The passages took up thesounds and echoed them; and Mrs. Verner, Frederick Massingbird, and Tynncame hastening forth. Mr. Verner followed, feeble, and leaning on hisstick. Frederick Massingbird seized upon the boy, questioning sharply. 

"Rachel Frost's a-drowned in the Willow Pond, " he reiterated. "I see'dher. "

A moment of pause, of startled suspense, and then they flew off, men andwomen, as with one accord, Frederick Massingbird leading the van. Socialobligations were forgotten in the overwhelming excitement, and Mr. AndMrs. Verner were left to keep house for themselves. Tynn, indeed, recollected himself, and turned back. 

"No, " said Mr. Verner. "Go with the rest, Tynn, and see what it is, andwhether anything can be done. "

He might have crept thither himself in his feeble strength, but he hadnot stirred out of the house for two years. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE CROWD IN THE MOONLIGHT. 

The Willow Pond, so called from its being surrounded with weepingwillows, was situated at the corner of a field, in a retired part of theroad, about midway between Verner's Pride and Deerham. There was a greatdeal of timber about that part; it was altogether as lonely as could bedesired. When the runners from Verner's Pride reached it, assistance hadalready arrived, and Rachel, rescued from the pond, was being laid uponthe grass. All signs of life were gone. 

Who had done it?--what had caused it?--was it an accident?--was it aself-committed act?--or was it a deed of violence? What brought herthere at all? No young girl would be likely to take that way home (withall due deference to the opinion of Master Dan Duff) alone at night. 

What was to be done? The crowd propounded these various questions in somany marvels of wonder, and hustled each other, and talked incessantly;but to be of use, to direct, nobody appeared capable. FrederickMassingbird stepped forward with authority. 

"Carry her at once to Verner's Pride--with all speed. And some ofyou"--turning to the servants of the house--"hasten on, and get waterheated and blankets hot. Get hot bricks--get anything and everythinglikely to be required. How did she get in?"

He appeared to speak the words more in the light of a wailing regret, than as a question. It was a question that none present appeared able toanswer. The crowd was increasing rapidly. One of them suggested thatBroom the gamekeeper's cottage was nearer than Verner's Pride. 

"But there will be neither hot water nor blankets there, " returnedFrederick Massingbird. 

"The house is the best. Make haste! don't let grass grow under yourfeet. "

"A moment, " interposed a gentleman who now came hastily up, as they wereraising the body. "Lay her down again. "

They obeyed him eagerly, and fell a little back that he might have spaceto bend over her. It was the doctor of the neighbourhood, resident atDeerham. He was a fine man in figure, dark and florid in face, but amore impassive countenance could not well be seen, and he had thepeculiarity of rarely looking a person in the face. If a patient's eyeswere mixed on Dr. West's, Dr. West's were invariably fixed uponsomething else. A clever man in his profession, holding an Edinburghdegree, and practising as a general practitioner. He was brother to thepresent Mrs. Verner; consequently, uncle to the two young Massingbirds. 

"Has anybody got a match?" he asked. 

One of the Verner's Pride servants had a whole boxful, and two or threewere lighted at a time, and held so that the doctor could see thedrowned face better than he could in the uncertain moonlight. It was astrange scene. The lonely, weird character of the place; the dark treesscattered about; the dull pond with its bending willows; the swaying, murmuring crowd collected round the doctor and what he was bending over;the bright flickering flame of the match-light; with the pale moonoverhead, getting higher and higher as the night went on, and strugglingher way through passing clouds. 

"How did it happen?" asked Dr. West. 

Before any answer could be given, a man came tearing up at the top ofhis speed; several men, indeed, it may be said. The first was Roy, thebailiff. Upon Roy's leaving Verner's Pride, after the rebuke bestowedupon him by its heir, he had gone straight down to the George andDragon, a roadside inn, situated on the outskirts of the village, on theroad from Verner's Pride. Here he had remained, consorting withdroppers-in from Deerham, and soothing his mortification with a pipe andsundry cans of ale. When the news was brought in that Rachel Frost wasdrowned in the Willow-pond, Roy, the landlord, and the companycollectively, started off to see. 

"Why, it _is_ her!" uttered Roy, taking a hasty view of poor Rachel. "Isaid it wasn't possible. I saw her and talked to her up at the house buttwo or three hours ago. How did she get in?"

The same question always; from all alike: how did she get in? Dr. Westrose. 

"You can move her, " he said. 

"Is she dead, sir?"

"Yes. "

Frederick Massingbird--who had been the one to hold the matches--caughtthe doctor's arm. 

"Not _dead_!" he uttered. "Not dead beyond hope of restoration?"

"She will never be restored in this world, " was the reply of Dr. West. "She is quite dead. "

"Measures should be tried, at any rate, " said Frederick Massingbirdwarmly. 

"By all means, " acquiesced Dr. West. "It will afford satisfaction, though it should do nothing else. "

They raised her once more, her clothes dripping, and turned with quiet, measured steps towards Verner's Pride. Of course the whole assemblageattended. They were eagerly curious, boiling over with excitement; but, to give them their due, they were earnestly anxious to afford any aid intheir power, and contended who should take turn at bearing that wetburden. Not one but felt sorely grieved for Rachel. Even Nancy wassubdued to meekness, as she sped on to be one of the busiest inpreparing remedies; and old Roy, though somewhat inclined to regard itin the light of a judgment upon proud Rachel for slighting his son, feltsome twinges of pitying regret. 

"I have knowed cases where people, dead from drownding, have beenrestored to life, " said Roy, as they walked along. 

"That you never have, " replied Dr. West. "The _apparently_ dead havebeen restored; the dead, never. "

Panting, breathless, there came up one as they reached Verner's Pride. He parted the crowd, and threw himself almost upon Rachel with a wildcry. He caught up her cold, wet face, and passing his hands over it, bent down his warm cheek upon it. 

"Who has done it?" he sobbed. "What has done it? She couldn't have fellin alone. "

It was Robin Frost. Frederick Massingbird drew him away by the arm. "Don't hinder, Robin. Every minute may be worth a life. "

And Robin, struck with the argument, obeyed docilely like a littlechild. 

Mr. Verner, leaning on his stick, trembling with weakness and emotion, stood just without the door of the laundry, which had been hastilyprepared, as the bearers tramped in. 

"It is an awful tragedy!" he murmured. "Is it true"--addressing Dr. West--"that you think there is no hope?"

"I am sure there is none, " was the answer. "But every means shall betried. "

The laundry was cleared of the crowd, and their work began. One of thenext to come up was old Matthew Frost. Mr. Verner took his hand. 

"Come in to my own room, Matthew, " he said. "I feel for you deeply. "

"Nay, sir; I must look upon her. "

Mr. Verner pointed with his stick in the direction of the laundry. 

"They are shut in there--the doctor and those whom he requires roundhim, " he said. "Let them be undisturbed; it is the only chance. "

All things likely to be wanted had been conveyed to the laundry; andthey were shut in there, as Mr. Verner expressed it, with their firesand their heat. On dragged the time. Anxious watchers were in the house, in the yard, gathered round the back gate. The news had spread, andgentlepeople, friends of the Verners, came hasting from their homes, andpressed into Verner's Pride, and asked question upon question of Mr. AndMrs. Verner, of everybody likely to afford an answer. Old Matthew Froststood outwardly calm and collected, full of inward trust, as a good manshould be. He had learned where to look for support in the darkesttrial. Mr. Verner in that night of sorrow seemed to treat him as abrother. 

One hour! Two hours! and still they plied their remedies, under the abledirection of Dr. West. All was of no avail, as the experienced physicianhad told them. Life was extinct. Poor Rachel Frost was really dead!

CHAPTER V. 

THE TALL GENTLEMAN IN THE LANE. 

Apart from the horror of the affair, it was altogether attended with somuch mystery that that of itself would have kept the excitement alive. What could have taken Rachel Frost near the pond at all? Allowing thatshe had chosen that lonely road for her way home--which appearedunlikely in the extreme--she must still have gone out of it to approachthe pond, must have walked partly across a field to gain it. Had herpath led close by it, it would have been a different matter: it mighthave been supposed (unlikely still, though) that she had missed herfooting and fallen in. But unpleasant rumours were beginning tocirculate in the crowd. It was whispered that sounds of a contest, thevoices being those of a man and a woman, had been heard in thatdirection at the time of the accident, or about the time; and theserumours reached the ear of Mr. Verner. 

For the family to think of bed, in the present state of affairs, or thecrowd to think of dispersing, would have been in the highest degreeimprobable. Mr. Verner set himself to get some sort of solution first. One told one tale; one, another: one asserted something else; another, the exact opposite. Mr. Verner--and in saying Mr. Verner, we mustinclude all--was fairly puzzled. A notion had sprung up that Dinah Roy, the bailiffs wife, could tell something about it if she would. Certainit was, that she had stood amid the crowd, cowering and trembling, shrinking from observation as much as possible, and recoiling visibly ifaddressed. 

A word of this suspicion at last reached her husband. It angered him. Hewas accustomed to keep his wife in due submission. She was a littlebody, with a pinched face and a sharp red nose, given to weeping uponevery possible occasion, and as indulgently fond of her son Luke as shewas afraid of her husband. Since Luke's departure she had passed thebetter part of her time in tears. 

"Now, " said Roy, going up to her with authority, and drawing her apart, "what's this as is up with you?"

She looked round her, and shuddered. 

"Oh, law!" cried she, with a moan. "Don't you begin to ask, Giles, or Ishall be fit to die. "

"Do you know anything about this matter, or don't you?" cried hesavagely. "Did you see anything?"

"What should I be likely to see of it?" quaked Mrs. Roy. 

"Did you see Rachel fall into the pond? Or see her a-nigh the pond?"

"No, I didn't, " moaned Mrs. Roy. "I never set eyes on Rachel thisblessed night at all. I'd take a text o' scripture to it. "

"Then what is the matter with you?" he demanded, giving her a slightshake. 

"Hush, Giles!" responded she, in a tone of unmistakable terror. "I saw aghost!"

"Saw a--what?" thundered Giles Roy. 

"A ghost!" she repeated. "And it have made me shiver ever since. "

Giles Roy knew that his wife was rather prone to flights of fancy. Hewas in the habit of administering one sovereign remedy, which hebelieved to be an infallible panacea for wives' ailments whenever it wasapplied--a hearty good shaking. He gave her a slight instalment as heturned away. 

"Wait till I get ye home, " said he significantly. "I'll drive the ghostsout of ye!"

Mr. Verner had seated himself in his study, with a view of investigatingsystematically the circumstances attending the affair, so far as theywere known. At present all seemed involved in a Babel of confusion, eventhe open details. 

"Those able to tell anything of it shall come before me, one by one, " heobserved; "we may get at something then. "

The only stranger present was Mr. Bitterworth, an old and intimatefriend of Mr. Verner. He was a man of good property, and resided alittle beyond Verner's Pride. Others--plenty of them--had been eager toassist in what they called the investigation, but Mr. Verner haddeclined. The public investigation would come soon enough, he observed, and that must satisfy them. Mrs. Verner saw no reason why she should beabsent, and she took her seat. Her sons were there. The news had reachedJohn out-of-doors, and he had hastened home full of consternation. Dr. West also remained by request, and the Frosts, father and son, hadpressed in. Mr. Verner could not deny _them. _

"To begin at the beginning, " observed Mr. Verner, "it appears thatRachel left this house between six and seven. Did she mention to anybodywhere she was going?"

"I believe she did to Nancy, sir, " replied Mrs. Tynn, who had beenallowed to remain. 

"Then call Nancy in, " said Mr. Verner. 

Nancy came, but she could not say much: only that, in going up the frontstairs to carry some linen into Mrs. Verner's room, she had met Rachel, dressed to go out. Rachel had said, in passing her, that she was aboutto visit her father. 

"And she came?" observed Mr. Verner, turning to Matthew Frost, as Nancywas dismissed. 

"She came, sir, " replied the old man, who was having an incessant battlewith himself for calmness; for it was not there, in the presence ofothers, that he would willingly indulge his grief. "I saw that she hadbeen fretting. Her eyes were as red as ferrets'; and I taxed her withit. She was for turning it off at first, but I pressed for the cause, and she then said she had been scolded by her mistress. "

"By me!" exclaimed Mrs. Verner, lifting her head in surprise. "I had notscolded her. "

But as she spoke she caught the eye of her son John, and she rememberedthe little scene of the afternoon. 

"I recollect now, " she resumed. "I spoke a word of reproof to Rachel, and she burst into a violent flood of tears, and ran away from me. Itsurprised me much. What I said was not sufficient to call forth onetear, let alone a passionate burst of them. "

"What was it about?" asked Mr. Verner. 

"I expect John can give a better explanation of it than I, " replied Mrs. Verner, after a pause. "I went out of the room for a minute or two, andwhen I returned, Rachel was talking angrily at John. I could not makeout distinctly about what. John had begun to tease her about Luke Roy, Ibelieve, and she did not like it. "

Mr. John Massingbird's conscience called up the little episode of thecoveted kiss. But it might not be altogether prudent to confess it infull conclave. 

"It is true that I did joke Rachel about Luke, " he said. "It seemed toanger her very much, and she paid me out with some hard words. My motherreturned at the same moment. She asked what was the matter; I said I hadjoked Rachel about Luke, and that Rachel did not like it. "

"Yes, that was it, " acquiesced Mrs. Verner. "I then told Rachel that inmy opinion she would have done well to encourage Luke, who was a steadyyoung man, and would no doubt have a little money. Upon which she beganweeping. I felt rather vexed; not a word have I been able to say to herlately, but tears have been the answer; and I asked what had come to herthat she should cry for every trifle as if she were heart-broken. Withthat, she fell into a burst of sobs, terrifying to see, and ran from theroom. I was thunderstruck. I asked John what could be the matter withher, and he said he could only think she was going crazed. "

John Massingbird nodded his head, as if in confirmation. Old MatthewFrost spoke up, his voice trembling with the emotion that he wasstriving to keep under--

"Did she say what it was that had come to her, ma'am?"

"She did not make any reply at all, " rejoined Mrs. Verner. "But it isquite nonsense to suppose she could have fallen into that wild burst ofgrief simply at being joked about Luke. I could not make her out. "

"And she has fallen into fretting, you say, ma'am, lately?" pursuedMatthew Frost, leaning his venerable white head forward. 

"Often and often, " replied Mrs. Verner. "She has seemed quite an alteredgirl in the last few weeks!"

"My son's wife has said the same, " cried old Matthew. "She has said thatRachel was changed. But I took it to mean in her looks--that she had gotthinner. You mind the wife saying it, Robin?"

"Yes, I mind it, " shortly replied Robin, who had propped himself againstthe wall, his arms folded and his head bent. "I'm a-minding all. "

"She wouldn't eat a bit o' supper, " went on old Matthew. "But that wasnothing, " he added; "she used to say she had plenty of food here, without eating ours. She sat apart by the fire with one o' the littleuns in her lap. She didn't stay over long; she said the missus might bewanting her, and she left; and when she was kissing my poor old face, she began sobbing. Robin offered to see her home--"

"And she wouldn't have it, " interrupted Robin, looking up for the firsttime with a wild expression of despair. "She said she had things to getat Mother Duff's, and should stop a bit there, a-gossiping. It'll be onmy mind by day and by night, that if I'd went with her, harm couldn'thave come. "

"And that was how she left you, " pursued Mr. Verner. "You did not seeher after that? You know nothing further of her movements?"

"Nothing further, " assented Robin. "I watched her down the lane as faras the turning, and that was the last. "

"Did she go to Mrs. Duff's, I wonder?" asked Mr. Verner. 

Oh, yes; several of those present could answer that. There was theparcel brought up by Dan Duff, as testimony; and, if more had beenneeded, Mrs. Duff herself had afforded it, for she made one of the crowdoutside. 

"We must have Mrs. Duff in, " said Mr. Verner. 

Accordingly, Mrs. Duff was brought in--a voluble lady with red hair. Mr. Verner politely asked her to be seated, but she replied that she'dprefer to stand, if 'twas all the same. She was used to standing in hershop, and she couldn't never sit for a minute together when she wasupset. 

"Did Rachel Frost purchase things of you this evening, Mrs. Duff?"

"Well, she did, and she didn't, " responded Mrs. Duff. "I never calls itpurchasing of things, sir, when a customer comes in and says, 'Just cutme off so and so, and send it up. ' They be sold, of course, if you lookat it in that light; but I'm best pleased when buyers examines thegoods, and chats a bit over their merits. Susan Peckaby, now, she--"

"What did Rachel Frost buy?" interrupted Mr. Verner, who knew what Mrs. Duff's tongue was, when it was once set going. 

"She looked in at the shop, sir, while I was a-serving little Green withsome bone buttons, that her mother had sent her for. 'I want some Irishfor aprons, Mrs. Duff, ' says she. 'Cut off the proper quantity for acouple, and send it me up some time to-morrow. I'd not give thetrouble, ' says she, 'but I can't wait to take it now, for I'm in a hurryto get home, and I shall be wanting the aprons. ' 'What quality--prettygood?' said I. 'Oh, you know, ' says she; 'about the same that I boughtlast time. And put in the tape for strings, and a reel of white cotton, No. 30. And I don't mind if you put in a piece of that German ribbon, middling width, ' she went on. 'It's nicer than tape for nightcaps, andthem sort o' things. ' And with that, sir, she was turning out again, when her eyes was caught by some lavender prints, as was a-hanging justin the doorway. Two shades of it, there was, dark and light. 'That'spretty, ' says she. 'It's beautiful, ' said I; 'they be the sweetestthings I have had in, this many a day; and they be the wide width. Won'tyou take some of it for a gownd?' 'No, ' says she, 'I'm set up for cottongownds. ' 'Why not buy a bit of it for a apron or two?' I said. 'Nothing's cleaner than them lavender prints for morning aprons, andthey saves the white. ' So she looked at it for a minute, and then shesaid I might cut her off a couple o' yards of the light, and send it upwith the other things. Well, sir, Sally Green went away with herbuttons, and I took down the light print, thinking I'd cut off the twoyards at once. Just then, Susan Peckaby comes in for some gray worsted, and she falls right in love with the print. 'I'll have a gownd of that, 'says she, 'and I'll take it now. ' In course, sir, I was only too glad tosell it to her, for, like Rachel, she's good pay; but when I come tomeasure it, there was barely nine yards left, which is what SusanPeckaby takes for a gownd, being as tall as a maypole. So I was in amess; for I couldn't take and sell it all, over Rachel's head, havingoffered it to her. 'Perhaps she wouldn't mind having her aprons off thedark, ' says Susan Peckaby; 'it don't matter what colour aprons isof--they're not like gownds. ' And then we agreed that I should send Danup here at once to ask her, and Susan Peckaby--who seemed mighty eagerto have the print--said she'd wait till he come back. And I cut off thewhite Irish, and wrapped it up with the tape and things, and sent him. "

"Rachel Frost had left your shop, then?"

"She left it, sir, when she told me she'd have some of the lavenderprint. She didn't stay another minute. "

Robin Frost lifted his head again. "She said she was going to stop atyour place for a bit of a gossip, Mother Duff. "

"Then she didn't stop, " responded that lady. "She never spoke a singleword o' gossip, or looked inclined to speak it. She just spoke outshort, as if she was in a hurry, and she turned clean out o' the shopafore the words about the lavender print had well left her. Ask SallyGreen, if you don't believe me. "

"You did not see which way she took?" observed Mr. Verner. 

"No, sir, I didn't; I was behind my counter. But, for the matter o'that, there was two or three as saw her go out of my shop and take theturning by the pound--which is a good proof she meant to come home hereby the field way, for that turning, as you know, sir, leads to nowhereelse. "

Mr. Verner did know it. He also knew--for witnesses had been speaking ofit outside--that Rachel had been seen to take that turning after sheleft Mrs. Duff's shop, and that she was walking with a quick step. 

The next person called in was Master Dan Duff--in a state of extremeconsternation at being called in at all. He was planted down in front ofMr. Verner, his legs restless. An idea crossed his brain that they mightbe going to accuse him of putting Rachel into the pond, and he began tocry. With a good deal of trouble on Mr. Verner's part, owing to theyoung gentleman's timidity, and some circumlocution on his own, thefacts, so far as Dan was cognisant of them, were drawn forth. Itappeared that after he had emerged from the field when he made thatslight diversion in pursuit of the running animal, he continued hisroad, and had gained the lonely part near where the pond was situated, when young Broom, the son of Mr. Verner's gamekeeper, ran up and askedhim what was the matter, and whether anybody was in the pond. Broom didnot wait for an answer, but went on to the pond, and Dan Duff followedhim. Sure enough, Rachel Frost was in it. They knew her by her clothes, as she rose to the surface. Dan Duff, in his terror, went back shriekingto Verner's Pride, and young Broom, more sensibly, ran for help to gether out. 

"How did young Broom know, or suspect, there was anybody in the pond?"questioned Mr. Verner. 

"I dun know, please, sir, " sobbed Dan Duff; "that was what he said as herunned off to it. He asked me if I had seen any folks about, and I saidI'd only seen that un in the lane. "

"Whom did you see in the lane?"

"I dun know who it was, please, sir, " returned Dan, sniffing greatly. "Iwasn't a-nigh him. "

"But you must have been nigh him if you met him in the lane. "

"Please, sir, I wasn't in the lane then. I had runned into the fieldafter a cat. "

"After a cat?"

"Please, sir, 'twere a cat, I think. But it got away, and I didn't findit. I saw somebody a-passing of the gate up the lane, but I warn't quickenough to see who. "

"Going which way?"

"Please, sir, up towards here. If I hadn't turned into the field, Ishould ha' met him face to face. I dun know who it was. "

"Did you hear any noise near the pond, or see any movement in itsdirection, before you were accosted by Broom?"

"Please, sir, no. "

It appeared to be of little use to detain Mr. Duff. In his stead youngBroom was called in. A fine-grown young fellow of nineteen, whosetemperament may be indicated by two words--cool and lazy. He was desiredto give his own explanation. 

"I was going home for the night, sir, " he began, in answer, "when Iheard the sound of voices in dispute. They seemed to come from thedirection of the grove of trees near the Willow Pond, and I stayed tolisten. I thought perhaps some of the Dawsons and Roy had come to anencounter out there; but I soon found that one of the voices was that ofa woman. Quite a young voice it sounded, and it was broke by sobs andtears. The other voice was a man's. "

"Only two! Did you recognise them?"

"No, sir, I did not recognise them; I was too far off, maybe. I onlymade out that it was two--a man's and a woman's. I stopped a fewminutes, listening, and they seemed to quiet down, and then, as I wasgoing on again, I came up to Mrs. Roy. She was kneeling down, and--"

"Kneeling down?" interrupted Mr. Verner. 

"She was kneeling down, sir, with her hands clasped round the trunk of atree, like one in mortal fright. She laid hold of me then, and I askedwhat was the matter with her, and she answered that she had been a'mostfrightened to death. I asked whether it was at the quarrel, but she onlysaid, 'Hush! listen!' and at last she set on to cry. Just then we heardan awful shriek, and a plunge into the water. 'There goes something intothe Willow Pond, ' said I, and I was turning to run to it, when Mrs. Royshrieked out louder than the other shriek had been, and fell flat downon the earth. I never hardly see such a face afore for ghastliness. Themoon was shining out full then, and it daunted me to look at her. Ithought she was dead--that the fright had killed her. There wasn't a bito' breath in her body, and I raised her head up, not knowing what to dowith her. Presently she heaved a sort of sigh, and opened her eyes; andwith that she seemed to recollect herself, and asked what was in thepond. I left her and went off to it, meeting Dan Duff--and we found itwas Rachel Frost. Dan, he set on to howl, and wouldn't stay, and I wentfor the nearest help, and got her out. That's all, sir. "

"Was she already dead?"

"Well, sir, when you first get a person out of the water it's hard tosay whether they be dead or not. She seemed dead, but perhaps if therehad been means right at hand, she might have been brought-to again. "

A moan of pain from old Matthew. Mr. Verner continued as it died out--

"Rachel Frost's voice must have been one of those you heard in dispute?"

"Not a doubt of that, sir, " replied young Broom. "Any more than thatthere must have been foul play at work to get her into the pond, or thatthe other disputing voice must have belonged to the man who did it. "

"Softly, softly, " said Mr. Verner. "Did you see any man about?"

"I saw nobody at all, sir, saving Dan Duff and Mrs. Roy; and Rachel'squarrel could not have been with either of them. Whoever the other was, he had made himself scarce. "

Robin Frost took a step forward respectfully. 

"Did you mind, sir, that Mother Duffs Dan spoke to seeing some person inthe lane?"

"I do, " replied Mr. Verner. "I should like to ask the boy anotherquestion or two upon that point. Call him in, one of you. "

John Massingbird went out and brought back the boy. 

"Mind you have your wits sharp about you this time, Mr. Duff, " heremarked. Which piece of advice had the effect of scaring Mr. Duff'swits more completely away than they had been scared before. 

"You tell us that you saw a man pass up the lane when you were in thefield after the cat, " began Mr. Verner. "Was the man walking fast?"

"Please, sir, yes. Afore I could get out o' the gate he was near out o'sight. He went a'most as fast as the cat did. "

"How long was it, after you saw him, before you met young Broom, andheard that somebody was in the pond?"

"Please, sir, 'twas a'most directly. I was running then, I was. "

As the boy's answer fell upon the room, a conviction stole over most ofthose collected in it that this man must have been the one who had beenheard in dispute with Rachel Frost. 

"Were there no signs about him by which you could recognise him?"pursued Mr. Verner. "What did he look like? Was he tall or short?"

"Please, sir, he were very tall. "

"Could you see his dress? Was it like a gentleman's or a labourer's?"

"Please, sir, I think it looked like a gentleman's--like one o' thegentlemen's at Verner's Pride. "

"Whose? Like which of the gentlemen's?" rang out Mr. Verner's voice, sharply and sternly, after a moment's pause of surprise, for heevidently had not expected the answer. 

"Please, sir, I dun know which. The clothes looked dark, and the manwere as tall as the gentlemen, or as Calves. "

"_Calves?_" echoed Mr. Verner, puzzled. 

John Massingbird broke into an involuntary smile. He knew that theirtall footman, Bennet, was universally styled "Calves" in the village. Dan Duff probably believed it to be his registered name. 

But Frederick Massingbird was looking dark and threatening. Thesuspicion hinted at--if you can call it a suspicion--angered him. Thevillagers were wont to say that Mr. Frederick had ten times more pridethan Mr. John. They were not far wrong--Mr. John had none at all. 

"Boy!" Frederick sternly said, "what grounds have you for saying it waslike one of the gentlemen?"

Dan Duff began to sob. "I dun know who it were, " he said; "indeed Idon't. But he were tall, and his clothes looked dark. Please, sir, ifyou basted me, I couldn't tell no more. "

It was believed that he could not. Mr. Verner dismissed him, and JohnMassingbird, according to order, went to bring in Mrs. Roy. 

He was some little time before he found her. She was discovered at lastin a corner of the steward's room, seated on a low stool, her head bentdown on her knees. 

"Now, ma'am, " said John, with unwonted politeness, "you are being waitedfor. "

She looked up, startled. She rose from her low seat, and began totremble, her lips moving, her teeth chattering. But no sound came forth. 

"You are not going to your hanging, Dinah Roy, " said John Massingbird, by way of consolation. "Mr. Verner is gathering the evidence about thisunfortunate business, and it is your turn to go in and state what youknow, or saw. "

She staggered back a step or two, and fell against the wall, her facechanging to one of livid terror. 

"I--I--saw nothing!" she gasped. 

"Oh, yes, you did! Come along!"

She put up her hands in a supplicating attitude; she was on the point ofsinking on her knees in her abject fear, when at that moment the sternface of her husband was pushed in at the door. She sprang up as ifelectrified, and meekly followed John Massingbird. 

CHAPTER VI. 

DINAH ROY'S "GHOST. "

The moon, high in the heavens, shone down brightly, lighting up the fairdomain of Verner's Pride, lighting up the broad terrace, and one who washasting along it; all looking as peaceful as if a deed of dark mysteryhad not that night been committed. 

He, skimming the terrace with a fleet foot, was that domain's recognisedheir, Lionel Verner. Tynn and others were standing in the hall, talkingin groups, as is the custom with dependents when something unusual andexciting is going on. Lionel appeared full of emotion when he burst inupon them. 

"Is it true?" he demanded, speaking impulsively. "Is Rachel reallydead?"

"She is dead, sir. "

"Drowned?"

"Yes, sir, drowned. "

He stood like one confounded. He had heard the news in the village, butthis decided confirmation of it was as startling as if he now heard itfor the first time. A hasty word of feeling, and then he looked again atTynn. 

"Was it the result of accident?"

Tynn shook his head. 

"It's to be feared it was not, sir. There was a dreadful quarrel heard, it seems, near to the pond, just before it happened. My master isinquiring into it now, sir, in his study. Mr. Bitterworth and some moreare there. "

Giving his hat to the butler, Lionel Verner opened the study door, andentered. It was at that precise moment when John Massingbird had goneout for Mrs. Roy; so that, as may be said, there was a lull in theproceedings. 

Mr. Verner looked glad when Lionel appeared. The ageing man, enfeebledwith sickness, had grown to lean on the strong young intellect. As muchas it was in Mr. Verner's nature to love anything, he loved Lionel. Hebeckoned him to a chair beside himself. 

"Yes, sir, in an instant, " nodded Lionel. "Matthew, " he whispered, laying his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder as he passed, andbending down to him with his sympathising eyes, his pleasant voice, "Iam grieved for this as if it had been my own sister. Believe me. "

"I know it; I know you, Mr. Lionel, " was the faint answer. "Don't unmanme, sir, afore 'em here; leave me to myself. "

With a pressure of his hand on the shoulder ere he quitted it, Lionelturned to Frederick Massingbird, asking of him particulars in anundertone. 

"I don't know them myself, " replied Frederick, his accent a haughty one. "There seems to be nothing but uncertainty and mystery. Mr. Verner oughtnot to have inquired into it in this semi-public way. Very disagreeablethings have been said, I assure you. There was not the least necessityfor allowing such absurdities to go forth, as suspicions, to the public. You have not been running from the Willow Pond at a strapping pace, Isuppose, to-night?". 

"That I certainly have not, " replied Lionel. 

"Neither has John, I am sure, " returned Frederick resentfully. "It isnot likely. And yet that boy of Mother Duff's--"

The words were interrupted. The door had opened, and John Massingbirdappeared, marshalling in Dinah Roy. Dinah looked fit to die, with herashy face and her trembling frame. 

"Why, what is the matter?" exclaimed Mr. Verner. 

The woman burst into tears. 

"Oh, sir, I don't know nothing of it; I protest I don't, " she uttered. "I declare that I never set eyes on Rachel Frost this blessed night. "

"But you were near the spot at the time?"

"Oh, bad luck to me, I was!" she answered, wringing her hands. "But Iknow no more how she got into the water nor a child unborn. "

"Where's the necessity for being put out about it, my good woman?" spokeup Mr. Bitterworth. "If you know nothing, you can't tell it. But youmust state what you do know--why you were there, what startled you, andsuch like. Perhaps--if she were to have a chair?" he suggested to Mr. Verner in a whisper. "She looks too shaky to stand. "

"Ay, " acquiesced Mr. Verner. "Somebody bring forward a chair. Sit down, Mrs. Roy. "

Mrs. Roy obeyed. One of those harmless, well-meaning, timid women, whoseem not to possess ten ideas of their own, and are content to submit toothers, she had often been seen in a shaky state from very triflingcauses. But she had never been seen like this. The perspiration waspouring off her pinched face, and her blue check apron was incessantlyraised to wipe it. 

"What errand had you near the Willow Pond this evening?" asked Mr. Verner. 

"I didn't see anything, " she gasped, "I don't know anything. As true asI sit here, sir, I never saw Rachel Frost this blessed evening. "

"I am not asking you about Rachel Frost. _Were_ you near the spot?"

"Yes. But--"

"Then you can say what errand you had there; what business took you toit, " continued Mr. Verner. 

"It was no harm took me, sir. I went to get a dish o' tea with MarthaBroom. Many's the time she have asked me since Christmas; and myhusband, he was out with the Dawsons and all that bother; and Luke, he'sgone, and there was nothing to keep me at home. I changed my gownd and Iwent. "

"What time was that?"

"'Twas the middle o' the afternoon, sir. The clock had gone three. "

"Did you stay tea there?"

"In course, sir, I did. Broom, he was out, and she was at home byherself a-rinsing out some things. But she soon put 'em away, and we satdown and had our teas together. We was a-talking about--"

"Never mind that, " said Mr. Verner. "It was in coming home, I conclude, that you were met by young Broom. "

Mrs. Roy raised her apron again, and passed it over her face but not aword spoke she in answer. 

"What time did you leave Broom's cottage to return home?"

"I can't be sure, sir, what time it was. Broom's haven't got no clock;they tells the time by the sun. "

"Was it dark?"

"Oh, yes, it was dark, sir, except for the moon. That had been up a goodbit, for I hadn't hurried myself. "

"And what did you see or hear, when you got near the Willow Pond?"

The question sent Mrs. Roy into fresh tears; into fresh tremor. 

"I never saw nothing, " she reiterated. "The last time I set eyes onRachel Frost was at church on Sunday. "

"What is the matter with you?" cried Mr. Verner, with asperity. "Do youmean to deny that anything had occurred to put you in a state ofagitation, when you were met by young Broom?"

Mrs. Roy only moaned. 

"Did you hear people quarrelling?" he persisted. 

"I heard people quarrelling, " she sobbed. "I did. But I never saw, nomore than the dead, who it was. "

"Whose voices were they?"

"How can I tell, sir? I wasn't near enough. There were two voices, aman's and a woman's; but I couldn't catch a single word, and it did notlast long. I declare, if it were the last word I had to speak, that Iheard no more of the quarrel than that, and I wasn't no nearer to it. "

She really did seem to speak the truth, in spite of her shrinking fear, which was evident to all. Mr. Verner inquired, with incredulity equallyevident, whether that was sufficient to put her into the state of tremorspoken of by young Broom. 

Mrs. Roy hung her head. 

"I'm timid at quarrels, 'specially if it's at night, " she faintlyanswered. 

"And was it just the hearing of that quarrel that made you sink down onyour knees, and clasp hold of a tree?" continued Mr. Verner. Upon whichMrs. Roy let fall her head on her hands, and sobbed piteously. 

Robin Frost interrupted, sarcasm in his tone--"There's a tale going on, outside, that you saw a ghost, and it was that as frighted you, " he saidto her. "Perhaps, sir"--turning to Mr. Verner--"you'll ask her whoseghost it was. "

This appeared to put the finishing touch to Mrs. Roy's discomfiture. Nothing could be made of her for a few minutes. Presently, her agitationsomewhat subsided; she lifted her head, and spoke as with a desperateeffort. 

"It's true, " she said. "I'll make a clean breast of it. I did see aghost, and it was that as upset me so. It wasn't the quarrellingfrighted me: I thought nothing of that. "

"What do you mean by saying you saw a ghost?" sharply reproved Mr. Verner. 

"It was a ghost, sir, " she answered, apparently picking up a littlecourage, now the subject was fairly entered upon. 

A pause ensued. Mr. Verner may have been at a loss what to say next. When deliberately assured by any timorous spirit that they have "seen aghost, " it is waste of time to enter an opposing argument. 

"Where did you see the ghost?" he asked. 

"I had stopped still, listening to the quarrelling, sir. But that sooncame to an end, for I heard no more, and I went on a few steps, and thenI stopped to listen again. Just as I turned my head towards the grove, where the quarrelling had seemed to be, I saw something a few paces fromme that made my flesh creep. A tall, white thing it looked, whiter thanthe moonlight. I knew it could be nothing but a ghost, and my knees sunkdown from under me, and I laid hold o' the trunk o' the tree. "

"Perhaps it was a death's head and bones?" cried John Massingbird. 

"Maybe, sir, " she answered. "That, or something worse. It glided throughthe trees with its great eyes staring at me; and I felt ready to die. "

"Was it a man's or a woman's ghost?" asked Mr. Bitterworth, a broadsmile upon his face. 

"Couldn't have been a woman's, sir; 'twas too tall, " was the sobbinganswer. "A great tall thing it looked, like a white shadder. I wonder Ibe alive!"

"So do I, " irascibly cried Mr. Verner. "Which way was it going? Towardsthe village, or in this direction?"

"Not in either of 'em, sir. It glided right off at a angle amid thetrees. "

"And it was that--that folly, that put you into the state of tremor inwhich Broom found you?" said Mr. Verner. "It was nothing else?"

"I declare, before Heaven, that it was what I saw as put me into thefright young Broom found me in, " she repeated earnestly. 

"But if you were so silly as to be alarmed for the moment, why do youcontinue to show alarm still?"

"Because my husband says he'll shake me, " she whimpered, after a longpause. "He never has no patience with ghosts. "

"Serve you right, " was the half-audible comment of Mr. Verner. "Is thisall you know of the affair?" he continued, after a pause. 

"It's all, sir, " she sobbed. "And enough too. There's only one thing asI shall be for ever thankful for. "

"What's that?" asked Mr. Verner. 

"That my poor Luke was away afore this happened. He was fond ofhankering after Rachel, and folks might have been for laying it on hisshoulders; though, goodness knows, he'd not have hurt a hair of herhead. "

"At any rate, he is out of it, " observed John Massingbird. 

"Ay, " she replied, in a sort of self-soliloquy, as she turned to leavethe room, for Mr. Verner told her she was dismissed, "it'll be a corn o'comfort amid my peck o' troubles. I have fretted myself incessant sinceLuke left, a-thinking as I could never know comfort again; but perhapsit's all for the best now, as he should ha' went. "

She curtsied, and the door was closed upon her. Her evidence left anunsatisfactory feeling behind it. 

An impression had gone forth that Mrs. Roy could throw some light uponthe obscurity; and, as it turned out, she had thrown none. The greaterpart of those present gave credence to what she said. All believed the"ghost" to have been pure imagination; knowing the woman's proneness tothe marvellous, and her timid temperament. But, upon one or two thereremained a strong conviction that Mrs. Roy had not told the whole truth;that she could have said a great deal more about the night's work, hadshe chosen to do so. 

No other testimony was forthcoming. The cries and shouts of young Broom, when he saw the body in the water, had succeeded in arousing some menwho slept at the distant brick-kilns; and the tidings soon spread, andcrowds flocked up. These people were eager to pour into Mr. Verner'sroom now, and state all _they_ knew, which was precisely the evidencenot required; but of further testimony to the facts there was none. 

"More may come out prior to the inquest; there's no knowing, " observedMr. Bitterworth, as the gentlemen stood in a group, before separating. "It is a very dreadful thing, demanding the most searchinginvestigation. It is not likely she would throw herself in. "

"A well-conducted girl like Rachel Frost throw herself wilfully into apond to be drowned!" indignantly repeated Mr. Verner. "She would be oneof the last to do it. "

"And equally one of the last to be thrown in, " said Dr. West. "Youngwomen are not thrown into ponds without some cause; and I should thinkfew ever gave less cause for maltreatment of any kind than she. Itappears most strange to me with whom she could have been quarrelling--ifindeed it was Rachel that was quarrelling. "

"It is all strange together, " cried Lionel Verner. "What took Rachelthat way at all, by night time?"

"What indeed!" echoed Mr. Bitterworth. "Unless--"

"Unless what?" asked Mr. Verner; for Mr. Bitterworth had brought hiswords to a sudden standstill. 

"Well, I was going to say, unless she had an appointment there. But thatdoes not appear probable for Rachel Frost. "

"It is barely possible, let alone probable, " was the retort of Mr. Verner. 

"But still, in a case like this, every circumstance must be looked at, every trifle weighed, " resumed Mr. Bitterworth. "Does Rachel's ownconduct appear to you to have been perfectly open? She has beenindulging, it would seem, in some secret grief latterly; has been'strange, ' as one or two have expressed it. Then, again, she stated toher brother that she was going to stay at Duffs for a gossip, whereasthe woman says she had evidently no intention of gossiping, and barelygave herself time to order the articles spoken of. Other witnessesobserved her leave Duff's, and walk with a hasty step direct to thefield road, and turn down it. All this does not sound quite clear tome. "

"There was one thing that did not sound clear to me, " broke in Lionelabruptly, "and that was Dinah Roy's evidence. The woman's half a fool;otherwise I should think she was purposely deceiving us. "

"A pity but she could see a real ghost!" cried John Massingbird, lookinginclined to laugh, "It might cure her for fancy ones. She's right inone thing, however; poor Luke might have got this clapped on hisshoulders had he been here. "

"Scarcely, " dissented Dr. West. "Luke Roy is too inoffensive to harm anyone, least of all a woman, and Rachel; and that the whole parish knows. "

"There's no need to discuss Luke's name in the business, " said Mr. Verner; "he is far enough away. Whoever the man may have been, it wasnot Luke, " he emphatically added. "Luke would have been the one tosuccour Rachel, not to hurt her. "

Not a soul present but felt that Mr. Verner spoke in strict accordancewith the facts, known and presumptive. They must look in another quarterthan Luke for Rachel's assailant. 

Mr. Verner glanced at Mr. Bitterworth and Dr. West, then at the threeyoung men before him. 

"We are amongst friends, " he observed, addressing the latter. "I wouldask you, individually, whether it was one of you that the boy, Duff, spoke of as being in the lane?"

They positively disclaimed it, each one for himself. Each one mentionedthat he had been elsewhere at the time, and where he had been. 

"You see, " said Mr. Verner, "the lane leads only to Verner's Pride. "

"But by leaping a fence anywhere, or a gate, or breaking through ahedge, it may lead all over the country, " observed FrederickMassingbird. "You forget that, sir. "

"No, Frederick, I do not forget it. But unless a man had business atVerner's Pride, what should he go into the lane for? On emerging fromthe field on this side the Willow Pond, any one, not bound for Verner'sPride, would take the common path to the right hand, open to all; onlyin case of wanting to come here would he take the lane. You cannotsuppose for a moment that I suspect any one of you has had a hand inthis unhappy event; but it was right that I should be assured, from yourown lips, that you were not the person spoken of by young Duff. "

"It may have been a stranger to the neighbourhood, sir. In that case hewould not know that the lane led only to Verner's Pride. "

"True--so far. But what stranger would be likely to quarrel withRachel?"

"Egad, if you come to that, sir, a stranger's more likely to pick aquarrel with her than one of us, " rejoined John Massingbird. 

"It was no stranger, " said Mr. Verner, shaking his head. "We do not_quarrel_ with strangers. Had any stranger accosted Rachel at night, inthat lonely spot, with rude words, she would naturally have called outfor help; which it is certain she did not do, or young Broom and Mrs. Roy must have heard her. Rely upon it, that man in the lane is the onewe must look for. "

"But where to look?" debated Frederick Massingbird. 

"There it is! The inference would be that he was coming to Verner'sPride; being on its direct way and nearly close upon it. But, the onlytall men (as the boy describes) at Verner's Pride, are you three andBennet. Bennet was at home, therefore he is exempt; and you werescattered in different directions--Lionel at Mr. Bitterworth's, John atthe Royal Oak--I wonder you like to make yourself familiar with thosetap-rooms, John!--and Frederick coming in from Poynton's to his dinner. "

"I don't think I had been in ten minutes when the alarm came, " remarkedFrederick. 

"Well, it is involved in mystery at present, " cried Mr. Bitterworth, shaking hands with them. "Let us hope that to-morrow will open morelight upon it. Are you on the wing too, doctor? Then we'll go outtogether. "

CHAPTER VII. 

THE REVELATION AT THE INQUEST. 

To say that Deerham was rudely disturbed from its equanimity; that pettyanimosities, whether concerning Mr. Roy and the Dawsons or othercontending spirits, were lost sight of, hushed to rest in the absorbingcalamity which had overtaken Rachel; to say that occupations werepartially suspended, that there ensued a glorious interim of idleness, for the female portion of it--of conferences in gutters and collectingsin houses; to say that Rachel was sincerely mourned, old Frostsympathised with, and the supposed assailant vigorously sought after, would be sufficient to indicate that public curiosity was excited to ahigh pitch; but all this was as nothing compared to the excitement thatwas to ensue upon the evidence given at the coroner's inquest. 

In the absence of any certain data to go upon, Deerham had been contentto take uncertain data, and to come to its own conclusions. Deerhamassumed that Rachel, from some reasons which they could not fathom, hadtaken the lonely road home that night, had met with somebody or otherwith whom had ensued a quarrel and scuffle, and that, accidentally or byintent, she had been pushed into the pond, the coward decamping. 

"Villainy enough! even if 'twas but an accident!" cried wrathfulDeerham. 

Villainy enough, beyond all doubt, had this been the extent. But, Deerham had to learn that the villainy had had a beginning previous tothat. 

The inquest had been summoned in due course. It sat two days after theaccident. No evidence, tending to further elucidate the matter, wasgiven, than had been elicited that first night before Mr. Verner; exceptthe medical evidence. Dr. West and a surgeon from a neighbouring town, who had jointly made the post-mortem examination, testified that therewas a cause for Rachel Frost's unevenness of spirits, spoken to by herfather and by Mrs. Verner. She might possibly, they now thought, havethrown herself into the pool; induced to it by self-condemnation. 

It electrified Deerham. It electrified Mr. Verner. It worse thanelectrified Matthew Frost and Robin. In the first impulse of the news, Mr. Verner declared that it _could not be_. But the medical men, withtheir impassive faces, calmly said that _it was_. 

But, so far as the inquiry went, the medical testimony did not carry thematter any further. For, if the evidence tended to induce a suspicionthat Rachel might have found life a burden, and so wished to end it, itonly rendered stronger the suspicion against another. This supplied thevery motive for that other's conduct which had been wanting, supposinghe had indeed got rid of her by violence. It gave the clue to much whichhad before been dark. People could understand now why Rachel shouldhasten to keep a stealthy appointment; why quarrelling should be heard;in short, why poor Rachel should have been found in the pond. The juryreturned an open verdict--"Found drowned; but how she got into thewater, there is no precise evidence to show. "

Robin Frost struggled out of the room as the crowd was dispersing. Hiseye was blazing, his cheek burning. Could Robin have laid his hand atthat moment upon the right man, there would speedily have ensued anothercoroner's inquest. The earth was not wide enough for the two to live onit. Fortunately, Robin could not fix on any one, and say, Thou art theman! The knowledge was hidden from him. And yet, the very man may havebeen at the inquest, side by side with himself. Nay, he probably _was_. 

Robin Frost cleared himself from the crowd. He gave vent to a groan ofdespair; he lifted his strong arms in impotency. Then he turned andsought Mr. Verner. 

Mr. Verner was ill; could not be seen. Lionel came forward. 

"Robin, I am truly sorry--truly grieved. We all are. But I know you willnot care to-day to hear me say it. "

"Sir, I wanted to see Mr. Verner, " replied Robin. "I want to know ifthat inquest can be squashed. " Don't laugh at him now, poor fellow. Hemeant quashed. 

"The inquest quashed!" repeated Lionel. "Of course it cannot be. I don'tknow what you mean, Robin. It has been held, and it cannot be unheld. "

"I should ha' said the verdict, " explained Robin. "I'm beside myselfto-day, Mr. Lionel. Can't Mr. Verner get it squashed? He knows thecrowner. "

"Neither Mr. Verner nor anybody else could do it, Robin. Why should youwish it done?"

"Because it as good as sets forth a lie, " vehemently answered RobinFrost. "She never put herself into the water. Bad as things had turnedout with her, poor dear, she never did that. Mr. Lionel, I ask you, sir, was she likely to do it?"

"I should have deemed it very unlikely, " replied Lionel. "Until to-day, "he added to his own thoughts. 

"No, she never did! Was it the work of one to go and buy herself aprons, and tape, and cotton for sewing, who was on her way to fling herselfinto a pond, I'd ask the crowner?" he continued, his voice rising almostto a shriek in his emotion. "Them aprons be a proof that _she_ didn'ttake her own life. Why didn't they bring it in Wilful Murder, and havethe place scoured out to find him?"

"The verdict will make no difference to the finding him, Robin, "returned Lionel Verner. 

"I dun know that, sir. When a charge of wilful murder's out in a place, again' some one of the folks in it, the rest be all on the edge to findhim; but 'Found drownded' is another thing. Have you any suspicionagain' anybody, sir?"

He put the question sharply and abruptly, and Lionel Verner looked fullin his face as he answered, "No, Robin. "

"Well, good-afternoon, sir. "

He turned away without another word. Lionel gazed after him with truesympathy. "He will never recover this blow, " was Lionel Verner's mentalcomment. 

But for this unfortunate occurrence, John Massingbird would have alreadydeparted from Verner's Pride. The great bane of the two Massingbirdswas, that they had been brought up to be idle men. A sum of money hadbecome theirs when Frederick came of age--which sum you will call largeor small, as it may please you. It would be as a drop of water to themillionaire; it would be as a countless fortune to one in the depths ofpoverty: we estimate things by comparison. The sum was five thousandpounds each--Mrs. Massingbird, by her second marriage with Mr. Verner, having forfeited all right in it. With this sum the young Massingbirdsappeared to think that they could live as gentlemen, and need not seekto add to it. 

Thrown into the luxurious home of Verner's Pride--again we must speak bycomparison: Verner's Pride was luxurious compared to the moderate homethey had been reared in--John and Frederick Massingbird suffered thatworst complaint of all complaints, indolence, to overtake them andbecome their master. John, careless, free, unsteady in many ways, set onto spend his portion as fast as he could; Frederick, more cold, morecautious, did not squander as his brother did, but he had managed to getrid of a considerable amount of his own share in unfortunatespeculations. While losses do not affect our personal convenience theyare scarcely felt. And so it was with the Massingbirds. Mr. Verner wasan easy man in regard to money matters; he was also a man who wasparticularly sensitive to the feelings of other people, and he had neverbreathed a word to his wife about the inexpediency of her keeping hersons at home in idleness. He feared his motives might bemisconstrued--that it might be thought he grudged the expense. He hadspoken once or twice of the desirability of his step-sons pursuing somecalling in life, and intimated that he should be ready to further theirviews by pecuniary help; but the advice was not taken. He offered topurchase a commission for one or both of them; he hinted that the barafforded a stepping-stone to fame. No; John and Frederick Massingbirdwere conveniently deaf; they had grown addicted to field-sports, to alife of leisure, and they did not feel inclined to quit it for one ofobligation or of labour. So they had stayed on at Verner's Pride in theenjoyment of their comfortable quarters, of the well-spread table, oftheir horses, their dogs. All these sources of expense were providedwithout any cost or concern of theirs, their own private expenditurealone coming out of their private purses. How it was with their clothes, they and Mrs. Verner best knew; Mr. Verner did not. Whether these werefurnished at their own cost, or whether their mother allowed them todraw for such on her, or, indeed, whether they were scoring up longbills on account, Mr. Verner made it no concern of his to inquire. 

John--who was naturally of a roving nature, and who, but for thedesirable home he was allowed to call his, would probably have been allover the world before he was his present age, working in his shirtsleeves for bread one day, exalted to some transient luck the next--hadlatterly taken a fancy in his head to emigrate to Australia. Certainfriends of his had gone out there a year or two previously, and weresending home flaming accounts of their success at the gold-fields. Itexcited in John Massingbird a strong wish to join them. Possibly othercircumstances urged him to the step; for it was certain that hisfinances were not in so desirable a state as they might be. With JohnMassingbird to wish a thing was to do it; and almost before the plan wasspoken of, even in his own family, he was ready to start. Frederick wasin his confidence, Lionel partly so, and a hint to his mother wassufficient to induce her to preserve reticence on the subject. JohnMassingbird had his reasons for this. It was announced in the householdthat Mr. Massingbird was departing on a visit to town, the only one whowas told the truth being Rachel Frost. Rachel was looked upon almost asone of themselves. Frederick Massingbird had also confided it toSibylla West--but Frederick and Sibylla were on more confidential termsthan was suspected by the world. John had made a confident on his ownpart, and that was of Luke Roy. Luke, despised by Rachel, whom he trulyloved, clearly seeing there was no hope whatever that she would everfavour him, was eager to get away from Deerham--anywhere, so that hemight forget her. John Massingbird knew this; he liked Luke, and hethought Luke might prove useful to him in the land to which he wasemigrating, so he proposed to him to join in the scheme. Luke warmlyembraced it. Old Roy, whom they were obliged to take into confidence, was won over to it. He furnished Luke with the needful funds, believinghe should be repaid four-fold; for John Massingbird had contrived toimbue him with the firm conviction that gold was to be picked up for thestooping. 

Only three days before the tragic event occurred to Rachel, Luke hadbeen despatched to London by John Massingbird to put things in a trainof preparation for the voyage. Luke said nothing abroad of his going, and the village only knew he was away by missing him. 

"What's gone of Luke?" many asked of his father. 

"Oh, he's off to London on some spree; he can tell ye about it when hegets back, " was Roy's answer. 

When he got back! John's departure was intended for the day followingthat one when you saw him packing his clothes, but the untimely end ofRachel had induced him to postpone it. Or, rather, the command of Mr. Verner--a command which John could not conveniently disobey had hewished. He had won over Mr. Verner to promise him a substantial sum, to"set him up, " as he phrased it, in Australia; and that sum was not yethanded to him. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

ROBIN'S VOW. 

The revelation at the inquest had affected Mr. Verner in no measureddegree, greatly increasing, for the time, his bodily ailments. He gaveorders to be denied to all callers; he could not bear the comments thatwould be made. An angry, feverish desire to find out who had played thetraitor grew strong within him. Innocent, pretty, child-like Rachel! whowas it that had set himself, in his wickedness, deliberately to destroyher? Mr. Verner now deemed it more than likely that she had been theauthor of her own death. It was of course impossible to tell: but hedwelt on that part of the tragedy less than on the other. The one injurywas uncertain; the other was a fact. 

What rendered it all the more obscure was the absence of any previousgrounds of suspicion. Rachel had never been observed to be on terms ofintimacy with any one. Luke Roy had been anxious to court her, asVerner's Pride knew; but Rachel had utterly repudiated the wish. Luke itwas not. And who else was there?

The suspicions of Mr. Verner veered, almost against his will, towardsthose of his own household. Not to Lionel; he honestly believed Lionelto be too high-principled: but towards his step-sons. He had noparticular cause to suspect either of them, unless the testimony of Mrs. Duff's son about the tall gentleman could furnish it; and it may be saidthat his suspicion strayed to them only from the total absence of anyother quarter to fix it upon. Of the two, he could rather fix upon John, than Frederick. No scandal, touching Frederick, had ever reached hisears: plenty of it touching John. In fact, Mr. Verner was rather glad tohelp in shipping John off to some faraway place, for he considered himno credit to Verner's Pride, or benefit to the neighbourhood. Venialsins sat lightly on the conscience of John Massingbird. 

But this was no venial sin, no case of passing scandal; and Mr. Vernerdeclared to that gentleman that if he found him guilty, he would discardhim from Verner's Pride without a shilling of help. John Massingbirdprotested, in the strongest terms, that he was innocent as Mr. Vernerhimself. 

A trifling addition was destined to be brought to the suspicion alreadydirected by Mr. Verner towards Verner's Pride. On the night of theinquest Mr. Verner had his dinner served in his study--the wing of afowl, of which he ate about a fourth part. Mrs. Tynn attended on him: heliked her to do so when he was worse than usual. He was used to her, andhe would talk to her when he would not to others. He spoke about whathad happened, saying that he felt as if it would shorten his life. Hewould give anything, he added, half in self-soliloquy, to have thepoint cleared up of who it was young Duff had seen in the lane. Mrs. Tynn answered this, lowering her voice. 

"It was one of our young gentlemen, sir; there's, no doubt of it. Dollysaw one of them come in. "

"Dolly did!" echoed Mr. Verner. 

Mrs. Tynn proceeded to explain. Dolly, the dairymaid at Verner's Pride, was ill-conducted enough (as Mrs. Tynn would tell her, for the fact didnot give that ruling matron pleasure) to have a sweetheart. Worse still, Dolly was in the habit of stealing out to meet him when he left work, which was at eight o'clock. On the evening of the accident, Dolly, abandoning her dairy, and braving the wrath of Mrs. Tynn, should she bediscovered, stole out to a sheltered spot in the rear of the house, theusual meeting-place. Scarcely was she ensconced here when the swainarrived; who, it may be remarked, _en passant_, filled the importantpost of waggoner to Mr. Bitterworth. The spot was close to the smallgreen gate which led to the lane already spoken of; it led to that only;and, while he and Dolly were talking and making love, after their ownrustic fashion, they saw Dan Duff come from the direction of the house, and pass through the gate, whistling. A short while subsequently thegate was heard to open again. Dolly looked out, and saw what she took tobe one of the gentlemen come in, _from_ the lane, walking very fast. Dolly looked but casually, the moonlight was obscured there, and she didnot particularly notice _which_ of them it was; whether Mr. Lionel, oreither of Mrs. Verner's sons. But the impression received into her mindwas that it was one of the three; and Dolly could not be persuaded outof that to this very day. 

"Hush--sh--sh!" cried she to her sweetheart, "it's one o' the youngmasters. "

The quick steps passed on: but whether they turned into the yard, ortook the side path which would conduct round to the front entrance, orbore right across, and so went out into the public road, Dolly did notnotice. Very shortly after this--time passes swiftly when people arecourting, of which fact the Italians have a proverb--Dan Duff camebursting back again, calling, and crying, and telling the tidings ofRachel Frost. This was the substance of what Mrs. Tynn told Mr. Verner. 

"Dolly said nothing of this before!" he exclaimed. 

"Not she, sir. She didn't dare confess that she'd been off all thatwhile from her dairy. She let drop a word, and I have got it out of herpiecemeal. I have threatened her, sir, that if ever she mentions itagain, I'll get her turned off. "

"Why did you threaten her?" he hastily asked. 

Mrs. Tynn dropped her voice. "I thought it might not be pleasant to haveit talked of, sir. She thinks I'm only afraid of the neglect of workgetting to the ears of Mrs. Verner. "

This was the trifling addition. Not very much in itself, but it servedto bear out the doubts Mr. Verner already entertained. Was it John orwas it Frederick who had come in? Or was it--Lionel? There appeared tobe no more certainty that it was one than another. Mr. Verner hadminutely inquired into the proceedings of John and Frederick Massingbirdthat night, and he had come to the conclusion that both could have beenin the lane at that particular hour. Frederick, previously to enteringthe house for his dinner, after he had left the veterinary surgeon's, Poynton; John, before he paid his visit to the Royal Oak. John appearedto have called in at several places, and his account was notparticularly clear. Lionel, Mr. Verner had not thought it necessary toquestion. He sent for him as soon as his dinner-tray was cleared away:it was as well to be indisputably sure of him before fastening thecharge on either of the others. 

"Sit down, Lionel, " said Mr. Verner. "I want to talk to you. Had youfinished your dinner?"

"Quite, thank you. You look very ill to-night, " Lionel added, as he drewa chair to the fire; and his tone insensibly became gentle, as he gazedon his uncle's pale face. 

"How can I look otherwise? This trouble is worrying me to death. Lionel, I have discovered, beyond doubt, that it was one of you young men whowas in the lane that night. "

Lionel, who was then leaning over the fire, turned his head with aquick, surprised gesture towards Mr. Verner. The latter proceeded totell Lionel the substance of the communication made to him by Mrs. Tynn. Lionel sat, bending forward, his elbow on his knee, and his fingersunconsciously running amidst the curls of his dark chestnut hair, as helistened to it. He did not interrupt the narrative, or speak at itsconclusion. 

"You see, Lionel, it appears certain to have been some one belonging tothis house. "

"Yes, sir. Unless Dolly was mistaken. "

"Mistaken as to what?" sharply asked Mr. Verner, who, when he made uphis own mind that a thing was so-and-so, could not bear to be opposed. "Mistaken that some one came in at the gate?"

"I do not see how she could be mistaken in that, " replied Lionel. "Imeant mistaken as to its being any one belonging to the house. "

_"Is_ it likely that any one would come in at that gate at night, unlessthey belonged to the house, or were coming to the house?" retorted Mr. Verner. "Would a stranger drop from the clouds to come in at it? Or wasit Di Roy's 'ghost, ' think you?" he sarcastically added. 

Lionel did not answer. He vacantly ran his fingers through his hair, apparently in deep thought. 

"I have abstained from asking you the explicit details of your movementson that evening, " continued Mr. Verner, "but I must demand them of younow. "

Lionel started up, his cheek on fire. "Sir, " he uttered, with emotion, "you cannot suspect _me_ of having had act or part in it! I declare, before Heaven, that Rachel was as sacred for me--"

"Softly, Lionel, " interrupted Mr. Verner, "there's no cause for you tobreak your head against a wheel. It is not you whom I suspect--thankGod! But I wish to be sure of your movements--to be able to speak ofthem as sure, you understand--before I accuse another. "

"I will willingly tell you every movement of mine that evening, so faras I remember, " said Lionel, resuming his calmness. "I came home whendinner was half over. I had been detained--but you know all that, " hebroke off. "When you left the dining-room, I went on to the terrace, andsat there smoking a cigar. I should think I stayed there an hour, ormore; and then I went upstairs, changed my coat, and proceeded to Mr. Bitterworth's. "

"What took you to Mr. Bitterworth's that evening, Lionel?"

Lionel hesitated. He did not choose to say, "Because I knew Sibylla Westwas to be there;" but that would have been the true answer. "I hadnothing particular to do with my evening, so I went up, " he said aloud. "Mr. Bitterworth was out. Mrs. Bitterworth thought he had gone intoDeerham. "

"Yes. He was at Deerham when the alarm was given, and hastened on here. Sibylla West was there, was she not?"

"She was there, " said Lionel. "She had promised to be home early; and, as no one came for her, I saw her home. It was after I left her that Iheard what had occurred. "

"About what time did you get there--I mean to Bitterworth's?" questionedMr. Verner, who appeared to have his thoughts filled with other thingsat that moment than with Sibylla West. 

"I cannot be sure, " replied Lionel. "I think it must have been nineo'clock. I went into Deerham to the post-office, and then came back toBitterworth's. "

Mr. Verner mused. 

"Lionel, " he observed, "it is a curious thing, but there's not one ofyou but might have been the party to the quarrel that night; so, far asthat your time cannot be positively accounted for by minutes and byhours. I mean, were the accusation brought publicly against you, youwould, none of you, be able to prove a distinct _alibi_, as it seems tome. For instance, who is to prove that you did not, when you weresitting on the terrace, steal across to a rendezvous at the Willow Pond, or cut across to it when you were at the post-office at Deerham?"

"I certainly did _not_, " said Lionel quietly, taking the remarks only asthey were meant--for an illustration. "It might, sir, as you observe, bedifficult to prove a decided _alibi_. But"--he rose and bent to Mr. Verner, with a bright smile, a clear, truthful eye--"I do not think youneed one to believe me. "

"No, Lionel, I do not. Is John Massingbird in the dining-room?"

"He was when I left it. "

"Then go and send him to me. "

John Massingbird was found and despatched to Mr. Verner, without anyreluctance on his own part. He had been bestowing hard words upon Lionelfor "taking up the time of the old man" just on the evening when hewanted to take it up himself. The truth was, John Massingbird wasintending to depart the following morning, the Fates and Mr. Vernerpermitting him. 

Their interview was a long one. Two hours, full, had they been closetedtogether when Robin Frost made his appearance again at Verner's Pride, and craved once more an interview with Mr. Verner. "If it was only for aminute--only for a minute!" he implored. 

Remembering the overwhelming sorrow which had fallen on the man, Lioneldid not like again to deny him without first asking Mr. Verner. He wenthimself to the study. 

"Come in, " called out Mr. Verner, in answer to the knock. 

He was sitting in his chair as usual; John Massingbird was standing up, his elbow on the mantle-piece. That their conversation must have been ofan exciting nature was evident, and Lionel could not help noticing thesigns. John Massingbird had a scarlet streak on his sallow cheek, neverseen there above once or twice in his life, and then caused by deepemotion. Mr. Verner, on his part, looked livid. Robin Frost might comein. 

Lionel called him, and he came in with Frederick Massingbird. 

The man could hardly speak for agitation. He believed the verdict couldnot be set aside, he said; others had told him so besides Mr. Lionel. Hehad come to ask if Mr. Verner would offer a reward. 

"A reward!" repeated Mr. Verner mechanically, with the air of a manwhose mind is far away. 

"If you'd please to offer it, sir, I'd work the flesh off my bones topay it back again, " he urged. "I'll live upon a crust myself, and I'llkeep my home upon a crust, but what I'll get it up. If there's a rewardpasted up, sir, we might come upon the villain. "

Mr. Verner appeared, then, to awake to the question before him, and toawake to it in terrible excitement. 

"He'll never be found, Robin--the villain will never be found, so longas you and I and the world shall last!"

They looked at him in consternation--Lionel, Frederick Massingbird, andRobin Frost. Mr. Verner recollected himself, and calmed his spirit down. 

"I mean, Robin, " he more quietly said, "that a reward will be useless. The villain has been too cunning, rely upon it, to--to--leave his tracesbehind him. "

"It might be tried, sir, " respectfully urged Robin. "I'd work--"

"You can come up to-morrow, Robin, and I'll talk with you, " interruptedMr. Verner. "I am too ill--too much upset to-night. Come at any hour youplease, after twelve, and I will see you. "

"I'll come, sir. I've registered a vow afore my old father, " went onRobin, lifting his right arm, "and I register it again afore you, sir--afore our future master, Mr. Lionel--that I'll never leave a stoneunturned by night nor by day, that I'll make it my first and foremostbusiness in life to find that man. And when I've found him--let him bewho he will--either him or me shall die. So help me--"

"Be still, Robin!" passionately interposed Mr. Verner, in a voice thatstartled the man. "Vows are bad things. I have found them so. "

"It was registered afore, sir, " significantly answered Robin, as heturned away. "I'll be up here to-morrow. "

The morrow brought forth two departures from Verner's Pride. JohnMassingbird started for London in pursuit of his journey, Mr. Vernerhaving behaved to him liberally. And Lionel Verner was summoned in hothaste to Paris, where his brother had just met with an accident, and wassupposed to be lying between life and death. 

CHAPTER IX. 

MR. VERNER'S ESTRANGEMENT. 

The former chapters may be looked upon somewhat in the light of anintroduction to what is to follow. It was necessary to relate the eventsrecorded in them, but we must take a leap of not far short of two yearsfrom the date of their occurrence. 

John Massingbird and his attendant, Luke Roy, had arrived safely atMelbourne in due course. Luke had written home one letter to his mother, and there his correspondence ended; but John Massingbird wrotefrequently, both to Mrs. Verner and to his brother Frederick. John, according to his own account, appeared to be getting on all one way. Themoney he took out had served him well. He had made good use of it, andwas accumulating a fortune rapidly. Such was his statement; but whetherimplicit reliance might be placed upon it was a question. Gay John wasapt to deceive himself; was given to look on the bright side, and toimbue things with a tinge of _couleur de rose_; when, for less sanguineeyes, the tinge would have shone out decidedly yellow. The time went on, and his last account told of a "glorious nugget" he had picked up at thediggings. "Almost as big as his head, " a "fortune in itself, " ran someof the phrases in his letters; and his intention was to go down himselfto Melbourne and "realise the thousands" for it. His letter to Frederickwas especially full of this; and he strongly recommended his brother tocome out and pick up nuggets on his own score. Frederick Massingbirdappeared very much inclined to take the hint. 

"Were I only sure it was all gospel, I'd go to-morrow, " observedFrederick Massingbird to Lionel Verner, one day that the discussion ofthe contents of John's letter had been renewed, a month or twosubsequent to its arrival. "A year's luck, such as this, and a man mightcome home a millionaire. I wish I knew whether to put entire faith init. "

"Why should John deceive you?" asked Lionel. 

"He'd not deceive me wilfully. He has no cause to deceive _me_. Thequestion is, is he deceived himself? Remember what grand schemes hewould now and then become wild upon here, saying and thinking he hadfound the philosopher's stone. And how would they turn out? This may beone of the same calibre. I wonder we did not hear again by the lastmonth's mail. "

"There's a mail due now. "

"I know there is, " said Frederick. "Should it bring news to confirmthis, I shall go out to him. "

"The worst is, those diggings appear to be all a lottery, " remarkedLionel. "Where one gets his pockets lined, another starves. Nay, ten--fifty--more, for all we know, starve for the one lucky one. Ishould not, myself, feel inclined to risk the journey to them. "

"_You!_ It's not likely you would, " was the reply of FrederickMassingbird. "Everybody was not born heir to Verner's Pride. "

Lionel laughed pleasantly. They were pacing the terrace in the sunshineof a winter's afternoon, a crisp, cold, bright day in January. At thatmoment Tynn came out of the house and approached them. 

"My master is up, sir, and would like the paper read to him, " said he, addressing Frederick Massingbird. 

"Oh, bother, I can't stop now, " broke from that gentleman involuntarily. "Tynn, you need not say that you found me here. I have an appointment, and I must hasten to keep it. "

Lionel Verner looked at his watch. 

"I can spare half an hour, " he observed to himself; and he proceeded toMr. Verner's room. 

The old study that you have seen before. And there sat Mr. Verner in thesame arm-chair, cushioned and padded more than it had used to be. What achange there was in him! Shrunken, wasted, drawn: surely there would beno place very long in this world for Mr. Verner. 

He was leaning forward in his chair, his back bowed, his hands restingon his stick, which was stretched out before him. He lifted his headwhen Lionel entered, and an expression, partly of displeasure, partly ofpain, passed over his countenance. 

"Where's Frederick?"

"Frederick has an appointment out, sir. I will read to you. "

"I thought you were going down to your mother's, " rejoined Mr. Verner, his accent not softening in the least. 

"I need not go for this half hour yet, " replied Lionel, taking up the_Times_, which lay on a table near Mr. Verner. "Have you looked at theheadings of the news, sir; or shall I go over them for you, and then youcan tell me what you wish read?"

"I don't want anything read by you, " said Mr. Verner. "Put the paperdown. "

Lionel did not immediately obey. A shade of mortification had crossedhis face. 

"Do you hear me, Lionel? Put the paper down. You know how it fidgets meto hear those papers ruffled, when I am not in a mood for reading. "

Lionel rose, and stood before Mr. Verner. "Uncle, I _wish_ you would letme do something for you. Better send me out of the house altogether, than treat me with this estrangement. Will it be of any use my askingyou, for the hundredth time, what I did to displease you?"

"I tell you I don't want the paper read, " said Mr. Verner. "And if you'dleave me alone I should be glad. Perhaps I shall get a wink of sleep. All night, all night, and my eyes were never closed! It's time I wasgone. "

The concluding sentences were spoken as in soliloquy; not to Lionel. Lionel, who knew his uncle's every mood, quitted the room. As he closedthe door, a heavy groan, born of displeasure mingled with pain, as thegreeting look had been, was sent after him by Mr. Verner. Veryemphatically did it express his state of feeling with regard to Lionel;and Lionel felt it keenly. 

Lionel Verner had remained in Paris six months, when summoned thither bythe accident to his brother. The accident need not have detained himhalf that period of time; but the seductions of the gay French capitalhad charms for Lionel. From the very hour that he set foot in Verner'sPride on his return, he found that Mr. Verner's behaviour had altered tohim. He showed bitter, angry estrangement, and Lionel could onlyconceive one cause for it--his long sojourn abroad. Fifteen or sixteenmonths had now elapsed since his return, and the estrangement had notlessened. In vain Lionel sought an explanation. Mr. Verner would notenter upon it. In fact, so far as direct words went, Mr. Verner had notexpressed much of his displeasure; he left it to his manner. That saidenough. He had never dropped the slightest allusion as to its cause. When Lionel asked an explanation, he neither accorded nor denied it, butwould put him off evasively; as he might have put off a child who askeda troublesome question. You have now seen him do so once again. 

After the rebuff, Lionel was crossing the hall when he suddenly halted, as if a thought struck him, and he turned back to the study. If ever aman's attitude bespoke utter grief and prostration, Mr. Verner's did, asLionel opened the door. His head and hands had fallen, and his stick haddropped upon the carpet. He started out of his reverie at the appearanceof Lionel, and made an effort to recover his stick. Lionel hastened topick it up for him. 

"I have been thinking, sir, that it might be well for Decima to go inthe carriage to the station, to receive Miss Tempest. Shall I order it?"

"Order anything you like; order all Verner's Pride--what does it matter?Better for some of us, perhaps, that it had never existed. "

Hastily, abruptly, carelessly was the answer given. There was nomistaking that Mr. Verner was nearly beside himself with mental pain. 

Lionel went round to the stables, to give the order he had suggested. One great feature in the character of Lionel Verner was its completeabsence of assumption. Courteously refined in mind and feelings, hecould not have presumed. Others, in his position, might have deemed theywere but exercising a right. Though the presumptive heir to Verner'sPride, living in it, brought up as such, he would not, you see, evensend out its master's unused carriage, without that master's sanction. In little things as in great, Lionel Verner could but be a thoroughgentleman: to be otherwise he must have changed his nature. 

"Wigham, will you take the close carriage to Deerham Court. It is wantedfor Miss Verner. "

"Very well, sir. " But Wigham, who had been coachman in the family nearlyas many years as Lionel had been in the world, wondered much, for allhis prompt reply. He scarcely ever remembered a Verner's Pride carriageto have been ordered for Miss Verner. 

Lionel passed into the high road from Verner's Pride, and, turning tothe left, commenced his walk to Deerham. There were no roadside housesfor a little way, but they soon began, by ones, by twos, until at lastthey grew into a consecutive street. These houses were mostly very poor;small shops, beer-houses, labourers' cottages; but a turning to theright in the midst of the village led to a part where the houses were ofa superior character, several gentlemen living there. It was a new road, called Belvedere Road; the first house in it being inhabited by Dr. West. 

Lionel cast a glance across at that house as he passed down the longstreet. At least, as much as he could see of it, looking obliquely. Hisglance was not rewarded. Very frequently pretty Sibylla would be at thewindows, or her vain sister Amilly. Though, if vanity is to be broughtin, I don't know where it would be found in an equal degree, as it wasin Sibylla West. The windows appeared to be untenanted, and Lionelwithdrew his eyes and passed straightly on his way. On his left hand wassituated the shop of Mrs. Duff; its prints, its silk neckerchiefs, andits ribbons displayed in three parts of its bow-window. The fourth partwas devoted to more ignominious articles, huddled indiscriminately intoa corner. Children's Dutch dolls and black-lead, penny tale-books andsquare pink packets of cocoa, bottles of ink and india-rubber balls, side combs and papers of stationery, scented soap and Circassian cream(home made), tape, needles, pins, starch, bandoline, lavender-water, baking-powder, iron skewers, and a host of other articles too numerousto notice. Nothing came amiss to Mrs. Duff. She patronised everythingshe thought she could turn a penny by. 

"Your servant, sir, " said she, dropping a curtsy as Lionel came up; forMrs. Duff was standing at the door. 

He merely nodded to her, and went on. Whether it was the sight of thewoman or of some lavender prints hanging in her window, certain it was, that the image of poor Rachel Frost came vividly into the mind ofLionel. Nothing had been heard, nothing found, to clear up the mysteryof that past night. 

CHAPTER X. 

LADY VERNER. 

AT the extremity of the village, lying a little back from it, was amoderate-sized, red brick house, standing in the midst of lands, andcalled Deerham Court. It had once been an extensive farm; but thepresent tenant, Lionel's mother, rented the house, but only very littleof the land. The land was let to a neighbouring farmer. Nearly a milebeyond--you could see its towers and its chimneys from the Court--rosethe stately old mansion, called Deerham Hall, Deerham Court, and a greatdeal of the land and property on that side of the village, belonged toSir Rufus Hautley, a proud, unsociable man. He lived at the Hall; andhis only son, between whom and himself it was conjectured there existedsome estrangement, had purchased into an Indian regiment, where he wasnow serving. 

Lionel Verner passed the village, branched off to the right, and enteredthe great iron gates which enclosed the courtyard of Deerham Court. Avery unpretending entrance admitted him into a spacious hall, the hallbeing the largest and best part of the house. Those great iron gates andthe hall would have done honour to a large mansion; and they gave anappearance of pretension to Deerham Court which it did not deserve. 

Lionel opened a door on the left, and entered a small ante-room. Thisled him into the only really good room the house contained. It waselegantly furnished and fitted up, and its two large windows lookedtowards the open country, and to Deerham Hall. Seated by the fire, in arich violet dress, a costly white lace cap shading her delicate face, that must have been so beautiful, indeed, that was beautiful still, wasa lady of middle age. Her seat was low--one of those chairs we arepleased to call, commonly and irreverently, a prie-dieu. Its back wascarved in arabesque foliage, and its seat was of rich violet velvet. Ona small inlaid table, whose carvings were as beautiful, and its topinlaid with mosaic-work, lay a dainty handkerchief of lace, a bottle ofsmelling-salts, and a book turned with its face downwards, all close atthe lady's elbow. She was sitting in idleness just then--she always didsit in idleness--her face bent on the fire, her small hands, cased inwhite gloves, lying motionless on her lap--ay, a beautiful face once, though it had grown habitually peevish and discontented now. She turnedher head when the door opened, and a flush of bloom rose to her cheekswhen she saw Lionel. 

He went up and kissed her. He loved her much. She loved him, too, betterthan she loved anything in life; and she drew a chair close to her, andhe sat down, bending towards her. There was not much likeness betweenthem, the mother and the son; both were very good-looking, but notalike. 

"You see, mother mine, I am not late, as you prophesied I should be, "said he, with one of his sweetest smiles. 

"You would have been, Lionel, but for my warning. I'm sure I wish--I_wish_ she was not coming! She must remember the old days in India, andwill perceive the difference. "

"She will scarcely remember India, when you were there. She is only achild yet, isn't she?"

"You know nothing about it, Lionel, " was the querulous answer. "Whethershe remembers or not, will she expect to see _me_ in such a house, insuch a position as this? It is at these seasons, when people are cominghere, who know what I have been and ought to be, that I feel all thehumiliation of my poverty. Lucy Tempest is nineteen. "

Lionel Verner knew that it was of no use to argue with his mother, whenshe began upon that most unsatisfactory topic, her position; whichincluded what she called her "poverty" and her "wrongs. " Though, intruth, not a day passed but she broke out upon it. 

"Lionel, " she suddenly said. 

He had been glancing over the pages of the book--a new work on India. Helaid it down as he had found it, and turned to her. 

"What shall you allow me when you come into Verner's Pride?"

"Whatever you shall wish, mother. You shall name the sum, not I. And ifyou name too modest a one, " he added laughingly, "I shall double it. ButVerner's Pride must be your home then, as well as mine. "

"Never!" was the emphatic answer. "What! to be turned out of it again bythe advent of a young wife? No, never, Lionel. "

Lionel laughed--constrainedly this time. 

"I may not be bringing home a young wife for this many and many a yearto come. "

"If you never brought one, I would not make my home at Verner's Pride, "she resumed, in the same impulsive voice. "Live in the house by favour, that ought to have been mine by right? You would not be my true son toask me, Lionel. Catherine, is that you?" she called out, as themovements of some one were heard in the ante-room. 

A woman-servant put in her head. 

"My lady?"

"Tell Miss Verner that Mr. Lionel is here?"

"Miss Verner knows it, my lady, " was the woman's reply. "She bade me askyou, sir, " addressing Lionel, "if you'd please to step out to her. "

"Is she getting ready, Catherine?" asked Lady Verner. 

"I think not, my lady. "

"Go to her, Lionel, and ask her if she knows the time. A pretty thing ifyou arrive at the station after the train is in!"

Lionel quitted the room. Outside in the hall stood Catherine, waitingfor him. 

"Miss Verner has met with a little accident and hurt her foot, sir, " shewhispered. "She can't walk. "

"Not walk!" exclaimed Lionel. "Where is she?"

"She is in the store-room, sir; where it happened. "

Lionel went to the store-room, a small boarded room at the back of thehall. A young lady sat there; a very pretty white foot in a wash-handbasin of warm water, and a shoe and stocking lying; near, as if hastilythrown off. 

"Why, Decima! what is this?"

[Illustration: "Why, Decima! what is this?"]

She lifted her face. A face whose features were of the highest order ofbeauty, regular as if chiselled from marble, and little less colourless. But for the large, earnest, dark-blue eyes, so full of expression, itmight have been accused of coldness. In sleep, or in perfect repose, when the eyelids were bent, it looked strangely cold and pure. Her darkhair was braided; and she wore a dress something the same in colour asLady Verner's. 

"Lionel, what shall I do? And to-day of all days! I shall be obliged totell mamma; I cannot walk a step. "

"What is the injury? How did you meet with it?"

"I got on a chair. I was looking for some old Indian ornaments that Iknow are in that high cupboard, wishing to put them in Miss Tempest'sroom, and somehow the chair tilted with me, and I fell upon my foot. Itis only a sprain; but I cannot walk. "

"How do you know it is only a sprain, Decima? I shall send West to you. "

"Thank you all the same, Lionel, but, if you please, I don't like Dr. West well enough to have him, " was Miss Verner's answer. "See! I don'tthink I can walk. "

She took her foot out of the basin, and attempted to try. But for Lionelshe would have fallen; and her naturally pale face became paler from thepain. 

"And you say you will not have Dr. West!" he cried, gently putting herinto the chair again. "You must allow me to judge for you, Decima. "

"Then, Lionel, I'll have Jan--if I must have any one. I have more faithin him, " she added, lifting her large blue eyes, "than in Dr. West. "

"Let it be Jan, then, Decima. Send one of the servants for him at once. What is to be done about Miss Tempest?"

"You must go alone. Unless you can persuade mamma out. Lionel, you willtell mamma about this. She must be told. "

As Lionel crossed the hall on his return, the door was being opened; theVerner's Pride carriage had just driven up. Lady Verner had seen it fromthe window of the ante-room, and her eyes spoke her displeasure. 

"Lionel, what brings _that_ here?"

"I told them to bring it for Decima. I thought you would prefer thatMiss Tempest should be met with that rather than with a hired one. "

"Miss Tempest will know soon enough that I am too poor to keep acarriage, " said Lady Verner. "Decima may use it if she pleases. I wouldnot. "

"My dear mother, Decima will not be able to use it. She cannot go to thestation. She has hurt her foot. "

"How did she do that?"

"She was on a chair in the store-room, looking in the cupboard. She----"

"Of course; that's just like Decima!" crossly responded Lady Verner. "She is everlastingly at something or other, doing half the work of aservant about the house. "

Lionel made no reply. He knew that, but for Decima, the house would beless comfortable than it was for Lady Verner; and that what Decima did, she did in love. 

"Will you go to the station?" he inquired. 

"I! In this cold wind! How can you ask me, Lionel? I should get my facechapped irretrievably. If Decima cannot go, you must go alone. "

"But how shall I know Miss Tempest?"

"You must find her out, " said Lady Verner. "Her mother was as tall as agiantess; perhaps she is the same. Is Decima much hurt?"

"She thinks it is only a sprain. We have sent for Jan. "

"For Jan! Much good he will do!" returned Lady Verner, in socontemptuous a tone as to prove she had no very exalted opinion of Mr. "Jan's" abilities. 

Lionel went out to the carriage, and stepped in. The footman did notshut the door. "And Miss Verner, sir?"

"Miss Verner is not coming. The railway station. Tell Wigham to drivefast, or I shall be late. "

"My lady wouldn't let Miss Decima come out in it, " thought Wigham tohimself, as he drove on. 

CHAPTER XI. 

LUCY TEMPEST. 

The words of my lady, "as tall as a giantess, " unconsciously influencedthe imagination of Lionel Verner. The train was steaming into thestation at one end as his carriage stopped at the other. Lionel leapedfrom it, and mingled with the bustle of the platform. 

Not very much bustle, either; and it would have been less, but thatDeerham Station was the nearest approach, as yet, by rail, to Heartburg, a town of some note about four miles distant. Not a single tall lady gotout of the train. Not a lady at all that Lionel could see. There weretwo fat women, tearing about after their luggage, both habited in men'sdrab greatcoats, or what looked like them; and there was one very younglady, who stood back in apparent perplexity, gazing at the scene ofconfusion around her. 

"_She_ cannot be Miss Tempest, " deliberated Lionel. "If she is, mymother must have mistaken her age; she looks but a child. No harm inasking her, at any rate. "

He went up to the young lady. A very pleasant-looking girl, fair, with apeach bloom upon her cheeks, dark brown hair and eyes, soft and brownand luminous. Those eyes were wandering to all parts of the platform, some anxiety in their expression. 

Lionel raised his hat. 

"I beg your pardon. Have I the honour of addressing Miss Tempest?"

"Oh, yes, that is my name, " she answered, looking up at him, the peachbloom deepening to a glow of satisfaction, and the soft eyes lightingwith a glad smile. "Have you come to meet me?"

"I have. I come from my mother, Lady Verner. "

"I am so glad, " she rejoined, with a frank sincerity of manner perfectlyrefreshing in these modern days of artificial young ladyism. "I wasbeginning to think nobody had come; and then what could I have done?"

"My sister would have come with me to receive you, but for an accidentwhich occurred to her just before it was time to start. Have you anyluggage?"

"There's the great box I brought from India, and a hair-trunk, and myschool-box. It is all in the van. "

"Allow me to take you out of this crowd, and it shall be seen to, " saidLionel, bending to offer his arm. 

She took it, and turned with him; but stopped ere more than a step ortwo had been taken. 

"We are going wrong. The luggage is up that way. "

"I am taking you to the carriage. The luggage will be all right. "

He was placing her in it, when she suddenly drew back and surveyed it. 

"What a pretty carriage!" she exclaimed. 

Many said the same of the Verner's Pride equipages. The colour of thepanels was of that rich shade of blue called ultra-marine, with whitelinings and hammer-cloths, while a good deal of silver shone on theharness of the horses. The servants' livery was white and silver, theirsmall-clothes blue. 

Lionel handed her in. 

"Have we far to go?" she asked. 

"Not five minutes' drive. "

He closed the door, gave the footman directions about the luggage, tookhis own seat by the coachman, and the carriage started. Lady Verner cameto the door of the Court to receive Miss Tempest. 

In the old Indian days of Lady Verner, she and Sir Lionel had been closeand intimate friends of Colonel and Mrs. Tempest. Subsequently Mrs. Tempest had died, and their only daughter had been sent to a clergyman'sfamily in England for her education--a very superior place, where sixpupils only were taken. But she was of an age to leave it now, andColonel Tempest, who contemplated soon being home, had craved of LadyVerner to receive her in the interim. 

"Lionel, " said his mother to him, "you must stop here for the rest ofthe day, and help to entertain her. "

"Why, what can I do towards it?" responded Lionel. 

"You can do something. You can talk. They have got Decima into her room, and I must be up and down with her. I don't like leaving Lucy alone thefirst day she is in the house; she will take a prejudice against it. Oneblessed thing, she seams quite simple--not exacting. "

"Anything but exacting, I should say, " replied Lionel. "I will stay foran hour or two, if you like, mother, but I must be home to dinner. "

Lady Verner need not have troubled herself about "entertaining" LucyTempest. She was accustomed to entertain herself; and as to any ceremonyor homage being paid to her, she would not have understood it, and mighthave felt embarrassed had it been tendered. She had not been used toanything of the sort. Could Lady Verner have seen her then, at the verymoment she was talking to Lionel, her fears might have been relieved. Lucy Tempest had found her way to Decima's room, and had taken up herposition in a very undignified fashion at that young lady's feet, hersoft, candid brown eyes fixed upwards on Decima's face, and her tonguebusy with reminiscences of India. After some time spent in this manner, she was scared away by the entrance of a gentleman whom Decima called"Jan. " Upon which she proceeded to the chamber she had been shown to ashers, to dress; a process which did not appear to be very elaborate bythe time it took, and then she went downstairs to find Lady Verner. 

Lady Verner had not quitted Lionel. She had been grumbling andcomplaining all that time. It was half the pastime of Lady Verner's lifeto grumble in the ears of Lionel and Decima. Bitterly mortified had LadyVerner been when she found, upon her arrival from India, that StephenVerner, her late husband's younger brother, had succeeded to Verner'sPride, to the exclusion of herself and of Lionel; and bitterly mortifiedshe remained. Whether it had been by some strange oversight on the partof old Mr. Verner, or whether it had been intentional, no provisionwhatever had been left by him to Lady Verner and to her children. Stephen Verner would have remedied this. On the arrival of Lady Verner, he had proposed to pay over to her yearly a certain sum out of theestate; but Lady Verner, smarting under disappointment, under the senseof injustice, had flung his proposal back to him. Never, so long as helived, she told Stephen Verner, passionately, would she be obliged tohim for the worth of a sixpence in money or in kind. And she had kepther word. 

Her income was sadly limited. It was very little besides her pay as acolonel's widow; and to Lady Verner it seemed less than it really was, for her habits were somewhat expensive. She took this house, DeerhamCourt, then to be let without the land, had it embellished inside andout--which cost her more than she could afford, and had since resided init. She would not have rented under Mr. Verner had he paid her to do it. She declined all intercourse with Verner's Pride; had never put her footover its threshold. Decima went once in a way; but she, never. If sheand Stephen Verner met abroad, she was coldly civil to him; she wasindifferently haughty to Mrs. Verner, whom she despised in her heart fornot being a lady. With all her deficiencies, Lady Verner was essentiallya gentlewoman--not to be one amounted in her eyes to little less than asin. No wonder that she, with her delicate beauty of person, her quietrefinements of dress, shrank within herself as she swept past poor Mrs. Verner, with her great person, her crimson face, and her flauntingcolours! No wonder that Lady Verner, smarting under her wrongs, passedhalf her time giving utterance to them; or that her smooth face wasacquiring premature wrinkles of discontent. Lionel had a somewhatdifficult course to steer between Verner's Pride and Deerham Court, soas to keep friends with both. 

Lucy Tempest appeared at the door. She stood there hesitating, after themanner of a timid school-girl. They turned round and saw her. 

"If you please, may I come in?"

Lady Verner could have sighed over the deficiency of "style, " orconfidence, whichever you may like to term it. Lionel laughed, as hecrossed the room to throw the door wider by way of welcome. 

She wore a light shot pink dress of peculiar material, a sort ofcashmere, very fine and soft. Looking at it one way it was pink, theother, mauve; the general shade of it was beautiful. Lady Verner couldhave sighed again: if the wearer was deficient in style, so also was thedress. A low body and short sleeves, perfectly simple, a narrow bit ofwhite lace alone edging them: nothing on her neck, nothing on her arms, no gloves. A child of seven might have been so dressed. Lady Vernerlooked at her, her brow knit, and various thoughts running through herbrain. She began to fear that Miss Tempest would require so muchtraining as would give her trouble. 

Lucy saw the look, and deemed that her attire was wrong. 

"Ought I to have put on my best things--my new silk?" she asked. 

My new silk! My best things! Lady Verner was almost at a loss for ananswer. "You have not an extensive wardrobe, possibly, my dear?"

"Not very, " replied Lucy. "This was my best dress, until I had my newsilk. Mrs. Cust told me to put this one on for dinner to-day, and shesaid if Lady--if you and Miss Verner dressed very much, I could changeit for the silk to-morrow. It is a _beautiful_ dress, " Lucy added, looking ingenuously at Lady Verner, "a pearl gray. Then I have mymorning dresses, and then my white for dancing. Mrs. Cust said thatanything you found deficient in my wardrobe it would be better for youto supply, than for her, as you would be the best judge of what I shouldrequire. "

"Mrs. Cust does not pay much attention to dress, probably, " observedLady Verner coldly. "She is a clergyman's wife. It is sad taste whenpeople neglect themselves, whatever may be the duties of their station. "

"But Mrs. Cust does not neglect herself, " spoke up Lucy, a surprisedlook upon her face. "She is always dressed nicely--not fine, you know. Mrs. Cust says that the lower classes have become so fine nowadays, thatnearly the only way you may know a lady, until she speaks, is by herquiet simplicity. "

"My dear, Mrs. Cust should say elegant simplicity, " corrected LadyVerner. "She ought to know. She is of good family. "

Lucy humbly acquiesced. She feared she herself must be too "quiet" tosatisfy Lady Verner. "Will you be so kind, then, as to get me what youplease?" she asked. 

"My daughter will see to all these things, Lucy, " replied Lady Verner. "She is not young like you, and she is remarkably steady, andexperienced. "

"She does not look old, " said Lucy, in her open candour. "She is verypretty. "

"She is turned five-and-twenty. Have you seen her?"

"I have been with her ever so long. We were talking about India. Sheremembers my dear mamma; and, do you know"--her bright expression fadingto sadness--"I can scarcely remember her! I should have stayed withDecima--may I call her Decima?" broke off Lucy, with a faltering tongue, as if she had done wrong. 

"Certainly you may. "

"I should have stayed with Decima until now, talking about mamma, but agentleman came in. "

"A gentleman?" echoed Lady Verner. 

"Yes. Some one tall and very thin. Decima called him Jan. After that, Iwent to my room again. I could not find it at first, " she added, with apleasant little laugh. "I looked into two; but neither was mine, for Icould not see the boxes. Then I changed my dress, and came down. "

"I hope you had my maid to assist you, " quickly remarked Lady Verner. 

"Some one assisted me. When I had my dress on, ready to be fastened, Ilooked out to see if I could find any one to do it, and I did. A servantwas at the end of the corridor, by the window. "

"But, my dear Miss Tempest, you should have rung, " exclaimed LadyVerner, half petrified at the young lady's unformed manners, andprivately speculating upon the sins Mrs. Cust must have to answer for. "Was it Thérèse?"

"I don't know, " replied Lucy. "She was rather old, and had a broom inher hand. "

"Old Catherine, I declare! Sweeping and dusting as usual! She might havesoiled your dress. "

"She wiped her hands on her apron, " said Lucy simply. "She had a niceface: I liked it. "

"I _beg_, my dear, that in future you will ring for Thérèse, "emphatically returned Lady Verner, in her discomposure. "She understandsthat she is to wait upon you. Thérèse is my maid, and her time is nothalf occupied. Decima exacts very little of her. But take care that youdo not allow her to lapse into English when with you. It is what she isapt to do unless checked. You speak French, of course?" added LadyVerner, the thought crossing her that Mrs. Cust's educational trainingmight have been as deficient on that point, as she deemed it had been onthat of "style. "

"I speak it quite well, " replied Lucy; "as well, or nearly as well, as aFrench girl. But I do not require anybody to wait on me, " she continued. "There is never anything to do for me, but just to fasten these eveningdresses that close behind. I am much obliged to you, all the same, forthinking of it, Lady Verner. "

Lady Verner turned from the subject: it seemed to grow more and moreunprofitable. "I shall go and hear what Jan says, if he is there, " sheremarked to Lionel. 

"I wonder we did not see or hear him come in, " was Lionel's answer. 

"As if Jan could come into the house like a gentleman!" returned LadyVerner, with intense acrimony. "The back way is a step or two nearer, and therefore he patronises it. "

She quitted the room as she spoke, and Lionel turned to Miss Tempest. Hehad been exceedingly amused and edified at the conversation between herand his mother; but while Lady Verner had been inclined to groan overit, he had rejoiced. That Lucy Tempest was thoroughly and genuinelyunsophisticated; that she was of a nature too sincere and honest for hermanners to be otherwise than of truthful simplicity, he was certain. Adelightful child, he thought; one he could have taken to his heart andloved as a sister. Not with any other love: _that_ was already givenelsewhere by Lionel Verner. 

The winter evening was drawing on, and little light was in the room, save that cast by the blaze of the fire. It flickered upon Lucy's face, as she stood near it. Lionel drew a chair towards her. "Will you not sitdown, Miss Tempest?"

A formidable-looking chair, large and stately, as Lucy turned to look atit. Her eyes fell upon the low one which, earlier in the afternoon, hadbeen occupied by Lady Verner. "May I sit in this one instead? I like itbest. "

"You 'may' sit in any chair that the room contains, or on an ottoman, oranywhere that you like, " answered Lionel, considerably amused. "Perhapsyou would prefer this?"

"This" was a very low seat indeed--in point of fact, Lady Verner'sfootstool. He had spoke in jest, but she waited for no secondpermission, drew it close to the fire, and sat down upon it. Lionellooked at her, his lips and eyes dancing. 

"Possibly you would have preferred the rug?"

"Yes, I should, " answered she frankly, "It is what we did at therectory. Between the lights, on a winter's evening, we were allowed todo what we pleased for twenty minutes, and we used to sit down on therug before the fire, and talk. "

"Mrs. Cust, also?" asked Lionel. 

"Not Mrs. Cust; you are laughing at me. If she came in, and saw us, shewould say we were too old to sit there, and should be better on chairs. But we liked the rug best. "

"What had you used to talk of?"

"Of everything, I think. About the poor; Mr. Cust's poor, you know; andthe village, and our studies, and--But I don't think I must tell youthat, " broke off Lucy, laughing merrily at her own thoughts. 

"Yes, you may, " said Lionel. 

"It was about that poor old German teacher of ours. We used to play hersuch tricks, and it was round the fire that we planned them. But she isvery good, " added Lucy, becoming serious, and lifting her eyes toLionel, as if to bespeak his sympathy for the German teacher. 

"Is she?"

"She was always patient and kind. The first time Lady Verner lets me goto a shop, I mean to buy her a warm winter cloak. Hers is so thin. Doyou think I could get her one for two pounds?"

"I don't know at all, " smiled Lionel. "A greatcoat for me would costmore than two pounds. "

"I have two sovereigns left of my pocket-money, besides some silver. Ihope it will buy a cloak. It is Lady Verner who will have the managementof my money, is it not, now that I have left Mrs. Cust's?"

"I believe so. "

"I wonder how much she will allow me for myself?" continued Lucy, gazingup at Lionel with a serious expression of inquiry, as if the questionwere a momentous one. 

"I think cloaks for old teachers ought to be apart, " cried Lionel. "Theyshould not come out of your pocket-money. "

"Oh, but I like them to do so. I wish I had a home of my own!--as Ishall have when papa returns to Europe. I should invite her to me forthe holidays, and give her nice dinners always, and buy her some niceclothes, and send her back with her poor old heart happy. "

"Invite whom?"

"Fraulein Müller. Her father was a gentleman of good position, and hesomehow lost his inheritance. When he died she found it out--there wasnot a shilling for her, instead of a fortune, as she had always thought. She was over forty then, and she had to come to England and beginteaching for a living. She is fifty now, and nearly all she gets shesends to Heidelberg to her poor sick sister. I wonder how much good warmcloaks do cost?"

Lucy Tempest spoke the last sentence dreamily. She was evidentlydebating the question in her own mind. Her small white hands restedinertly upon her pink dress, her clear face with its delicate bloom wasstill, her eyes were bent on the fire. But that Lionel's heart waselsewhere, it might have gone out, there and then, to that young girland her attractive simplicity. 

"What a pretty child you are!" involuntarily broke from him. 

Up came those eyes to him, soft and luminous, their only expressionbeing surprise, not a shade of vanity. 

"I am not a child; why do you call me one? But Mrs. Cust said you wouldall be taking me for a child, until you knew me. "

"How old are you?" asked Lionel. 

"I was eighteen last September. "

"Eighteen!" involuntarily repeated Lionel. 

"Yes; eighteen. We had a party on my birthday. Mr. Cust gave me a mostbeautifully bound copy of Thomas à Kempis; he had had it bound onpurpose. I will show it to you when my books are unpacked. You wouldlike Mr. Cust, if you knew him. He is an old man now, and he has whitehair. He is twenty years older than Mrs. Cust; but he is so good!"

"How is it, " almost vehemently broke forth Lionel, "that you are sodifferent from others?"

"I don't know. Am I different?"

"So different--so different--that--that--"

"What is the matter with me?" she asked timidly, almost humbly, thedelicate colour in her cheeks deepening to crimson. 

"There is nothing the matter with you, " he answered, smiling; "a goodthing if there were as little the matter with everybody else. Do youknow that I never saw any one whom I liked so much at first sight as Ilike you, although you appear to me only as a child? If I call hereoften I shall grow to love you almost as much as I love my sisterDecima. "

"Is not this your home?"

"No. My home is at Verner's Pride. "

CHAPTER XII. 

DR. WEST'S HOME. 

The house of Dr. West was already lighted up. Gas at its front door, gasat its surgery door, gas inside its windows: no habitation in the placewas ever so extensively lighted as Dr. West's. The house was inclosedwith iron railings, and on its side--detached--was the surgery. A verylow place, this surgery; you had to go down a step or two, and thenplunge into a low door. In the time of the last tenant it had been usedas a garden tool-house. It was a tolerably large room, and had atolerably small window, which was in front, the door being on the side, opposite the side entrance of the house. A counter ran along the room atthe back, and a table, covered with miscellaneous articles, stood on theright. Shelves were ranged completely round the room aloft, and a pairof steps, used for getting down the jars and bottles, rested in acorner. There was another room behind it, used exclusively by Dr. West. 

Seated on the counter, pounding desperately away at something in amortar, as if his life depended on it, was a peculiar-looking gentlemanin shirt-sleeves. Very tall, very thin, with legs and arms that bore theappearance of being too long even for his tall body, great hands andfeet, a thin face dark and red, a thin aquiline nose, black hair, andblack prominent eyes that seemed to be always on the stare--there sathe, his legs dangling and his fingers working. A straightforward, honest, simple fellow looked he, all utility and practicalness--if thereis such a word. One, plain in all ways. 

It was Janus Verner--never, in the memory of anybody, called anythingbut "Jan"--second and youngest son of Lady Verner, brother to Lionel. _He_ brother to courtly Lionel, to stately Decima, son to refined LadyVerner? He certainly was; though Lady Verner in her cross moods woulddeclare that Jan must have been changed at nurse--an assertion withoutfoundation, since he had been nursed at home under her own eye. Never inhis life had he been called anything but Jan; address him as Janus, oras Mr. Verner, and it may be questioned if Jan would have answered toit. People called him "droll, " and, if to be of plain, unvarnishedmanners and speech is to be droll, Jan decidedly was so. Some said Janwas a fool, some said he was a bear. Lady Verner did not accord him anygreat amount of favour herself. She had tried to make Jan what shecalled a gentleman, to beat into him suavity, gracefulness, tact, glossof speech and bearing, something between a Lord Chesterfield and a SirRoger de Coverley; and she had been obliged lo give it up as a hopelessjob. Jan was utterly irreclaimable: Nature had made him plain andstraightforward, and so he remained. But there was many a one that theworld would bow down to as a model, whose intrinsic worth was poorcompared to unoffending Jan's. Lady Verner would tell Jan he wasundutiful. Jan tried to be as dutiful to her as ever he could; but he_could not_ change his ungainly person, his awkward manner. As well tryto wash a negro white. 

Lady Verner had proposed that Jan should go into the army, Jan (plainspoken as a boy, as he was still) had responded that he'd rather not goout to be shot at. What _was_ she to do with him? Lady Verner peevishlyasked. She had no money, she lamented, and she would take care Jan wasnot helped by Mr. Verner. To make him a barrister, or a clergyman, or aMember of Parliament (it was what Lady Verner said), would cost vastsums of money; a commission could be obtained for him gratis, inconsideration of his father's services. 

"Make me an apothecary, " said Jan. 

"An apothecary!" echoed Lady Verner, aghast. "That's not a gentleman'scalling. "

Jan opened his great eyes. Had he taken a liking for carpentering, hewould have deemed it gentlemanly enough for him. 

"What has put an apothecary's business into your head?" cried LadyVerner. 

"I should like the pounding, " replied Jan. 

"The pounding!" reiterated Lady Verner, in astonishment. 

"I should like it altogether, " concluded Jan, "I wish you'd let me goapprentice to Dr. West. "

Jan held to his liking. In due course of time he was apprenticed to Dr. West, and pounded away to his heart's content. Thence he went to Londonto walk the hospitals, afterwards completing his studies in Paris. Itwas at the latter period that the accident happened to Jan that calledLionel to Paris. Jan was knocked down by a carriage in the street, hisleg broken, and he was otherwise injured. Time and skill cured him. Timeand perseverance completed his studies, and Jan became a licensedsurgeon of no mean skill. He returned to Deerham, and was engaged asassistant to Dr. West. No very ambitious position, but "it's good enoughfor Jan, " slightingly said Lady Verner. Jan probably thought the same, or he would have sought a better. He was four-and-twenty now. Dr. Westwas a general practitioner, holding an Edinburgh degree only. There wasplenty to do in Deerham and its neighbourhood, what with the rich andwhat with the poor. Dr. West chiefly attended the rich himself and leftJan to take care of the poor. It was all one to Jan. 

Jan sat on the counter in the surgery, pounding and pounding. He hadjust come in from his visit to Deerham Court, summoned thither by theslight accident to his sister Decima. Leaning his two elbows on thecounter, his pale, puffy cheeks on his hands, and intently watching Janwith his light eyes, was a young gentleman rising fifteen, with an aprontied round his waist. This was Master Cheese; an apprentice, as Jan oncehad been. In point of fact, the pounding now was Master Cheese's properwork, but he was fat and lazy, and as sure as Jan came into the surgery, so sure would young Cheese begin to grunt and groan, and vow that hisarms were "knocked off" with the work. Jan, in his indolent manner--andin motion and manner Jan appeared intensely indolent, as if there was nohurry in him; he would bring his words, too, out indolently--would liftthe pounding machine aloft, sit himself down on the counter, andcomplete the work. 

"I say, " said young Cheese, watching the progress of the pestle withsatisfaction, "Dame Dawson has been here. "

"What did she want?" asked Jan. 

"Bad in her inside, she says. I gave her three good doses of jalap. "

"Jalap!" echoed Jan. "Well, it won't do her much harm. She won't take'em; she'll throw 'em away. "

"Law, Jan!" For, in the private familiarity of the surgery, young Cheesewas thus accustomed unceremoniously to address his master--as Jan was. And Jan allowed it with composure. 

"She'll throw 'em away, " repeated Jan. "There's not a worse lot forphysic in all the parish than Dame Dawson. I know her of old. Shethought she'd get peppermint and cordials ordered for her--an excuse forrunning up a score at the public-house. Where's the doctor?"

"He's off somewhere. I saw one of the Bitterworth grooms come to thehouse this afternoon, so perhaps something's wrong there. I say, Jan, there'll be a stunning pie for supper!"

"Have you seen it?"

"Haven't I! I went into the kitchen when she was making it. It has got ahare inside it, and forcemeat balls. "

"Who?" asked Jan--alluding to the maker. 

"Miss Deb, " replied young Cheese. "It's sure to be something extra good, for her to go and make it. If she doesn't help me to a rare goodserving, sha'n't I look black at her!"

"It mayn't be for supper, " debated Jan. 

"Cook said it was. I asked her. She thought somebody was coming. I say, Jan, if you miss any of the castor oil, don't go and say I drank it. "

Jan lifted his eyes to a shelf opposite, where various glass bottlesstood. Among them was the one containing the castor oil. "Who has beenat it?" he asked. 

"Miss Amilly. She came and filled that great fat glass pot of hers, withher own hands; and she made me drop in some essence of cloves to scentit. Won't her hair smell of it to-night!"

"They'll make castor oil scarce, if they go at it like that, " said Janindifferently. 

"They use about a quart a month; I know they do; the three of 'emtogether, " exclaimed young Cheese, as vehemently as if the loss of thecastor oil was personal. "How their nightcaps must be greased!"

"Sibylla doesn't use it, " said Jan. 

"Doesn't she, though!" retorted young Cheese, with acrimony. "She usesmany things on the sly that she pretends not to use. She's as vain as apeacock. Did you hear about--"

Master Cheese cut his question short. Coming in at the surgery door wasLionel Verner. 

"Well, Jan! What about Decima? After waiting ages at the Court for youto come downstairs and report, I found you were gone. "

"It's a twist, " said Jan. "It will be all right in a few days. How'sUncle Stephen to-day?"

"Just the same. Are the young ladies in?"

"Go and see, " said Jan. "I know nothing about 'em. "

"Yes, they are in, sir, " interrupted Master Cheese. "They have not beenout all the afternoon, for a wonder. "

Lionel left the surgery, stepped round to the front door, and enteredthe house. 

In a square, moderate-sized drawing-room, with tasty things scatteredabout it to catch the eye, stood a young lady, figuring off before thechimney-glass. Had you looked critically into the substantial furnitureyou might have found it old and poor; of a different class from thevaluable furniture at Verner's Pride; widely different from the light, elegant furniture at Lady Verner's. But, what with white antimacassars, many coloured mats on which reposed pretty ornaments, glasses and vasesof flowers, and other trifles, the room looked well enough for anything. In like manner, had you, with the same critical eye, scanned the younglady, you would have found that of real beauty she possessed little. Asmall, pretty doll's face with blue eyes and gold-coloured ringlets; around face, betraying nothing very great, or good, or intellectual; onlysomething fascinating and pretty. Her chief beauty lay in hercomplexion; by candle-light it was radiantly lovely, a pure red andwhite, looking like wax-work. A pretty, graceful girl she looked; and, what with her fascinations of person, of dress, and of manner, all ofwhich she perfectly well knew how to display, she had contrived to leadmore than one heart captive, and to hold it in fast chains. 

The light of the gas chandelier shone on her now; on her blue gauzydress, set off with ribbons, on her sleepy, blue eyes, on herrose-coloured cheeks. She was figuring off before the glass, I say, twisting her ringlets round her fingers, and putting them in variouspositions to try the effect; her employment, her look, her manner, allindicating the very essence of vanity. The opening of the door causedher to turn her head, and she shook her ringlets into their properplace, and dropped her hands by her side, at the entrance of LionelVerner. 

"Oh, Lionel! is it you?" said she, with as much composure as if she hadnot been caught gazing at herself. "I was looking at this, " pointing toan inverted tumbler on the mantel-piece. "Is it not strange that weshould see a moth at this cold season? Amilly found it this afternoonon the geraniums. "

Lionel Verner advanced and bent his head to look at the pretty speckledmoth reposing so still on its green leaf. Did he see through theartifice? Did he suspect that the young lady had been admiring her ownpretty face, and not the moth? Not he. Lionel's whole heart had long agobeen given to that vain butterfly, Sibylla West, who was gay andfluttering, and really of little more use in life than the moth. How wasit that he had suffered himself to love _her_? Suffered! Love playsstrange tricks, and it has fooled many a man as it was fooling LionelVerner. 

And what of Sibylla? Sibylla did not love him. The two ruling passionsof her heart were vanity and ambition. To be sometime the mistress ofVerner's Pride was a very vista of desire, and therefore she encouragedLionel. She did not encourage him very much; she was rather in the habitof playing fast and loose with him; but that only served to rivettighter the links of his chain. All the love--such as it was!--thatSibylla West was capable of giving, was in possession of FrederickMassingbird. Strange tricks again! It was scarcely credible that oneshould fall in love with _him_ by the side of attractive Lionel; but soit had been. Sibylla loved Frederick Massingbird for himself, she likedLionel because he was the heir to Verner's Pride, and she had managed tokeep both her slaves. 

Lionel had never spoken of his love. He knew that his marriage withSibylla West would be so utterly distasteful to Mr. Verner, that he wascontent to wait. He knew that Sibylla could not mistake him--could notmistake what his feelings were; and he believed that she also wascontent to wait until he should be his own master and at liberty to askfor her. When that time should come, what did she intend to do withFrederick Massingbird, who made no secret _to her_ that he loved her andexpected to make her his wife? Sibylla did not know; she did not muchcare; she was of a careless nature, and allowed the future to take itschance. 

The only person who had penetrated to the secret of her love forFrederick Massingbird was her father, Dr. West. 

"Don't be a simpleton, child, and bind yourself with your eyesbandaged, " he abruptly and laconically said to her one day. "WhenVerner's Pride falls in, then marry whoever is its master. "

"Lionel will be its master for certain, will he not?" she answered, startled out of the words. 

"We don't know who will be its master, " was Dr. West's rejoinder. "Don'tplay the simpleton, I say, Sibylla, by entangling yourself with yourcousin Fred. "

Dr. West was one who possessed an eye to the main chance; and, hadLionel Verner been, beyond contingency, "certain" of Verner's Pride, there is little doubt but he would have brought him to book at once, bydemanding his intentions with regard to Sibylla. There were very fewpersons in Deerham but deemed Lionel as indisputably certain of Verner'sPride as though he were already in possession of it. Dr. West wasprobably an unusually cautious man. 

"It is singular, " observed Lionel, looking at the moth. "The day hasbeen sunshiny, but far too cold to call these moths into life. At least, according to my belief; but I am not learned in entomology. "

"Ento--, what a hard word!" cried Sibylla, in her prettily affectedmanner. "I should never find out how to spell it. "

Lionel smiled. His deep love was shining out of his eyes as he lookeddown upon her. He loved her powerfully, deeply, passionately; to him shewas as a very angel, and he believed her to be as pure-souled, honest-hearted, and single-minded. 

"Where did my aunt go to-day?" inquired Sibylla, alluding to Mrs. Verner. 

"She did not go anywhere that I am aware of, " he answered. 

"I saw the carriage out this afternoon. "

"It was going to the station for Miss Tempest. "

"Oh! she's come, then? Have you seen her? What sort of a demoiselle doesshe seem?"

"The sweetest child!--she looks little more than a child!" cried Lionelimpulsively. 

"A child, is she? I had an idea she was grown up. Have any of you atVerner's Pride heard from John?"

"No. "

"But the mail's in, is it not? How strange that he does not write!"

"He may be coming home with his gold, " said Lionel. 

They were interrupted. First of all came in the tea-things--for at Dr. West's the dinner-hour was early--and, next, two young ladies, bearing agreat resemblance to each other. It would give them dire offence not tocall them young. They were really not very much past thirty, but theywere of that class of women who age rapidly; their hair was sadly thin, some of their teeth had gone, and they had thin, flushed faces and largetwisted noses; but their blue eyes had a good-natured look in them. Little in person, rather bending forward as they walked, and dressingyouthfully, they yet looked older than they really were. Their lightbrown hair was worn in short, straggling ringlets in front, and twistedup with a comb behind. Once upon a time that hair was long and tolerablythick, but it had gradually and spitefully worn down to what it was now. The Misses West were proud of it still, however; as may be inferred bythe disappearance of the castor oil. A short while back, somebody hadrecommended to them castor oil as the best specific for bringing ondeparted hair. They were inoffensive in mind and manners, rather simple, somewhat affected and very vain, quarrelling with no person under thesun, except Sibylla. Sibylla was the plague of their lives. So manyyears younger than they, they had petted her and indulged her as achild, until at length the child became their mistress. Sibylla was rudeand ungrateful, would cast scornful words at them and call them "oldmaids, " with other reproachful terms. There was open warfare betweenthem; but in their hearts they loved Sibylla still. They had been namedrespectively Deborah and Amilly. The latter name had been intended forAmélie; but by some mistake of the parents or of the clergyman, none ofthem French scholars, Amilly, the child was christened and registered. It remained a joke against Amilly to this day. 

"Sibylla!" exclaimed Deborah, somewhat in surprise, as she shook handswith Lionel, "I thought you had gone to Verner's Pride. "

"Nobody came for me. It got dusk, and I did not care to go alone, "replied Sibylla. 

"Did you think of going to Verner's Pride this evening, Sibylla?" askedLionel. "Let me take you now. We shall be just in time for dinner. I'llbring you back this evening. "

"I don't know, " hesitated Sibylla. The truth was, she had expectedFrederick Massingbird to come for her. "I--think--I'll--go, " she slowlysaid, apparently balancing some point in her mind. 

"If you do go, you should make haste and put your things on, " suggestedMiss Amilly. And Sibylla acquiesced, and left the room. 

"Has Mr. Jan been told that the tea's ready, I wonder?" cried MissDeborah. 

Mr. Jan apparently had been told, for he entered as she was speaking:and Master Cheese--his apron off and his hair brushed--with him. MasterCheese cast an inquisitive look at the tea-table, hoping he should seesomething tempting upon it; eating good things forming the pleasantestportion of that young gentleman's life. 

"Take this seat, Mr. Jan, " said Miss Amilly, drawing a chair forwardnext her own. "Master Cheese, have the kindness to move a little round:Mr. Jan can't see the fire if you sit there. "

"I don't want to see it, " said literal Jan. "I'm not cold. " And MasterCheese took the opportunity which the words gave to remain where he was. He liked to sit in warmth with his back to the fire. 

"I cannot think where papa is, " said Miss Deborah. "Mr. Lionel, is it ofany use asking you to take a cup of tea?"

"Thank you, I am going home to dinner, " replied Lionel. "Dr. West iscoming in now, " he added, perceiving that gentleman's approach from thewindow. 

"Miss Amilly, " asked Jan, "have you been at the castor oil?"

Poor Miss Amilly turned all the colours of the rainbow; if she had oneweakness, it was upon the subject of her diminishing locks. WhileCheese, going red also, administered to Jan sundry kicks under thetable, as an intimation that he should have kept counsel. "I--took--justa little drop, Mr. Jan, " said she. "What's the dose, if you please? Isit one tea-spoonful or two?"

"It depends upon the age, " said Jan, "if you mean taken inwardly. Foryou it would be--I say, Cheese, what are you kicking at?"

Cheese began to stammer something about the leg of the table; but thesubject was interrupted by the entrance of Sibylla. Lionel wished themgood-evening, and went out with her. Outside the room door theyencountered Dr. West. 

"Where are you going, Sybilla?" he asked, almost sharply, as his glancefell upon his daughter and Lionel. 

"To Verner's Pride. "

"Go and take your things off. You cannot go to Verner's Pride thisevening. "

"But, papa, why?" inquired Sibylla, feeling that she should like to turnrestive. 

"I have my reasons for it. You will know them later. Now go and takeyour things off without another word. "

Sibylla dared not openly dispute the will of her father, neither wouldshe essay to do it before Lionel Verner. She turned somewhat unwillinglytowards the staircase, and Dr. West opened the drawing-room door, signing to Lionel to wait. 

"Deborah, I am going out. Don't keep the tea. Mr. Jan, should I besummoned anywhere, you'll attend for me, I don't know when I shall behome. "

"All right, " called out Jan. And Dr. West went out with Lionel Verner. 

"I am going to Verner's Pride, " he said, taking Lionel's arm as soon asthey were in the street. "There's news come from Australia. JohnMassingbird's dead. "

The announcement was made so abruptly, with so little circumlocution orpreparation, that Lionel Verner failed at the first moment to take inthe full meaning of the words. "John Massingbird dead?" he mechanicallyasked. 

"He is dead. It's a sad tale. He had the gold about him, a greatquantity of it, bringing it down to Melbourne, and he was killed on theroad; murdered for the sake of the gold. "

"How have you heard it?" demanded Lionel. 

"I met Roy just now, " replied Dr. West. "He stopped me, saying he hadheard from his son by this afternoon's post; that there was bad news inthe letter, and he supposed he must go to Verner's Pride, and break itto them. He gave me the letter, and I undertook to carry the tidings toMrs. Verner. "

"It is awfully sudden, " said Lionel, "By the mail, two months ago, hewrote himself to us, in the highest spirits. And now--dead!"

"Life, over there, is not worth a month's purchase just now, " remarkedDr. West; and Lionel could but note that had he been discussing thedeath of a total stranger, instead of a nephew, he could only havespoken in the same indifferent, matter-of-fact tone. "By all accounts, society is in a strange state there, " he continued; "ruffians lying inwait ever for prey. The men have been taken, and the gold found uponthem, Luke writes. "

"That's good, so far, " said Lionel. 

When they reached Verner's Pride, they found that a letter was waitingfor Frederick Massingbird, who had not been home since he left the houseearly in the afternoon. The superscription was in the same handwritingas the letter Dr. West had brought--Luke Roy's. There could be no doubtthat it was only a confirmation of the tidings. 

Mrs. Verner was in the drawing-room alone, Tynn said, ready to go in todinner, and rather cross that Mr. Lionel should keep her waiting for it. 

"Who will break it to her--you or I?" asked Dr. West of Lionel. 

"I think it should be you. You are her brother. "

Broken to her it was, in the best mode they were able. It proved asevere shock. Mrs. Verner had loved John, her eldest born, above everyearthly thing. He was wild, random, improvident, had given her incessanttrouble as a child and as a man; and so, mother fashion, she loved himbest. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A CONTEMPLATED VOYAGE. 

Frederick Massingbird sat perched on the gate of a ploughed field, softly whistling. His brain was busy, and he was holding counsel withhimself, under the gray February skies. Three weeks had gone by sincethe tidings arrived of the death of his brother, and Frederick wasdeliberating whether he should, or should not, go out. His own letterfrom Luke Roy had been in substance the same as that which Luke hadwritten to his father. It was neither more explanatory, nor less so. Luke Roy was not a first-hand at epistolary correspondence. John hadbeen attacked and killed for the sake of his gold, and the attackers andthe gold had been taken hold of by the law; so far it said, and nofurther. That the notion should occur to Frederick to go out toMelbourne, and lay claim to the gold and any other property left byJohn, was only natural. He had been making up his mind to do so for thelast three weeks; and perhaps the vision of essaying a little businessin the gold-fields on his own account, urged him on. But he had notfully made up his mind yet. The journey was a long and hazardous one;and--he did not care to leave Sibylla. 

"To be, or not to be?" soliloquised he, from his seat on the gate, as heplucked thin branches off from the bare winter hedge, and scatteredthem. "Old stepfather's wiry yet, he may last an age, and this isgetting a horrid, humdrum life. I wonder what he'll leave me, when hedoes go off? Mother said one day she thought it wouldn't be more thanfive hundred pounds. _She_ doesn't know; he does not tell her about hisprivate affairs--never has told her. Five hundred pounds! If he left mea paltry sum such as that, I'd fling it in the heir's face--MasterLionel's. "

He put a piece of the thorn into his mouth, bit it up, spat it outagain, and went on with his soliloquy. 

"I had better go. Why, if nothing to speak of does come to me from oldVerner, this money of John's would be a perfect windfall. I must notlose the chance of it--and lose it I should, unless I go out and seeafter it. No, it would never do. I'll go. It's hard to say how much hehas left, poor fellow. Thousands--if one may judge by hisletters--besides this great nugget that they killed him for, thevillains! Yes, I'll go--that's settled. And now, to try to get Sibylla. She'll accompany me fast enough. At least, I fancy she would. Butthere's that old West! I may have a battle over it with him. "

He flung away what remained in his hand of the sticks, leaped off thegate, and bent his steps hastily in the direction of Deerham. Could hebe going, there and then, to Dr. West's, to try his fate with Sibylla?Very probably. Frederick Massingbird liked to deliberate well whenmaking up his mind to a step; but, that once done, he was wont to loseno time in carrying it out. 

On this same afternoon, and just about the same hour, Lionel Verner wasstrolling through Deerham on his way to pay a visit to his mother. Closeat the door he encountered Decima--well, now--and Miss Tempest, who weregoing out. None would have believed Lionel and Decima to be brother andsister, judging by their attire--he wore deep mourning, she had not ashred of mourning about her. Lady Verner, in her prejudice againstVerner's Pride, had neither put on mourning herself for JohnMassingbird, nor allowed Decima to put it on. Lionel was turning withthem; but Lady Verner, who had seen him from the window, sent a servantto desire him to come to her. 

"Is it anything particular, mother?" he hastily inquired. "I am goingwith Decima and Lucy. "

"It is so far particular, Lionel, that I wish you to stay with me, instead of going with them, " answered Lady Verner. "I fancy you aregetting rather fond of being with Lucy, and--and--in short, it won'tdo. "

Lionel, in his excessive astonishment, could only stare at his mother. 

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Lucy Tempest! What won't do?"

"You are beginning to pay Lucy Tempest particular attention, " said LadyVerner, unscrewing the silver stopper of her essence-bottle, andapplying some to her forehead. "I will not permit it, Lionel. "

Lionel could not avoid laughing. 

"What can have put such a thing in your head, mother, I am at a loss toconceive. Certainly nothing in my conduct has induced it. I have talkedto Lucy as a child, more than as anything else; I have scarcely thoughtof her but as one----"

"Lucy is not a child, " interrupted Lady Verner. 

"In years I find she is not. When I first saw her at therailway-station, I thought she was a child, and the impression somehowremains upon my mind. Too often I talk to her as one. As to anythingelse--were I to marry to-morrow, it is not Lucy Tempest I should make mywife. "

The first glad look that Lionel had seen on Lady Verner's face for manya day came over it then. In her own mind she had been weaving a prettylittle romance for Lionel; and it was her dread, lest that romanceshould be interfered with, which had called up her fears, touching LucyTempest. 

"My darling Lionel, you know where you might go and choose a wife, " shesaid. "I have long wished that you would do it. Beauty, rank, wealth--you may win them for the asking. "

A slightly self-conscious smile crossed the lips of Lionel. 

"You are surely not going to introduce again that nonsense about MaryElmsley!" he exclaimed. "I should never like her, never marry her, therefore--"

"Did you not allude to _her_ when you spoke but now--that it was notLucy Tempest you should make your wife?"

"No. "

"To whom, then? Lionel, I must know it. "

Lionel's cheek flushed scarlet. "I am not going to marry yet--I have nointention of it. Why should this conversation have arisen?"

The words seemed to arouse a sudden dread on the part of Lady Verner. "Lionel, " she gasped in a low tone, "there is a dreadful fear comingover me. Not Lady Mary! Some one else! I remember Decima said one daythat you appeared to care more for Sibylla West than for her, yoursister. I have never thought of it from that hour to this. I paid nomore attention to it than though she had said you cared for my maidThérèse. You _cannot_ care for Sibylla West!"

Lionel had high notions of duty as well as of honour, and he would notequivocate to his mother. "I do care very much for Sibylla West, " hesaid in a low tone; "and, please God, I hope she will sometime be mywife. But, mother, this confidence is entirely between ourselves. I begyou not to speak of it; it must not be suffered to get abroad. "

The one short sentence of avowal over, Lionel might as well have talkedto the moon. Lady Verner heard him not. She was horrified. The Wests inher eyes were utterly despicable. Dr. West was tolerated _as_ herdoctor; but as nothing else. Her brave Lionel--standing there before herin all the pride of his strength and his beauty--_he_ sacrifice himselfto Sibylla West! Of the two, Thérèse might have been the less dreadfulto the mind of Lady Verner. 

A quarrel ensued. Stay--that is a wrong word. It was not a quarrel, forLady Verner had all the talking, and Lionel would not respond angrily;he kept his lips pressed together lest he should. Never had Lady Vernerbeen moved to make a like scene. She reproached, she sobbed, sheentreated. And, in the midst of it, in walked Decima and Lucy Tempest. 

Lady Verner for once forgot herself. She forgot that Lucy was astranger; she forgot the request of Lionel for silence; and, uponDecima's asking what was amiss, she told all--that Lionel loved SibyllaWest, and meant to marry her. 

Decima was too shocked to speak. Lucy turned and looked at Lionel, apleasant smile shining in her eyes. "She is very pretty; very, verypretty; I never saw any one prettier. "

"Thank you, Lucy, " he cordially said; and it was the first time he hadcalled her Lucy. 

Decima went up to her brother. "Lionel, _must_ it be? I do not likeher. "

"Decima, I fear that you and my mother are both prejudiced, " he somewhathaughtily answered. And there he stopped. In turning his eyes towardshis mother as he spoke of her, he saw that she had fainted away. 

Jan was sent for, in all haste. Dr. West was Lady Verner's medicaladviser; but a feeling in Decima's heart at the moment prevented hersummoning him. Jan arrived, on the run; the servant had told him she wasnot sure but her lady was dying. 

Lady Verner had revived then; was better; and was re-entering upon thegrievance which had so affected her. "What could it have been?" wonderedJan, who knew his mother was not subject to fainting fits. 

"Ask your brother, there, what it was, " resentfully spoke Lady Verner. "He told me he was going to marry Sibylla West. "

"Law!" uttered Jan. 

Lionel stood; haughty, impassive; his lips curling, his figure drawn toits full height. He would not reproach his mother by so much as a word, but the course she was taking, in thus proclaiming his affairs to theworld, hurt him in no measured degree. 

"I don't like her, " said Jan. "Deborah and Amilly are not much, but I'drather have the two, than Sibylla. "

"Jan, " said Lionel, suppressing his temper, "_your_ opinion was notasked. "

Jan sat down on the arm of the sofa, his great legs dangling. "Sibyllacan't marry two, " said he. 

"Will you be quiet, Jan?" said Lionel. "You have no right to interfere. You shall not interfere. "

"Gracious, Lionel, I don't want to interfere, " returned Jan simply. "Sibylla's going to marry Fred Massingbird. "

"Will you be quiet?" reiterated Lionel, his brow flushing scarlet. 

"I'll be quiet, " said Jan, with composure. "You can go and ask her foryourself. It has all been settled this afternoon; not ten minutes ago. Fred's going out to Australia, and Sibylla's going with him, and Deborahand Amilly are crying their eyes out, at the thought of parting withher. "

Lady Verner looked up at Jan, an expression of eager hope on her face. She could have kissed him a thousand times. Lionel--Lionel took his hatand walked out. 

Believing it? No. The temptation to chastise Jan was growing great, andhe deemed it well to remove himself out of it. Jan was right, however. 

Much to the surprise of Frederick Massingbird, very much to the surpriseof Sibylla, Dr. West not only gave his consent to the marriage as soonas asked, but urged it on. If Fred must depart in a week, why, theycould be married in a week, he said. Sibylla was thunderstruck: MissDeborah and Miss Amilly gave vent to a few hysterical shrieks, andhinted about the wedding clothes and the outfit. _That_ could be gottogether in a day, was the reply of Dr. West, and they were too muchastonished to venture to say it could not. 

"You told me to wait for Lionel Verner, " whispered Sibylla, when she andher father were alone, as she stood before him, trembling. In her mind'seye she saw Verner's Pride slipping from her; and it gave her chagrin, in spite of her love for Fred Massingbird. 

Dr. West leaned forward and whispered a few words in her ear. Shestarted violently, she coloured crimson. "Papa!"

"It is true, " nodded the doctor. 

As Lionel passed the house on his way from Deerham Court to Verner'sPride, he turned into it, led by a powerful impulse. He did not believeJan, but the words had made him feel twitchings of uneasiness. FredMassingbird had gone then, and the doctor was out. Lionel looked intothe drawing-room, and there found the two elder Misses West, eachdissolved in a copious shower of tears. So far, Jan's words were borneout. A sharp spasm shot across his heart. 

"You are in grief, " he said, advancing to them. "What is the cause?"

"The most dreadful voyage for her!" ejaculated Miss Deborah. "The shipmay go to the bottom before it gets there. "

"And not so much as time to _think_ of proper things for her, let alonegetting them!" sobbed Miss Amilly. "It's all a confused mass in my mindtogether--bonnets, and gowns, and veils, and wreaths, and trunks, andpetticoats, and calico things for the voyage!"

Lionel felt his lips grow pale. They were too much engrossed to noticehim; nevertheless, he covered his face with his hand as he stood by themantel-piece. "Where is she going?" he quietly asked. 

"To Melbourne, with Fred, " said Miss Deborah. "Fred's going out to seeabout the money and gold that John left, and to realise it. They are notto stay: it will only be the voyage out and home. But if she should betaken ill out there, and die! Her sisters died, Mr. Lionel. Fred is hercousin, too. Better have married one not of kin. "

They talked on. Lionel heard them not. After the revelation, that shewas about to marry, all else seemed a chaos. But he was one who couldcontrol his feelings. 

"I must be going, " said he quietly, moving from his standing-place withcalmness. "Good-day to you. "

He shook hands with them both, amidst a great accession of sobs, andquitted the room. Running down the stairs at that moment, singing gailya scrap of a merry song, came Sibylla, unconscious of his vicinity;indeed, of his presence in the house. She started when she saw him, andstopped in hesitation. 

Lionel threw open the door of the empty dining-room, caught her arm anddrew her into it--his bearing haughty, his gestures imperative. Therethey stood before each other, neither speaking for some moments. Lionel's very lips were livid; and _her_ rich wax-work colour went andcame, and her clear blue eyes fell under the stern gaze of his. 

"Is this true, which I have been obliged to hear?" was his firstquestion. 

She knew that she had acted ill. She knew that Lionel Verner deserved tohave a better part played by him. She had always looked up to him--allthe Wests had--as one superior in birth, rank, and station to herself. Altogether, the moment brought to her a great amount of shame andconfusion. 

"Answer me one question; I demand it of you, " exclaimed Lionel. "Haveyou ever mistaken my sentiments towards you in the least degree?"

"Have--I--I don't know, " she faltered. 

"No equivocation, " burst Lionel. "Have you not _known_ that I loved you?that I was only waiting my uncle's death to make you my wife?--Heavenforgive me that I should thus speak as though I had built upon it!"

Sibylla let fall some tears. 

"Which have you loved?--all this while! Me?--or him?"

"Oh! don't speak to me like that, " sobbed Sibylla. "He asked me to marryhim, and--and--papa said yes. "

"I ask you, " said Lionel in a low voice, "which is it that you love?"

She did not answer. She stood before him the prettiest picture ofdistress imaginable; her hands clasped, her large blue eyes filled withtears, her shower of golden hair shading her burning cheeks. 

"If you have been surprised or terrified into this engagement, lovinghim not, will you give him up for me?" tenderly whispered Lionel. "Not--you understand--if your love be his. In that case, I would not askit. But, without reference to myself at all, I doubt--and I have myreasons for it--if Frederick Massingbird be worthy of you. "

Was she wavering in her own mind? She stole a glance upward--at histall, fine form, his attractive face, its lineaments showing out in thatmoment, all the pride of the Verners. A pride that mingled with love. 

Lionel bent to her--

"Sibylla, if you love him I have no more to say; if you love me, avowit, as I will then avow my love, my intentions, in the face of day. Reflect before you speak. It is a solemn moment--a moment which holdsalike my destiny and yours in its hands. "

A rush of blood to her heart, a rush of moisture to her forehead; forSibylla West was not wholly without feeling, and she knew, as Lionelsaid, that it was a decision fraught with grave destiny. But FrederickMassingbird was more to her than he was. 

"I have given my promise. I cannot go from it, " was her scarcelybreathed answer. 

"May your falsity never come home to you!" broke from Lionel, in thebitterness of his anguish. And he strode from the room without anotherword or look, and quitted the house. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING. 

Deerham could not believe the news. Verner's Pride could not believe it. Nobody believed it, save Lady Verner, and she was only too thankful tobelieve it and hug it. There was nothing surprising in Sibylla'smarrying her cousin Fred, for many had shrewdly suspected that thefavour between them was not altogether cousinly favour; but the surprisewas given to the hasty marriage. Dr. West vouchsafed an explanation. Twoof his daughters, aged respectively one year and two years younger thanAmilly, had each died of consumption, as all Deerham knew. On attainingher twenty-fifth year, each one had shown rapid symptoms of the disease, and had lingered but a few weeks. Sibylla was only one-and-twenty yet;but Dr. West fancied he saw, or said he saw, grounds for fear. It wasknown of what value a sea-voyage was in these constitutions; hence hisconsent to the departure of Sibylla. Such was the explanation of Dr. West. 

"I wonder whether the stated 'fear of consumption' has been called up byhimself for the occasion?" was the thought that crossed the mind ofDecima Verner. Decima did not believe in Dr. West. 

Verner's Pride, like the rest, had been taken by surprise. Mrs. Vernerreceived the news with equanimity. She had never given Fred a tithe ofthe love that John had had, and she did not seem much to care whether hemarried Sibylla, or whether he did not--whether he went out toAustralia, or whether he stayed at home. Frederick told her of it in avery off-hand manner; but he took pains to bespeak the approbation ofMr. Verner. 

"I hope my choice is pleasant to you, sir. That you will cordiallysanction it. "

"Whether it is pleasant to me or not, I have no right to say it shallnot be, " was the reply of Mr. Verner. "I have never interfered withyou, or with your brother, since you became inmates of my house. "

"Do you not like Sibylla, sir?"

"She is a pretty girl. I know nothing against her. I think you mighthave chosen worse. "

Coldly, very coldly were the words delivered, and there was a strangelykeen expression of anguish on Mr. Verner's face; but that was nothingunusual now. Frederick Massingbird was content to accept the words as asanction of approval. 

A few words--I don't mean angry ones--passed between him and Lionel onthe night before the wedding. Lionel had not condescended to speak toFrederick Massingbird upon the subject at all; Sibylla had refused himfor the other of her own free will; and there he let it rest. But theevening previous to the marriage day, Lionel appeared strangelytroubled; indecisive, anxious, as if he were debating some question withhimself. Suddenly he went straight up to Frederick Massingbird'schamber, who was deep in the business of packing, as his unfortunatebrother John had been, not two short years before. 

"I wish to speak to you, " he began. "I have thought of doing so theseseveral days past, but have hesitated, for you may dream that it is nobusiness of mine. However, I cannot get it off my mind that it may be myduty; and I have come to do it. "

Frederick Massingbird was half buried amid piles of things, but heturned round at this strange address and looked at Lionel. 

"Is there _nothing_ on your conscience that should prevent your marryingthat girl?" gravely asked Lionel. 

"Do you want her left for yourself?" was Fred's answer, after aprolonged stare. 

Lionel flushed to his very temples. He controlled the hasty retort thatrose to his tongue. "I came here not to speak in any one's interest buthers. Were she free as air this moment--were she to come to my feet andsay, 'Let me be your wife, ' I should tell her that the whole world wasbefore her to choose from, save myself. She can never again be anythingto me. No. I speak for her alone. She is marrying you in all confidence. Are you worthy of her?"

"What on earth do you mean?" cried Frederick Massingbird. 

"If there be any sin upon your conscience that ought to prevent yourtaking her, or any confiding girl, to your heart, as wife, reflectwhether you should ignore it. The consequences may come home later; andthen what would be her position?"

"I have no sin upon my conscience, Poor John, perhaps, had plenty of it. I do not understand you, Lionel Verner. "

"On your sacred word?"

"On my word, and honour, too. "

"Then forgive me, " was the ready reply of Lionel. And he held out hishand with frankness to Frederick Massingbird. 

CHAPTER XV. 

A TROUBLED MIND. 

Just one fortnight from the very day that witnessed the sailing ofFrederick Massingbird and his wife, Mr. Verner was taken alarmingly ill. Fred, in his soliloquy that afternoon, when you saw him upon the gate ofthe ploughed field, --"Old stepfather's wiry yet, and may last anage, "--had certainly not been assisted with the gift of prevision, forthere was no doubt that Mr. Verner's time to die had now come. 

Lionel had thrown his sorrow bravely from him, in outward appearance atany rate. What it might be doing for him inwardly, he alone could tell. These apparently calm, undemonstrative natures, that show a quietexterior to the world, may have a fire consuming their heartstrings. Hedid not go near the wedding; but neither did he shut himself up indoors, as one indulging lamentation and grief. He pursued his occupations justas usual. He read to Mr. Verner, who allowed him to do so that day; herode out; he saw people, friends and others whom it was necessary tosee. He had the magnanimity to shake hands with the bride, and wish herjoy. 

It occurred in this way. Mrs. Verner declined to attend the ceremony. Since the news of John's death she had been ailing both in body andmind. But she desired Frederick to take Verner's Pride in his road whendriving away with his bride, that she might say her last farewell to himand Sibylla, neither of whom she might ever see again. Oh, she'd seethem again fast enough, was Fred's response; they should not be awaymore than a year. But he complied with her request, and brought Sibylla. About three o'clock in the afternoon, the ceremony and the breakfastover, the carriage, with its four horses, clattered on to the terrace, and Fred handed Sibylla out of it. Lionel was crossing the hall at themoment of their entrance; his horse had just been brought round for him. To say he was surprised at seeing them there would not be saying enough;he had known nothing of the intended call. They met face to face. Sibylla wore a sweeping dress of silk; a fine Indian shawl, the gift ofMrs. Verner, was folded round her, and her golden hair fell beneath herbonnet. Her eyes fell, also, before the gaze of Lionel. 

Never had she looked more beautiful, more attractive; and Lionel feltit. But, had she been one for whom he had never cared, he could not haveshown more courtly indifference. A moment given to the choking down ofhis emotion, to the stilling of his beating pulses, and he stood beforeher calmly self-possessed; holding out his hand, speaking in a low, clear tone. 

"Allow me to offer you my good wishes for your welfare, Mrs. Massingbird. "

"Thank you; thank you very much, " replied Sibylla, dropping his hand, avoiding his eye, and going on to find Mrs. Verner. 

"Good-bye, Lionel, " said Frederick Massingbird. "You are going out, Isee. "

Lionel shook his hand cordially. Rival though he had proved to him, hedid not blame Frederick Massingbird; he was too just to cast blame whereit was not due. 

"Fare you well, Frederick. I sincerely hope you will have a prosperousvoyage; that you will come safely home again. "

All this was over, and they had sailed; Dr. West having exacted a solemnpromise from his son-in-law that they should leave for home again thevery instant that John's property had been realised. And now, afortnight after it, Mr. Verner was taken--as was believed--for death. Hehimself believed so. He knew what his own disorder was; he knew that themoment the water began to mount, and had attained a certain height, hislife would be gone. 

"How many hours have I to live?" he inquired of Dr. West. 

"Probably for some days, " was the answer. 

_What_ could it have been that was troubling the mind of Mr. Verner?That it was worldly trouble was certain. That other trouble, which hasbeen known to distract the minds of the dying, to fill them with agony, was absent from his. On that score he was in perfect peace. But thatsome very great anxiety was racking him might be seen by the most casualobserver. It had been racking him for a long time past, and it wasgrowing worse now. And it appeared to be what he could not, or wouldnot, speak of. 

The news of the dangerous change in the master of Verner's Pridecirculated through the vicinity, and it brought forth, amidst other ofhis friends, Mr. Bitterworth. This was on the second day of the change. Tynn received Mr. Bitterworth in the hall. 

"There's no hope, sir, I'm afraid, " was Tynn's answer to his inquiries. "He's not in much pain of body, but he is dreadfully anxious anduneasy. "

"What about?" asked Mr. Bitterworth, who was a little man with a pimpledface. 

"Nobody knows, sir; he doesn't say. For myself, I can only think it mustbe about something connected with the estate. What else can it be?"

"I suppose I can see him, Tynn?"

"I'll ask, sir. He refuses visitors in his room, but I dare say he'lladmit you. "

Lionel came to Mr. Bitterworth in the drawing-room. "My uncle will seeyou, " he said, after greetings had passed. 

"Tynn informs me that he appears to be uneasy in his mind, " observed Mr. Bitterworth. 

"A man so changed, as he has been in the last two years, I have neverseen, " replied Lionel. "None can have failed to remark it. From entirecalmness of mind, he has exhibited anxious restlessness; I may sayirritability. Mrs. Verner is ill, " Lionel added, as they were ascendingthe stairs. "She has not been out of bed for two days. "

Not in his study now; he had done with the lower part of the house forever; but in his bed-chamber, never to come out of it alive, was Mr. Verner. They had got him up, and he sat in an easy-chair by the bedside, partially dressed, and wrapped in his dressing-gown. On his pale, wornface there were the unmistakable signs of death. He and Mr. Bitterworthwere left alone. 

"So you have come to see the last of me, Bitterworth!" was the remark ofMr. Verner. 

"Not the last yet, I hope, " heartily responded Mr. Bitterworth, who wasan older man than Mr. Verner, but hale and active. "You may rally fromthis attack and get about again. Remember how many serious attacks youhave had. "

"None like this. The end must come; and it has come now. Hush, Bitterworth! To speak of recovery to me is worse than child's play. I_know_ my time has come. And I am glad to meet it, for it releases mefrom a world of care. "

"Were there any in this world who might be supposed to be exempt fromcare, it is you, " said Mr. Bitterworth, leaning towards the invalid, hishale old face expressing the concern he felt. "I should have judged youto be perfectly free from earthly care. You have no children; what canbe troubling you?"

"Would to Heaven I had children!" exclaimed Mr. Verner; and the remarkappeared to break from him involuntarily, in the bitterness of hisheart. 

"You have your brother's son, your heir, Lionel. "

"He is no heir of mine, " returned Mr. Verner, with, if possible, doublebitterness. 

"No heir of yours!" repeated Mr. Bitterworth, gazing at his friend, andwondering whether he had lost his senses. 

Mr. Verner, on his part, gazed on vacancy, his thoughts evidently castinwards. He sat in his old favourite attitude; his hands clasped on thehead of his stick, and his face bent down upon it. "Bitterworth, " saidhe presently "when I made my will years ago, after my father's death, Iappointed you one of the executors. "

"I know it, " replied Mr. Bitterworth. "I was associated--as you gave meto understand--with Sir Rufus Hautley. "

"Ay. After the boy came of age, "--and Mr. Bitterworth knew that healluded to Lionel--"I added his name to those of Sir Rufus and yourself. Legacies apart, the estate was all left to him. "

"Of course it was, " assented Mr. Bitterworth. 

"Since then, I have seen fit to make an alteration, " continued Mr. Verner. "I mention it to you, Bitterworth, that you may not besurprised when you hear the will read. Also I would tell you that I madethe change of my own free act and judgment, unbiassed by any one, andthat I did not make it without ample cause. The estate is not left toLionel Verner, but to Frederick Massingbird. "

Mr. Bitterworth had small round eyes, but they opened now to theirutmost width. "What did you say?" he repeated, after a pause, like a manout of breath. 

"Strictly speaking, the estate is not bequeathed to FrederickMassingbird; he will inherit it in consequence of John's death, " quietlywent on Mr. Verner. "It is left to John Massingbird, and to Frederickafter him, should he be the survivor. Failing them both----"

"And I am still executor?" interrupted Mr. Bitterworth, in a tone raisedrather above the orthodox key for a sick-room. 

"You and Sir Rufus. That, so far, is not altered. "

"Then I will not act. No, Stephen Verner, long and close as ourfriendship has been, I will not countenance an act of injustice. I willnot be your executor, unless Verner's Pride goes, as it ought, to LionelVerner. "

"Lionel has forfeited it. "

"Forfeited it!--how can he have forfeited it? Is this"--Mr. Bitterworthwas given to speak in plain terms when excited--"is this the underhandwork of Mrs. Verner?"

"Peace, Bitterworth! Mrs. Verner knows nothing of the change. Hersurviving son knows nothing of it; John knew nothing of it. They have noidea but that Lionel is still the heir. You should not jump to unjustconclusions. Not one of them has ever asked me how my property was left;or has attempted, by the smallest word, to influence me in itsdisposal. "

"Then, what has influenced you? Why have you done it?" demanded Mr. Bitterworth, his voice becoming more subdued. 

To this question Mr. Verner did not immediately reply. He appeared notto have done with the defence of his wife and her sons. 

"Mrs. Verner is not of a covetous nature; she is not unjust, and Ibelieve that she would wish the estate willed to Lionel, rather than toher sons. She knows no good reason why it should not be willed to him. And for those sons--do you suppose either of them would have gone outto Australia, had he been cognisant that he was heir to Verner'sPride?"

"Why have you willed it away from Lionel?"

"I cannot tell you, " replied Mr. Verner, in a tone of sharp pain. Itbetrayed to Mr. Bitterworth what sharper pain the step itself must havecost. 

"It is _this_ which has been on your mind, Verner--disturbing yourclosing years?"

"Ay, it is that; nothing else!" wailed Mr. Verner, "nothing else, nothing else! Has it not been enough to disturb me?" he added, puttingthe question in a loud, quick accent. "Setting aside my love for Lionel, which was great, setting aside my finding him unworthy, it has been abitter trial to me to leave Verner's Pride to a Massingbird. I havenever loved the Massingbirds, " he continued, dropping his voice to awhisper. 

"If Lionel _were_ unworthy, "--with a stress upon the "were, "--"you mighthave left it to Jan, " spoke Mr. Bitterworth. 

"Lady Verner has thrown too much estrangement between Jan and me. No. Iwould rather even a Massingbird had it than Jan. "

"If Lionel were unworthy, I said, " resumed Mr. Bitterworth. "I cannotbelieve he is. How has he proved himself so? What has he done?"

Mr. Verner put up his hands as if to ward off some imaginary phantom, and his pale face turned of a leaden hue. 

"Never ask me, " he whispered. "I cannot tell you. I have had to bear itabout with me, " he continued, with an irrepressible burst of anguish;"to bear it here, within me, in silence; never breathing a word of myknowledge to him, or to any one. "

"Some folly must have come to your cognisance, " observed Mr. Bitterworth; "though I had deemed Lionel Verner to be more free from thesins of hot-blooded youth than are most men. I have believed him to be atrue gentleman in the best sense of the word--a good and honourableman. "

"A silent stream runs deep, " remarked Mr. Verner. 

Mr. Bitterworth drew his chair nearer to his friend, and, bendingtowards him, resumed solemnly--

"Verner's Pride of right (speaking in accordance with our nationalnotions) belonged to your brother, Sir Lionel. It would have been his, as you know, had he lived but a month or two longer; your father wouldnot have willed it away from him. After him it would have been Lionel's. Sir Lionel died too soon, and it was left to you; but what injunctionfrom your father accompanied it? Forgive my asking you the question, Stephen. "

"Do you think I have forgotten it?" wailed Mr. Verner. "It has cost memy peace--my happiness, to will it away from Lionel. To see Verner'sPride in possession of any but a Verner will trouble me so--if, indeed, we are permitted in the next world still to mark what goes on inthis--that I shall scarcely rest quiet in my grave. "

"You have no more--I must speak plainly, Stephen--I believe that youhave no more right in equity to will away the estate from Lionel, thanyou would have were he the heir-at-law. Many have said--I am sure youmust be aware that they have--that you have kept him out of it; that youhave enjoyed what ought to have been his, ever since his grandfather'sdeath. "

"Have _you_ said it?" angrily asked Mr. Verner. 

"I have neither said it nor thought it. When your father informed methat he had willed the estate to you, Sir Lionel being dead, I answeredhim that I thought he had done well and wisely; that you had far moreright to it, for your life, than the boy Lionel. But, Stephen, I shouldnever sanction your leaving it away from him after you. Had youpossessed children of your own, they should never have been allowed toshut out Lionel. He is your elder brother's son, remember. "

Mr. Verner sat like one in dire perplexity. It would appear that therewas a struggle going on in his own mind. 

"I know, I know, " he presently said, in answer. "The worry, theuncertainty, as to what I ought to do, has destroyed the peace of mylater days. I altered my will when smarting under the discovery of hisunworthiness; but, even then a doubt as to whether I was doing rightcaused me to name him as inheritor, should the Massingbirds die. "

"Why, that must have been a paradox!" exclaimed Mr. Bitterworth. "LionelVerner should inherit before all, or not inherit at all. What yourground of complaint against him is, I know not; but whatever it may be, it can be no excuse for your willing away from him Verner's Pride. Someyouthful folly of his came to your knowledge, I conclude. "

"Not folly. Call it sin--call it crime, " vehemently replied Mr. Verner. 

"As you please; you know its proper term better than I. For one solitaryinstance of--what you please to name it--you should not blight his wholeprospects for life. Lionel's general conduct is so irreproachable(unless he be the craftiest hypocrite under the sun) that you may wellpardon one defalcation. Are you sure you were not mistaken?"

"I am sure. I hold proof positive. "

"Well, I leave that. I say that you might forgive him, whatever it maybe, remembering how few his offences are. He would make a faithfulmaster of Verner's Pride. Compare him to Fred Massingbird! Pshaw!"

Mr. Verner did not answer. His face had an aching look upon it, as itleaned out over the top of his stick. Mr. Bitterworth laid his hand uponhis friend's knee persuasively. 

"Do not go out of the world committing an act of injustice; an act, too, that is irreparable, and of which the injustice must last for ever. Stephen, I will not leave you until you consent to repair what you havedone. "

"It has been upon my mind to do it since I was taken worse yesterday, "murmured Stephen Verner. "Our Saviour taught us to forgive. Had it beenagainst me only that he sinned, I would have forgiven him long ago. "

"You will forgive him now?"

"Forgiveness does not lie with me. It was not against me, I say, that hesinned. Let him ask forgiveness of God and of his own conscience. But heshall have Verner's Pride. "

"Better that you should see it in its proper light at the eleventh hour, than not at all, Stephen, " said Mr. Bitterworth. "By every law of rightand justice, Verner's Pride, after you, belongs to Lionel. "

"You speak well, Bitterworth, when you call it the eleventh hour, "observed Mr. Verner. "If I am to make this change you must get Matisshere without an instant's delay. See him yourself, and bring him back. Tell him what the necessity is. He will make more haste for you than hemight for one of my servants. "

"Does he know of the bequest to the Massingbirds?"

"Of course he knows of it. He made the will. I have never employedanybody but Matiss since I came into the estate. "

Mr. Bitterworth, feeling there was little time to be lost, quitted theroom without more delay. He was anxious that Lionel should have his own. Not so much because he liked and esteemed Lionel, as that he possessed astrong sense of justice within himself. Lionel heard him leaving thesick-room, and came to him, but Mr. Bitterworth would not stop. 

"I cannot wait, " he said. "I am bound on an errand for your uncle. "

CHAPTER XVI. 

AN ALTERED WILL. 

Mr. Bitterworth was bound to the house of the lawyer, Mr. Matiss, wholived and had his office in the new part of Deerham, down by Dr. West's. People wondered that he managed to make a living in so small a place;but he evidently did make one. Most of the gentry in the vicinityemployed him for trifling things, and he held one or two good agencies. He kept no clerk. He was at home when Mr. Bitterworth entered, writingat a desk in his small office, which had maps hung round it. Aquick-speaking man, with dark hair and a good-natured face. 

"Are you busy, Matiss?" began Mr. Bitterworth, when he entered; and thelawyer looked at him through the railings of his desk. 

"Not particularly, Mr. Bitterworth. Do you want me?"

"Mr. Verner wants you. He has sent me to bring you to him without delay. You have heard that there's a change in him?"

"Oh, yes, I have heard it, " replied the lawyer. "I am at his service, Mr. Bitterworth. "

"He wants his last will altered. Remedied, I should say, " continued Mr. Bitterworth, looking the lawyer full in the face, and noddingconfidentially. 

"Altered to what it was before?" eagerly cried the lawyer. 

Mr. Bitterworth nodded again. "I called in upon him this morning, and inthe course of conversation it came out what he had done about Verner'sPride. And now he wants it undone. "

"I am glad of it--I am glad of it, Mr. Bitterworth. Betweenourselves--though I mean no disrespect to them--the young Massingbirdswere not fit heirs for Verner's Pride. Mr. Lionel Verner is. "

"He is the rightful heir as well as the fit one, Matiss, " added Mr. Bitterworth, leaning over the railings of the desk, while the lawyer washastily putting his papers in order, preparatory to leaving them, placing some aside on the desk, and locking up others. "What was thecause of his willing it away from Lionel Verner?"

"It's more than I can tell. He gave no clue whatever to his motive. Manyand many a time have I thought it over since, but I never came nearfathoming it. I told Mr. Verner that it was not a just thing, when Itook his instructions for the fresh will. That is, I intimated as much;it was not my place, of course, to speak out my mind offensively to Mr. Verner. Dr. West said a great deal more to him than I did; but he couldmake no impression. "

"Was Dr. West consulted, then, by Mr. Verner?"

"Not at all. When I called at Verner's Pride with the fresh will for Mr. Verner to execute, it happened that Tynn was out. He and one of theother servants were to have witnessed the signature. Dr. West came in atthe time, and Mr. Verner said he would do for a witness in Tynn's place. Dr. West remonstrated most strongly when he found what it was; for Mr. Verner told him in confidence what had been done. He, the doctor, atfirst refused to put his hand to anything so unjust. He protested thatthe public would cry shame, would say John Massingbird had no humanright to Verner's Pride, would suspect he had obtained it by fraud, orby some sort of underhand work. Mr. Verner replied that I--Matiss--couldcontradict that. At last the doctor signed. "

"When was this?"

"It was the very week after John started for Australia. I wondered whyMr. Verner should have allowed him to go, if he meant to make him hisheir. Dr. West wondered also, and said so to Mr. Verner, but Mr. Vernermade no reply. "

"Mr. Verner has just told me that neither the Massingbirds nor Mrs. Verner knew anything of the fresh will. I understood him to imply thatno person whatever was cognisant of it but himself and you. "

"And Dr. West. Nobody else. "

"And he gave _no_ reason for the alteration--either to you or to Dr. West?"

"None at all. Beyond the assertion that Lionel had displeased him. Dr. West would have pressed him upon the point, but Mr. Verner repulsed himwith coldness. He insisted upon our secrecy as to the new will; which wepromised, and I dare say have never violated. I know I can answer formyself. "

They hastened back to Verner's Pride. And the lawyer, in the presence ofMr. Bitterworth, received instructions for a codicil, revoking thebequest of the estate to the Massingbirds, and bestowing it absolutelyupon Lionel Verner. The bequests to others, legacies, instructions inthe former will, were all to stand. It was a somewhat elaborate will;hence Mr. Verner suggested that that will, so far, could still stand, and the necessary alteration be made by a codicil. 

"You can have it ready by this evening?" Mr. Verner remarked to thelawyer. 

"Before then, if you like, sir. It won't take me long to draw that up. One's pen goes glibly when one's heart is in the work. I am glad you arewilling it back to Mr. Lionel. "

"Draw it up then, and bring it here as soon as it's ready. You won'tfind me gone out, " Mr. Verner added, with a faint attempt at jocularity. 

The lawyer did as he was bid, and returned to Verner's Pride about fiveo'clock in the afternoon. He found Dr. West there. It was somewhatsingular that the doctor should again be present, as he had been at theprevious signing. And yet not singular, for he was now in frequentattendance on the patient. 

"How do you feel yourself this afternoon, sir?" asked Mr. Matiss, whenhe entered, his greatcoat buttoned up, his hat in his hand, his gloveson; showing no signs that he had any professional document about him, orthat he had called in for any earthly reason, save to inquire inpoliteness after the state of the chief of Verner's Pride. 

"Pretty well, Matiss. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir. "

"We'll do it at once, then. Dr. West, " Mr. Verner added, turning to thedoctor, "I have been making an alteration in my will. You were one ofthe former witnesses; will you be so again?"

"With pleasure. An alteration consequent upon the death of JohnMassingbird, I presume?"

"No. I should have made it, had he been still alive. Verner's Pridemust go to Lionel. I cannot die easy unless it does. "

"But--I thought you said Lionel had done--had done something to forfeitit?" interrupted Dr. West, whom the words appeared to have taken bysurprise. 

"To forfeit my esteem and good opinion. Those he can never enjoy again. But I doubt whether I have a right to deprive him of Verner's Pride. Ibegin to think I have not. I believe that the world generally will thinkI have not. It may be that a Higher Power, to whom alone I amresponsible, will judge I have not. There's no denying that he will makea more fitting master of it than would Frederick Massingbird; and formyself I shall die the easier knowing that a Verner will succeed me. Mr. Matiss, be so kind as read over the deed. "

The lawyer produced a parchment from one of his ample pockets, unfolded, and proceeded to read it aloud. It was the codicil, drawn up with alldue form, bequeathing Verner's Pride to Lionel Verner. It was short, andhe read it in a clear, distinct voice. 

"Will you like to sign it, sir?" he asked, as he laid it down. 

"When I have read it for myself, " replied Mr. Verner. 

The lawyer smiled as he handed it to him. All his clients were not socautious. Some might have said, "so mistrustful. "

Mr. Verner found the codicil all right, and the bell was rung for Tynn. Mrs. Tynn happened to come in at the same moment. She was retreatingwhen she saw business a-gate, but her master spoke to her. 

"You need not go, Mrs. Tynn. Bring a pen and ink here. "

So the housekeeper remained present while the deed was executed. Mr. Verner signed it, proclaiming it his last will and testament, and Dr. West and Tynn affixed their signatures. The lawyer and Mrs. Tynn stoodlooking on. 

Mr. Verner folded it up with his own hands, and sealed it. 

"Bring me my desk, " he said, looking at Mrs. Tynn. 

The desk was kept in a closet in the room, and she brought it forth. Mr. Verner locked the parchment within it. 

"You will remember where it is, " he said, touching the desk, and lookingat the lawyer. "The will is also here. "

Mrs. Tynn carried the desk back again; and Dr. West and the lawyer leftthe house together. 

Later, when Mr. Verner was in bed, he spoke to Lionel, who was sittingwith him. 

"You will give heed to carry out my directions, Lionel, so far as I haveleft directions, after you come into power. "

"I will, sir, " replied Lionel, never having had the faintest suspicionthat he had been near losing his inheritance. 

"And be more active abroad than I have been. I have left too much to Royand others. You are young and strong; don't you leave it to them. Lookinto things with your own eyes. "

"Indeed I will. My dear uncle, " he added, bending over the bed, andspeaking in an earnest tone, "I will endeavour to act in all things asthough in your sight, accountable to God and my own conscience. Verner'sPride shall have no unworthy master. "

"Try to live so as to redeem the past. "

"Yes, " said Lionel. He did not see what precise part of it he had toredeem, but he was earnestly anxious to defer to the words of a dyingman. "Uncle, may I dare to say that I hope you will live yet?" he gentlysaid. 

"It is of no use, Lionel. The world is closing for me. "

It was closing for him even then, as he spoke--closing rapidly. Beforeanother afternoon had come round, the master of Verner's Pride hadquitted that, and all other pride, for ever. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

DISAPPEARED. 

Sweeping down from Verner's Pride towards the church at Deerham came thelong funeral train--mutes with their plumes and batons, relays ofbearers, the bier. It had been Mr. Verner's express desire that heshould be carried to the grave, that no hearse or coaches should beused. 

"Bury me quietly; bury me without show, " had been his charge. And yet ashow it was, that procession, if only from its length. Close to thecoffin walked the heir, Lionel; Jan and Dr. West came next; Mr. Bitterworth and Sir Rufus Hautley. Other gentlemen were there, followersor pall-bearers; the tenants followed; the servants came last. A long, long line, slow and black; and spectators gathered on the side of theroad, underneath the hedges, and in the upper windows at Deerham, to seeit pass. The under windows were closed. 

A brave heir, a brave master of Verner's Pride! was the universalthought, as eyes were turned on Lionel, on his tall, noble form, hispale face stilled to calmness, his dark hair. He chose to walkbare-headed, his hat, with its sweeping streamers, borne in his hand. When handed to him in the hall he had not put it on, but went out as hewas, carrying it. The rest, those behind him, did not follow hisexample; they assumed their hats; but Lionel was probably unconscious ofit, probably he never gave it a thought. 

At the churchyard entrance they were met by the Vicar of Deerham, theReverend James Bourne. All hats came off then, as his voice rose, commencing the service. Nearly one of the last walked old Matthew Frost. He had not gone to Verner's Pride, the walk so far was beyond him now, but fell in at the churchyard gate. The fine, upright, hale man whom yousaw at the commencement of this history had changed into a bowed, brokenmourner. Rachel's fate had done that. On the right as they moved up thechurchyard, was the mound which covered the remains of Rachel. OldMatthew did not look towards it; as he passed it he only bent his headthe lower. But many others turned their heads; they remembered her thatday. 

In the middle of the church, open now, dark and staring, was the vaultof the Verners. There lay already within it Stephen Verner's father, hisfirst wife, and the little child Rachel, Rachel Frost's foster-sister. Agrand grave this, compared to that lowly mound outside; there was agrand descriptive tablet on the walls to the Verners; while the moundwas nameless. By the side of the large tablet was a smaller one, placedthere to the memory of the brave Sir Lionel Verner, who had fallen nearMoultan. Lionel involuntarily glanced up at it, as he stood now over thevault, and a wish came across him that his father's remains were here, amidst them, instead of in that far-off grave. 

The service was soon over, and Stephen Verner was left in hisresting-place. Then the procession, shorn of its chief and prominentfeatures, went back to Verner's Pride. Lionel wore his hat this time. 

In the large drawing-room of state, in her mourning robes and widow'scap, sat Mrs. Verner. She had not been out of her chamber, until withinthe last ten minutes, since before Mr. Verner's death; scarcely out ofher bed. As they passed into the room--the lawyer, Dr. West, Jan, Mr. Bitterworth, and Sir Rufus Hautley--they thought how Mrs. Verner hadchanged, and how ill she looked; not that her florid complexion was anypaler. She had, indeed, changed since the news of John Massingbird'sdeath; and some of them believed that she would not be very long afterMr. Verner. 

They had assembled there for the purpose of hearing the will read. Thedesk of Mr. Verner was brought forward and laid upon the table. Lionel, taking his late uncle's keys from his pocket, unlocked it, and delivereda parchment which it contained to Mr. Matiss. The lawyer saw at a glancethat it was the old will, not the codicil, and he waited for Lionel tohand him also the latter. 

"Be so kind as read it, Mr. Matiss, " said Lionel, pointing to the will. 

It had to be read; and it was of no consequence whether the codicil wastaken from the desk before reading the original will, or afterwards, soMr. Matiss unfolded it, and began. 

It was a somewhat elaborate will--which has been previously hinted. Verner's Pride, with its rich lands, its fine income, was left to JohnMassingbird; in the event of John's death, childless, it went toFrederick; in the event of Frederick's death, childless, it passed toLionel Verner. There the conditions ended; so that, if it did lapse toLionel, it lapsed to him absolutely. But it would appear that thecontingency of both the Massingbirds dying had been only barely glancedat by Mr. Verner. Five hundred pounds were left to Lionel: five hundredto Jan; five hundred to Decima; nothing to Lady Verner. Mrs. Verner wassuitably provided for, and there were bequests to servants. Twenty-fivepounds for "a mourning ring" were bequeathed to each of the twoexecutors, Sir Rufus Hautley, and Mr. Bitterworth; and old Matthew Frosthad forty pounds a year for his life. Such were the chief features ofthe will; and the utter astonishment it produced on the minds andcountenances of some of the listeners was a sight to witness. Lionel, Mrs. Verner, Jan, and Sir Rufus Hautley were petrified. 

Sir Rufus rose. He was a thin, stately man, always dressed in hessianboots and the old-fashioned shirt-frill. A proud, impassive countenancewas his, but it darkened now. "I will not act, " he began. "I beg tostate my opinion that the will is an unfair one--"

"I beg your pardon, Sir Rufus, " interrupted the lawyer. "Allow me aword. This is not the final will of Mr. Verner; much of it has beenrevoked by a recent codicil. Verner's Pride comes to Mr. Lionel. Youwill find the codicil in the desk, sir, " he added to Lionel. 

Lionel, his pale face haughty, and quite as impassive as that of SirRufus, for anything like injustice angered him, opened the desk again. "I was not aware, " he observed. "My uncle told me on the day of hisdeath that the will would be found in his desk; I supposed that to beit. "

"It is the will, " said Mr. Matiss. "But he caused me to draw up a latercodicil, which revoked the bequest of Verner's Pride. It is left to youabsolutely. "

Lionel was searching in the desk. The few papers in it appeared to bearranged with the most methodical neatness: but they were small, chieflyold letters. "I don't see anything like a codicil, " he observed. "Youhad better look yourself, Mr. Matiss; you will probably recognise it. "

Mr. Matiss advanced to the desk and looked in it. "It is not here!" heexclaimed. 

Not there! They gazed at him, at the desk, at Lionel, half puzzled. Thelawyer, with rapid fingers, began taking out the papers one by one. 

"No, it is not here, in either compartment. I saw it was not, the momentI looked in; but it was well to be sure. Where has it been put?"

"I really do not know anything about it, " answered Lionel, to whom helooked as he spoke. "My uncle told me the will would be found in hisdesk. And the desk has not been opened since his death. "

"Could Mr. Verner himself have changed its place to somewhere else?"asked the lawyer, speaking with more than usual quickness, and turningover the papers with great rapidity. 

"Not after he told me where the will was. He did not touch the deskafter that. It was but just before his death. So far as I know, he hadnot had his desk brought out of the closet for days. "

"Yes, he had, " said the lawyer. "After he had executed the codicil onthe evening previous to his death, he called for his desk, and put theparchment into it. It lay on the top of the will--this one. I saw thatmuch. "

"I can testify that the codicil was locked in the desk, and the desk wasthen returned to the closet, for I happened to be present, " spoke up Dr. West. "I was one of the witnesses to the codicil, as I had been to thewill. Mr. Verner must have moved it himself to some safer place. "

"What place could be safer than the desk in his own bedroom?" cried thelawyer. "And why move the codicil and not the will?"

"True, " assented Dr. West. "But--I don't see--it could not go out of thedesk without being moved out. And who would presume to meddle with itbut himself? Who took possession of his keys when he died?" added thedoctor, looking round at Mrs. Verner. 

"I did, " said Lionel. "And they have not been out of my possessionsince. Nothing whatever has been touched; desk, drawers, every placebelonging to him are as they were left when he died. "

Of course the only thing to do was to look for the codicil. Greatinterest was excited; and it appeared to be altogether so mysterious anaffair that one and all flocked upstairs to the room; the room where hehad died! whence the coffin had but just been borne. Mrs. Tynn wassummoned; and when she found what was amiss, she grew excited; fearing, possibly, that the blame might in some way fall upon her. Saving Lionelhimself, she was the only one who had been alone with Mr. Verner; ofcourse, the only one who could have had an opportunity of tampering withthe desk. And that, only when the patient slept. 

"I protest that the desk was never touched, after I returned it to thecloset by my master's desire, when the parchment was put into it!" shecried. "My master never asked for his desk again, and I never so much asopened the closet. It was only the afternoon before he died, gentlemen, that the deed was signed. "

"Where did he keep his keys?" asked Mr. Bitterworth. 

"In the little table-drawer at his elbow, sir. The first day he took tohis bed, he wanted his keys, and I got them out of his dressing-gownpocket for him. 'You needn't put them back, ' he says to me; 'let themstop inside this little drawer. ' And there they stayed till he died, when I gave them up to Mr. Lionel. "

"You must have allowed somebody to get into the room, Mrs. Tynn, " saidDr. West. 

"I never was away from the room above two minutes at a time, sir, " wasthe woman's reply, "and then either Mr. Lionel or Tynn would be withhim. But, if any of 'em did come in, it's not possible they'd getpicking at the master's desk to take out a paper. What good would thepaper do any of the servants?"

Mrs. Tynn's question was a pertinent one. The servants were neither thebetter nor the worse for the codicil; whether it were forthcoming, ornot, it made no difference to them. Sir Rufus Hautley inquired upon thispoint, and the lawyer satisfied him. 

"The codicil was to this effect alone, " he explained. "It changed thepositions of Mr. Lionel and Mr. John Massingbird, the one for the other, as they had stood in the will. Mr. Lionel came into the inheritance, andMr. Frederick Massingbird to five hundred pounds only. Mr. John wasgone--as everybody knows. "

"These two, Mr. Lionel and Frederick Massingbird, were the only partiesinterested in the codicil, then?"

"The only two. John Massingbird's name was mentioned, but only to revokeall former bequests to him. "

"Then--were John Massingbird alive, he could not now succeed to theestate!" cried Sir Rufus. 

"He could not, Sir Rufus, " replied the lawyer. "He would be debarredfrom all benefit under Mr. Verner's will. That is, provided we can comeacross the codicil. Failing that, he would succeed were he in life, toVerner's Pride. "

"The codicil _must_ be found, " cried Mr. Bitterworth, getting heated. "Don't say, 'if we can come across it, ' Matiss. "

"Very good, Mr. Bitterworth. I'm sure I should be glad to see it found. Where else are we to look?"

Where else, indeed! That Mr. Verner could not get out of the room tohide the codicil was an indisputable fact; and nobody else seemed toknow anything whatever about it. The only one personally interested inthe suppression of the codicil was Frederick Massingbird; and he, hundreds of miles away, could neither have secured it nor sent his ghostto secure it. In a less degree, Mrs. Verner and Dr. West wereinterested; the one in her son, the other in that son's wife. But thedoctor was not an inmate of Verner's Pride; and Mrs. Tynn could havetestified that she had been present in the room and never left it duringeach of the doctor's professional visits, subsequent to the drawing outof the codicil. As for Mrs. Verner, she had not been out of her bed. Mr. Verner, at the last, had gone off suddenly, without pain, and there hadbeen no time to call his wife. Mrs. Tynn excused the negligence bysaying she did not think her master had been quite so near his end; andit was a true excuse. But no one dreamed of attaching suspicion to Mrs. Verner, or to Dr. West. "I'd rather it had been Lionel to succeed thanFrederick, " spoke the former, honestly, some faint idea that peoplemight think she was pleased suggesting the avowal to her. "Lionel hasmore right than Fred to Verner's Pride. "

"More right!" ejaculated Dr. West warmly. "Frederick Massingbird has_no_ right, by the side of Lionel Verner. Why Mr. Verner ever willed itaway from Lionel we could not understand. "

"Fred needn't take it--even if the codicil can't be found--he can giveit back to Lionel by deed of gift, " said practical Jan. "_I_ should. "

"That my master meant Mr. Lionel to succeed, is certain, " interposedTynn, the butler. "Nearly the last word he said to me, before the breathwent out of his body, was an injunction to serve Mr. Lionel faithfullyat Verner's Pride, as I had served him. There can be no difficulty inMr. Lionel's succeeding, when my master's intentions were made soplain. "

"Be quiet, Tynn, " said Lionel. "I succeed by means of legal right toVerner's Pride, or I will not succeed at all. "

"That's true, " acquiesced the lawyer. "A will is a will, and must beacted upon. How on earth has that codicil got spirited away?"

How indeed! But for the plain fact, so positive and palpable beforethem, of the codicil's absence, they would have declared the loss to bean impossibility. Upstairs and down, the house was vainly searched forit; and the conclusion was at length unwillingly come to that Mr. Vernerhad repented of his bequest, had taken the codicil out of the desk, andburned it. The suggestion came from Mr. Bitterworth; and Mrs. Tynnacknowledged that it was just possible Mr. Verner's strength would allowhim to accomplish so much, while her back was turned. And yet, howreconcile this with his dying charges to Lionel, touching the managementof the estate?

The broad fact that there was the will, and that alone to act upon, untempered by a codicil, shone out all too clearly. Lionel Verner wasdisplaced, and Frederick Massingbird was the heir. 

Oh, if some impossible electric telegraph could but have carried thenews over the waves of the sea, to the ship ploughing along the mid-pathof the ocean; if the two fugitives in her could but have been spiritedback again, as the codicil seemed to have been spirited away, howtriumphantly would they have entered upon their sway at Verner's Pride. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

PERPLEXITY. 

It was a terrible blow; there was no doubt of that; very terrible toLionel Verner, so proud and sensitive. Do not take the word proud in itswrong meaning. He did not set himself up for being better than others, or think everybody else dirt beneath his feet; but he was proud of hisindependence, of his unstained name--he was proud to own that fineplace, Verner's Pride. And now Verner's Pride was dashed from him, andhis independence seemed to have gone out with the blow, and a slightseemed to have fallen upon him, if not upon his name. 

He had surely counted upon Verner's Pride. He had believed himself asindisputably its heir, as though he had been Stephen Verner's eldestson, and the estate entailed. Never for a moment had a doubt that hewould succeed entered his own mind, or been imparted to it from anyquarter. In the week that intervened between Mr. Verner's death andburial, he had acted as entire master. It was he who issued orders--fromhimself now, not from any other--it was he who was appealed to. People, of their own accord, began to call him Mr. Verner. Very peremptoryindeed had been a certain interview of his with Roy the bailiff. Not, asformerly, had he said, "Roy, my uncle desires me to say so and so;" or, "Roy, you must not act in that way, it would displease Mr. Verner;" buthe issued his own clear and unmistakable orders, as the sole master ofVerner's Pride. He and Roy all but came to loggerheads that day; andthey would have come quite to it, but that Roy remembered in time thathe, before whom he stood, was his head and master--his master to keephim on, or to discharge him at pleasure, and who would brook no moreinsubordination to his will. So Roy bowed, and ate humble pie, and hatedLionel all the while. Lionel had seen this; he had seen how the manlonged to rebel, had he dared: and now a flush of pain rose to his browas he remembered that in that interview he had _not_ been the master;that he was less master now than he had ever been. Roy would likewiseremember it. 

Mr. Bitterworth took Lionel aside. Sir Rufus Hautley had gone out afterthe blow had fallen, when the codicil had been searched for in vain, hadgone out in anger, shaking the dust from his feet, declining to act asexecutor, to accept the mourning-ring, to have to do with anything sopalpably unjust. The rest lingered yet. It seemed that they could nottalk enough of it, could not tire of bringing forth new conjectures, could not give vent to all the phases of their astonishment. 

"What could have been your offence, that your uncle should alter hiswill, two years ago, and leave the estate from you?" Mr. Bitterworthinquired of Lionel, drawing him aside. 

"I am unable to conjecture, " replied Lionel. "I find by the date of thiswill that it was made the week subsequent to my departure for Paris, when Jan met with the accident. He was not displeased with me then, sofar as I knew----"

"Did you go to Paris in opposition to his wish?" interrupted Mr. Bitterworth. 

"On the contrary, he hurried me off. When the news of Jan's accidentarrived, and I went to my uncle with the message, he said to me--Iremember his very words--'Go off at once; don't lose an instant, ' and hehanded me money for the journey and for my stay; for Jan, also, shouldany great expense be needed for him; and in an hour I was away on myroute. I stayed six months in Paris, as you may remember--the latterportion of the time for my own pleasure. When I did return home, I wasperfectly thunderstruck at the change in my uncle's appearance, and atthe change in his manners to me. He was a bowed, broken man, with--as itseemed to me--some care upon his mind; and that I had offended him insome very unfortunate way, and to a great extent, was palpable. I nevercould get any solution to it, though I asked him repeatedly. I do notknow, to this hour, what I had done. Sometimes I thought he was angryat my remaining so long away; but, if so, he might have given me a hintto return, or have suffered some one else to give it, for he never wroteto me. "

"Never wrote to you?" repeated Mr. Bitterworth. 

"Not once, the whole of the time I was away. I wrote to him often; butif he had occasion to send me a message, Mrs. Verner or Fred Massingbirdwould write it. Of course, this will, disinheriting me, proves that mystaying away could not have been the cause of displeasure--it is datedonly the week after I went. "

"Whatever may have been the cause, it is a grievous wrong inflicted onyou. He was my dear friend, and we have but now returned from laying himin his grave, but still I must speak out my sentiments--that he had _noright_ to deprive you of Verner's Pride. "

Lionel knit his brow. That he thought the same; that he was feeling theinjustice as a crying and unmerited wrong, was but too evident. Mr. Bitterworth had bent his head in a reverie, stealing a glance at Lionelnow and then. 

"Is there nothing that you can charge your conscience with; no sin, which may have come to the knowledge of your uncle, and been deemed byhim a just cause for disinheritance?" questioned Mr. Bitterworth, in ameaning tone. 

"There is nothing, so help me Heaven!" replied Lionel, with emotion. "Nosin, no shame; nothing that could be a cause, or the shade of a cause--Iwill not say for depriving me of Verner's Pride, but even for my uncle'sdispleasure. "

"It struck me--you will not be offended with me, Lionel, if I mentionsomething that struck me a week back, " resumed Mr. Bitterworth. "I am afoolish old man, given to ponder much over cause and effect--to put twoand two together, as we call it; and the day I first heard from youruncle that he had had good cause--it was what he said--for depriving youof Verner's Pride, I went home, and set myself to think. The will hadbeen made just after John Massingbird's departure for Australia. Ibrought before me all the events which had occurred about that sametime, and there rose up naturally, towering above every otherreminiscence, the unhappy business touching Rachel Frost. Lionel"--laying his hand on the young man's shoulder and dropping hisvoice to a whisper--"did _you_ lead the girl astray?"

Lionel drew himself up to his full height, his lip curling withdispleasure. 

"Mr. Bitterworth!"

"To suspect you never would have occurred to me. I do not suspect younow. Were you to tell me that you were guilty of it, I should havedifficulty in believing you. But it did occur to me that possibly youruncle may have cast that blame on you. I saw no other solution of theriddle. It could have been no light cause to induce Mr. Verner todeprive you of Verner's Pride. He was not a capricious man. '

"It is impossible that my uncle could have cast a shade of suspicion onme, in regard to that affair, " said Lionel. "He knew me better. At themoment of its occurrence, when nobody could tell whom to suspect, Iremember a word or two were dropped which caused me to assure him _I_was not the guilty party, and he stopped me. He would not allow me evento speak of defence; he said he cast no suspicion on me. "

"Well, it is a great mystery, " said Mr. Bitterworth. "You must excuseme, Lionel. I thought Mr. Verner might in some way have taken up thenotion. Evil tales, which have no human foundation, are sometimes palmedupon credulous ears for fact, and do their work. "

"Were it as you suggest, my uncle would have spoken to me, had it beenonly to reproach, " said Lionel. "It is a mystery, certainly, as youobserve; but that is nothing to this mystery of the disappearance of thecodicil----"

"I am going, Lionel, " interrupted Jan, putting his head round the roomdoor. 

"I must go, too, " said Lionel, starting from the sideboard against whichhe had been leaning. "My mother must hear of this business from no onebut me. "

Verner's Pride emptied itself of its mourners, who betook themselvestheir respective ways. Lionel, taking the long crape from his hat, andleaving on its deep mourning band alone, walked with a quick stepthrough the village. He would not have _chosen_ to be abroad that day, walking the very route where he had just figured chief in theprocession, but to go without delay to Lady Verner was a duty. And aduty was never willingly omitted by Lionel Verner. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE REVELATION TO LADY VERNER. 

IN the drawing-room at Deerham Court, in their new black dresses, satLady Verner and Decima; Lucy Tempest with them. Lady Verner held out herhand to Lionel when he entered, and lifted her face, a strange eagernessvisible in its refinement. 

"I thought you would come to me, Lionel!" she uttered. "I want to know ahundred things. --Decima, have the goodness to direct your reproachfullooks elsewhere; not to me. Why should I be a hypocrite, and feign asorrow for Stephen Verner which I do not feel? I know it is hisburial-day as well as you know it; but I will not make that a reason forabstaining from questions on family topics, although they do relate tomoney and means that were once his. I say it would be hypocriticalaffectation to do so. Lionel, " she deliberately continued, "has Jan aninterest in Verner's Pride after you, or is it left to youunconditionally? And what residence is appointed for Mrs. Verner?"

Lionel leaned over the table, apparently to reach something that waslying on it, contriving to bring his lips close to Decima. "Go out ofthe room, and take Lucy, " he whispered. 

Decima received the hint promptly. She rose as of her own accord. "Lucy, let us leave mamma and Lionel alone. We will come back when your secretsare over, " she added, turning round with a smile as she left the room, drawing Lucy with her. 

"You don't speak, Lionel, " impatiently cried Lady Verner. In truth hedid not; he did not know how to begin. He rose, and approached her. 

"Mother, can you bear disappointment?" he asked, taking her hand, andspeaking gently, in spite of his agitation. 

"Hush!" interrupted Lady Verner. "If you speak of 'disappointment' tome, you are no true son of mine. You are going to tell me that StephenVerner has left nothing to me. Let me tell you, Lionel, that I would nothave accepted it--and this I made known to him. Accept money from _him_!No. But I will accept it from my dear son, "--looking at him with asmile--"now that he enjoys the revenues of Verner's Pride. "

"It was not with money left, or not left, to you, that I was connectingdisappointment, " answered Lionel. "There is a worse disappointment instore for us than that, mother. "

"A worse disappointment!" repeated Lady Verner, looking puzzled. "Youare never to be saddled with the presence of Mrs. Verner at Verner'sPride, until her death!" she hastily added. A great disappointment, thatwould have been; a grievous wrong, in the estimation of Lady Verner. 

"Mother, dear, Verner's Pride is not mine. "

"Not yours!" she slowly said. "He _surely_ has not done as his fatherdid before him?--left it to the younger brother, over the head of theelder? He has never left it to Jan!"

"Neither to Jan nor to me. It is left to Frederick Massingbird. Johnwould have had it, had he been alive. "

Lady Verner's delicate features became crimson; before she could speak, they had assumed a leaden colour. "Don't play with me, Lionel, " shegasped, an awful fear thumping at her heart that he was _not_ playingwith her. "It cannot be left to the Massingbirds!"

He sat down by her side, and gave her the history of the matter indetail. Lady Verner caught at the codicil, as a drowning man catches ata straw. 

"How could you terrify me?" she asked. "Verner's Pride is yours, Lionel. The codicil must be found. "

"The conviction upon my mind is that it never will be found, " heresolutely answered. "Whoever took that codicil from the desk where itwas placed, could have had but one motive in doing it--the depriving meof Verner's Pride. Rely upon it, it is effectually removed ere this, byburning, or otherwise. No. I already look upon the codicil as a thingthat never existed. Verner's Pride is gone from us. "

"But, Lionel, whom do you suspect? Who can have taken it? It is prettynearly a hanging matter to steal a will!"

"I do not suspect any one, " he emphatically answered. "Mrs. Tynnprotests that no one could have approached the desk unseen by her. It isvery unlikely that any one could have burnt it. They must, first of all, have chosen a moment when my uncle was asleep; they must have got Mrs. Tynn from the room; they must have searched for and found the keys; theymust have unlocked the desk, taken the codicil, relocked the desk, andreplaced the keys. All this could not be done without time, andfamiliarity with facts. Not a servant in the house--save the Tynns--knewthe codicil was there, and they did not know its purport. But the Tynnsare thoroughly trustworthy. "

"It must have been Mrs. Verner----"

"Hush, mother! I cannot listen to that, even from you. Mrs. Verner wasin her bed--never out of it; she knew nothing whatever of the codicil. And, if she had, you will, I hope, do her the justice to believe thatshe would be incapable of meddling with it. "

"She benefits by its loss, at any rate, " bitterly rejoined Lady Verner. 

"Her son does. But that he does was entirely unknown to her. She neverknew that Mr. Verner had willed the estate away from me; she neverdreamed but that I, and no other, would be his successor. The accessionof Frederick Massingbird is unwelcome to her, rather than the contrary;he has no right to it, and she feels that he has not. In the impulse ofthe surprise, she said aloud that she wished it had been left to me; andI am sure these were her true sentiments. "

Lady Verner sat in silence, her white hands crossed on her black dress, her head bent down. Presently she lifted it----

"I do not fully understand you, Lionel. You appear to implythat--according to your belief--no one has touched the codicil. How, then, can it have got out of the desk?"

"There is only one solution. It was suggested by Mr. Bitterworth; and, though I refused credence to it when he spoke, it has since been gainingupon my mind. He thinks my uncle must have repented of the codicil afterit was made, and himself destroyed it. I should give full belief to thiswere it not that at the very last he spoke to me as the successor toVerner's Pride. "

"Why did he will it from you at all?" asked Lady Verner. 

"I know not. I have told you how estranged his manner has been to me forthe last year or two; but wherefore, or what I had done to displeasehim, I cannot think or imagine. "

"He had no right to will away the estate from you, " vehemently rejoinedLady Verner. "Was it not enough that he usurped your father'sbirth-right, as Jacob usurped Esau's, keeping you out of it for yearsand years, but he must now deprive you of it for ever? Had you beendead--had there been any urgent reason why you should not succeed--Janshould have come in. Jan is the lawful heir, failing you. Mark me, Lionel, it will bring no good to Frederick Massingbird. Rights, violently diverted out of their course, can bring only wrong andconfusion. "

"It would be scarcely fair were it to bring him ill, " spoke Lionel, inhis strict justice. "Frederick has had nothing to do with my uncle'sbequeathing the estate to him. "

"Nonsense, Lionel! you cannot make me believe that no cajolery has beenat work from some quarter or other, " peevishly answered Lady Verner. "Tell the facts to an impartial person--a stranger. They were alwaysabout him--his wife and those Massingbirds--and at the last moment it isdiscovered that he has left all to them, and disinherited you. "

"Mother, you are mistaken. What my uncle has done, he has done of hisown will alone, unbiassed by others; nay, unknown to others. Hedistinctly stated this to Matiss, when the change was made. No, althoughI am a sufferer, and they benefit, I cannot throw a shade of the wrongupon Mrs. Verner and the Massingbirds. "

"I will tell you what I cannot do--and that is to accept your view ofthe disappearance of the codicil, " said Lady Verner. "It does not standto reason that your uncle would cause a codicil to be made, with all thehaste and parade you speak of, only to destroy it afterwards. Dependupon it, you are wrong. He never took it. "

"It does appear unlikely, " acquiesced Lionel, after some moments ofdeliberation. "It was not likely, either, that he would destroy it insecret; he would have done it openly. And still less likely, that hewould have addressed me as his successor in dying, and given me chargesas to the management of the estate, had he left it away from me. "

"No, no; no, no!" emphatically returned Lady Verner. "That codicil hasbeen _stolen_, Lionel. "

"But, by whom?" he debated. "There's not a servant in the house would doit; and there was no other inmate of it, save myself. This is my chiefdifficulty. Were it not for the total absence of all other suspicion, Ishould not for a moment entertain the thought that it could have beenmy uncle. Let us leave the subject, mother. It seems to be anunprofitable one, and my head is weary. "

"Are you going to give the codicil tamely up for a bad job, withoutfurther search?" asked Lady Verner. "That I should live--that I should_live_ to see Sibylla West's children inherit Verner's Pride!" shepassionately added. 

Sibylla West's children! Lionel had enough pain at his heart, just then, without that shaft. A piercing shaft truly, and it dyed his brow fieryred. 

"We have searched already in every likely or possible place that we canthink of; to-morrow morning, places unlikely and impossible will besearched, " he said, in answer to his mother's question. "I shall beaided by the police; our searching is nothing compared with what theycan do. They go about it artistically, perfected by practice. "

"And--if the result should be a failure?"

"It will be a failure, " spoke Lionel, in his firm conviction. "In whichcase I bid adieu to Verner's Pride. "

"And come home here; will you not, Lionel?"

"For the present. And now, mother, that I have told you the ill news, and spoiled your rest, I must go back again. "

Spoiled her rest! Ay, for many a day and night to come. Lioneldisinherited! Verner's Pride gone from them for ever! A cry went forthfrom Lady Verner's heart. It had been the moment of hope which she hadlooked forward to for years; and, now that it was come, what had itbrought?

"My own troubles make me selfish, " said Lionel, turning back when he washalf out at the door. "I forgot to tell you that Jan and Decima inheritfive hundred pounds each. "

"Five hundred pounds!" slightingly returned Lady Verner. "It is but ofat piece with the rest. "

He did not add that he had five hundred also, failing the estate. Itwould have seemed worse mockery still. 

Looking out at the door, opposite to the ante-room, on the other side ofthe hall, was Decima. She had heard his step, and came to beckon him in. It was the dining-parlour, but a pretty room still; for Lady Vernerwould have nothing about her inelegant or ugly, if she could help it. Lucy Tempest, in her favourite school attitude, was half-kneeling, half-sitting on the rug before the fire; but she rose when Lionel camein. 

Decima entwined her arm within his, and led him up to the fire-place. "Did you bring mamma bad news?" she asked. "I thought I read it in yourcountenance. "

"Very bad, Decima. Or I should not have sent you away while I told it. "

"I suppose there's nothing left for mamma, or for Jan?"

"Mamma did not expect anything left for her, Decima. Don't go away, Lucy, " he added, arresting Lucy Tempest, who, with good taste, wasleaving them alone. "Stay and hear how poor I am; all Deerham knows itby this time. "

Lucy remained. Decima, her beautiful features a shade paler than usual, turned her serene eyes on Lionel. She little thought what was coming. 

"Verner's Pride is left away from me, Decima. "

"Left away from you! From _you_?"

"Frederick Massingbird inherits. I am passed over. "

"Oh, Lionel!" The words were not uttered angrily, passionately, as LadyVerner's had been; but in a low, quiet voice, wrung from her, seemingly, by intense inward pain. 

"And so there will be some additional trouble for you in thehousekeeping line, " went on Lionel, speaking gaily, and ignoring all thepain at _his_ heart. "Turned out of Verner's Pride, I must come to youhere--at least, for a time. What shall you say to that, Miss Lucy?"

Lucy was looking up at him gravely, not smiling in the least. "Is ittrue that you have lost Verner's Pride?" she asked. 

"Quite true. "

"But I thought it was yours--after Mr. Verner. "

"I thought so too, until to-day, " replied Lionel. "It ought to have beenmine. "

"What shall you do without it?"

"What, indeed!" he answered. "From being a landed country gentleman--aspeople have imagined me--I go down to a poor fellow who must work forhis bread and cheese before he eats it. Your eyes are laughing, MissLucy, but it is true. "

"Bread and cheese costs nothing, " said she. 

"No? And the plate you put it on, and the knife you eat it with, and theglass of beer to help it go down, and the coat you wear during therepast, and the room it's served in?--they cost something, Miss Lucy. "

Lucy laughed. "I think you will always have enough bread and cheese, "said she. "You look as though you would. "

Decima turned to them. She had stood buried in a reverie, until thelight tone of Lionel aroused her from it. "_Which_ is real, Lionel? Thisjoking, or that you have lost Verner's Pride?"

"Both, " he answered. "I am disinherited from Verner's Pride; betterperhaps that I should joke over it, than cry. "

"What will mamma do? What will mamma do?" breathed Decima. "She has socounted upon it. And what will you do, Lionel?"

"Decima!" came forth at this moment from the opposite room, in theimperative voice of Lady Verner. 

Decima turned in obedience to it, her step less light than usual. Lucyaddressed Lionel. 

"One day at the rectory there came a gipsy woman, wanting to tell ourfortunes; she accosted us in the garden. Mr. Cust sent her away, and shewas angry, and told him his star was not in the ascendant. I think itmust be the case at present with your star, Mr. Verner. "

Lionel smiled. "Yes, indeed. "

"It is not only one thing that you are losing; it is more. First, thatpretty girl whom you loved; then, Mr. Verner; and now, Verner's Pride. Iwish I knew how to comfort you. "

Lucy Tempest spoke with the most open simplicity, exactly as a sistermight have done. But the one allusion grated on Lionel's heart. 

"You are very kind, Lucy. Good-bye. Tell Decima I shall see her sometime to-morrow. "

Lucy Tempest looked after him from the window as he paced the inclosedcourtyard. "I cannot think how people can be unjust!" was her thought. "If Verner's Pride was rightly his, why have they taken it from him?"

CHAPTER XX. 

DRY WORK. 

Certainly Lionel Verner's star was not in the ascendant--though LucyTempest had used the words in jest. His love gone from him; his fortuneand position wrested from him; all become the adjuncts of one man, Frederick Massingbird. Serenely, to outward appearance, as Lionel hadmet the one blow, so did he now meet the other; and none, looking on hiscalm bearing, could suspect what the loss was to him. But it is thesilent sorrow that eats into the heart; the loud grief does not tellupon it. 

An official search had been made; but no trace could be found of themissing codicil. Lionel had not expected that it would be found. Heregarded it as a deed which had never had existence, and took up hisabode with his mother. The village could not believe it; theneighbourhood resented it. People stood in groups to talk it over. Itdid certainly appear to be a most singular and almost incredible thing, that, in the enlightened days of the latter half of the nineteenthcentury, an official deed should disappear out of a gentleman's desk, inhis own well-guarded residence, in his habited chamber. Conjectures andthoughts were freely bandied about; while Dr. West and Jan grew nearlytired of the particulars demanded of them in their professional visits, for their patients would talk of nothing else. 

The first visible effect that the disappointment had, was to stretchLady Verner on a sick-bed. She fell into a low, nervous state ofprostration, and her irritability--it must be confessed--was great. Butfor this illness, Lionel would have been away. Thrown now upon his ownresources, he looked steadily into the future, and strove to chalk out acareer for himself; one by which--as he had said to Lucy Tempest--hemight earn bread and cheese. Of course, at Lionel Verner's age, andreared to no profession, unfamiliar with habits of business, that waseasier thought of than done. He had no particular talent for literature;he believed that, if he tried his hand at that, the bread might come, but the cheese would be doubtful--although he saw men, with even lessaptitude for it than he, turning to it and embracing it with all theconfidence in the world, as if it were an ever-open resource for all, when other trades failed. There were the three professions; but werethey available? Lionel felt no inclination to become a working drudgelike poor Jan; and the Church, for which he had not any liking, he wasby far too conscientious to embrace only as a means of living. Thereremained the Bar; and to that he turned his attention, and resolved toqualify himself for it. That there would be grinding, and drudgery, andhard work, and no pay for years, he knew; but, so there might be, go towhat he would. The Bar did hold out a chance of success, and there wasnothing in it derogatory to the notions in which he had beenreared--those of a gentleman. 

Jan came to him one day about the time of the decision, and Lionel toldhim that he should soon be away; that he intended to enter himself atthe Middle Temple, and take chambers. 

"Law!" said Jan. "Why, you'll be forty, maybe, before you ever get abrief. You should have entered earlier. "

"Yes. But how was I to know that things would turn out like this?"

"Look here, " said Jan, tilting himself in a very uncomfortable fashionon the high back of an arm-chair, "there's that five hundred pounds. Youcan have that. "

"What five hundred pounds?" asked Lionel. 

"The five hundred that Uncle Stephen left me. I don't want it. Old Westgives me as much as keeps me in clothes and that, which is all I careabout. You take the money and use it. "

"No, Jan. Thank you warmly, old boy, all the same; but I'd not take yourpoor little bit of money if I were starving. "

"What's the good of it to me?" persisted Jan, swaying his legs about. "Ican't use it: I have got nothing to use it in. I have put it in the bankat Heartburg, but the bank may go smash, you know, and then who'd be thebetter for the money? You take it and make sure of it, Lionel. "

Lionel smiled at him. Jan was as simple and single-hearted in his way asLucy Tempest was in hers. But Lionel must want money very grievouslyindeed, before he would have consented to take honest Jan's. 

"I have five hundred of my own, you know, Jan, " he said. "More than Ican use yet awhile. "

So he fixed upon the Bar, and would have hastened to London but for LadyVerner's illness. In the weak, low state to which disappointment andirritability had reduced her, she could not bear to lose sight ofLionel, or permit him to depart. "It will be time enough when I am dead;and that won't be long first, " was the constant burden of her song tohim. 

He believed his mother to be little more likely to die than he was, buthe was too dutiful a son to cross her in her present state. He gatheredcertain ponderous tomes about him, and began studying law on his ownaccount, shutting himself up in his room all day to do it. Awfully drywork he found it; not in the least congenial; and many a time did helong to pitch the whole lot into the pleasant rippling stream, runningthrough the grounds of Sir Rufus Hautley, which danced and glittered inthe sun in view of Lionel's window. 

He could not remain at his daily study without interruptions. They werepretty frequent. People--tenants, workmen, and others--would persist incoming for orders to Mr. Lionel. In vain Lionel told them that he couldnot give orders, could not interfere; that he had no longer anything todo with Verner's Pride. They could not be brought to understand why hewas not their master as usual--at any rate, why he could not act as one, and interpose between them and the tyrant, Roy. In point of fact, Mr. Roy was head and master of the estate just now, and a nice head andmaster he made! Mrs. Verner, shut up in Verner's Pride with her illhealth, had no conception what games were being played. "Let be, letbe, " the people would say. "When Mr. Fred Massingbird comes home, Roy'llget called to account, and receive his deserts;" a fond belief in whichall did not join. Many entertained a shrewd suspicion that Mr. FredMassingbird was too much inclined to be a tyrant on his own account, todisapprove of the acts of Roy. Lionel's blood often boiled at what hesaw and heard, and he wished he could put miles between himself andDeerham. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

A WHISPERED SUSPICION. 

Dr. West was crossing the courtyard one day, after paying his morningvisit to Lady Verner, when he was waylaid by Lionel. 

"How long will my mother remain in this weak state?" he inquired. 

Dr. West lifted his arched eyebrows. "It is impossible to say, Mr. Lionel. These cases of low nervous fever are sometimes very muchprotracted. "

"Lady Verner's is not nervous fever, " dissented Lionel. 

"It approaches near to it. "

"The fact is, I want to be away, " said Lionel. 

"There is no reason why you should not be away, if you wish it, "rejoined the physician. "Lady Verner is not in any danger; she is sureto recover eventually. "

"I know that. At least, I hope it is sure, " returned Lionel. "But, inthe state she is, I cannot reason with her, or talk to her of thenecessity of my being away. Any approach to the topic irritates her. "

"I should go, and say nothing to her beforehand, " observed Dr. West. "When she found you were really off, and that there was no remedy forit, she must perforce reconcile herself to it. "

Every fond feeling within Lionel revolted at the suggestion. "We arespeaking of my mother, doctor, " was his courteously-uttered rebuke. 

"Well, if you would not like to do that, there's nothing for it butpatience, " the doctor rejoined, as he drew open one of the iron gates. "Lady Verner may be no better than she is now for weeks to come. Good-day, Mr. Lionel. "

Lionel paced into the house with a slow step, and went up to hismother's chamber. She was lying on a couch by the fire, her eyes closed, her pale features contracted as if with pain. Her maid Thérèse appearedto be busy with her, and Lionel called out Decima. 

"There's no improvement, I hear, Decima. "

"No. But, on the other hand, there is no danger. There's nothing evenvery serious, if Dr. West may be believed. Do you know, Lionel, what Ifancy he thinks?"

"What?" asked Lionel. 

"That if mamma were obliged to exert and rouse herself--were like anypoor person, for instance, who cannot lie by and be nursed--she would bewell directly. And--unkind, unlike a daughter as it may seem in me toacknowledge it--I do very much incline to the same opinion. "

Lionel made no reply. 

"Only Dr. West has not the candour to say so, " went on Decima. "So longas he can keep her lying here, he will do it; she is a good patient forhim. Poor mamma gives way, and he helps her to do it. I wish she woulddiscard him, and trust to Jan. "

"You don't like Dr. West, Decima?"

"I never did, " said Decima. "And I believe that, in skill, Jan is quiteequal to him. There's this much to be said of Jan, that he is sincereand open as if he were made of glass. Jan will never keep a patient inbed unnecessarily, or give the smallest dose more than is absolutelyrequisite. Did you hear of Sir Rufus Hautley sending for Jan?"

"No. "

"He is ill, it seems. And when he sent to Dr. West's, he expresslydesired that it might be Mr. Jan Verner to answer the summons. Dr. Westwill not forgive that in a hurry. "

"That comes of prejudice, " said Lionel; "prejudice not really deservedby Dr. West. Since the reading of the will, Sir Rufus has been bitteragainst the Massingbirds; and Dr. West, as connected with them, comes infor his share of the feeling. "

"I hope he may not deserve it in any worse way than as connected withthem, " returned Decima, with more acrimony than she, in her calmgentleness, was accustomed to speak. 

The significant tone struck Lionel. "What do you mean, Decima?"

Decima glanced round. They were standing at the far end of the corridorat the window which overlooked the domains of Sir Rufus Hautley. Thedoors of the several rooms were closed, and no one was about. Decimaspoke in a whisper--

"Lionel, I cannot divest myself of the opinion that--that----"

"That what?" he asked, looking at her in wonder, for she was hesitatingstrangely, her manner shrinking, her voice awe-struck. 

"That it was Dr. West who took the codicil. "

Lionel's face flushed--partially with pain; he did not like to hear itsaid, even by Decima. 

"You have never suspected so much yourself?" she asked. 

"Never, never. I hope I never shall suspect it. Decima, you perhapscannot help the thought, but you can help speaking of it. "

"I did not mean to vex you. Somehow, Lionel, it is for your sake that Iseem to have taken a dislike to the Wests----"

"To take a dislike to people is no just cause for accusing them ofcrime, " he interrupted. "Decima, you are not like yourself to-day. "

"Do you suppose that it is my dislike which caused me to suspect him. No, Lionel. I seem to see people and their motives very clearly; and Ido honestly believe"--she dropped her voice still lower--"that Dr. Westis a man capable of almost anything. At the time when the codicil wasbeing searched for, I used to think and think it over, how it couldbe--how it could have disappeared. All its points, all its bearings, Ideliberated upon again and again. One certain thing was, the codicilcould not have disappeared from the desk without its having been takenout. Another point, almost equally certain to my mind, was that my UncleStephen did not take it out, but died in the belief that it was _in_, and that it would give you your inheritance. A third point was, thatwhoever took it must have had some strong motive for the act. Who (withpossible access to the desk) could have had this motive, even in aremote degree? There were but two--Dr. West and Mrs. Verner. Mrs. VernerI judge to be incapable of anything so wrong; Dr. West I believe to becapable of even worse than that. Hence I drew my deductions. "

"Deductions which I shall never accept, and which I would advise you toget rid of, Decima, " was his answer. "My dear, never let such anaccusation cross your lips again. "

"I never shall. I have told you; and that is enough. I have longed totell you for some time past. I did not think you would believe me. "

"Believe _it_, you should say, Decima. Dr. West take the codicil! WereI to bring myself to that belief, I think all my faith in man would goout. You are sadly prejudiced against the Wests. "

"And you in their favour, " she could not help saying. "But I shall everbe thankful for one thing--that you have escaped Sibylla. "

Was he thankful for it? Scarcely, while that pained heart of his, thosecoursing pulses, could beat on in this tumultuous manner at the baresound of her name. 

In the silence that ensued--for neither felt inclined to break it--theyheard a voice in the hall below, inquiring whether Mr. Verner waswithin. Lionel recognised it as Tynn's. 

"For all I know he is, " answered old Catherine. "I saw him a few minutesagone in the court out there, a-talking to the doctor. "

"Will you please ask if I can speak to him. "

Lionel did not wait further, but descended to the hall. The butler, inhis deep mourning, had taken his seat on the bench. He rose as Lionelapproached. 

"Well, Tynn, how are you? What is it?"

"My mistress has sent me to ask if you'd be so kind as come to Verner'sPride, sir?" said Tynn, standing with his hat in his hand. "She bade mesay that she did not feel well enough, or she'd have written you a notewith the request, but she wishes particularly to see you. "

"Does she wish to see me to-day?"

"As soon as ever you could get there, sir, I fancy. I am sure she meantto-day. "

"Very well, Tynn. I'll come over. How is your mistress?"

"She's very well, sir, now; but she gets worried on all sides aboutthings out-of-doors. "

"Who worries her with those tales?" asked Lionel. 

"Everybody almost does, sir, as comes a-nigh her. First it's onecomplaint that's brought to the house, of things going wrong, and thenit's another complaint--and the women servants, they have not the senseto keep it from her. My wife can't keep her tongue still upon it, andcan't see that the rest do. Might I ask how her ladyship is to-day, sir?"

"Not any better, Tynn. Tell Mrs. Verner I will be with her almostimmediately. "

Lionel lost little time in going to Vender's Pride. Turned from it ashe had been, smarting under the injustice and the pain, many a one wouldhave haughtily refused to re-enter it, whatever might have been theemergency. Not so Lionel. He had chosen to quit Verner's Pride as hisresidence, but he had remained entirely good friends with Mrs. Verner, calling on her at times. Not upon her would Lionel visit hisdispleasure. 

It was somewhat curious that she had taken to sit in the old study ofStephen Verner; a room which she had rarely entered during his lifetime. Perhaps some vague impression that she was now a woman of business, orought to be one, that she herself was in sole charge for the absentheir, had induced her to take up her daily sitting amidst the drawers, bureaux, and other places which had contained Mr. Verner's papers--whichcontained them still. She had, however, never yet looked at one. Ifanything came up to the house, leases, deeds, other papers, she wouldsay: "Tynn, see to it, " or "Tynn, take it over to Mr. Lionel Verner, andask what's to be done. " Lionel never refused to say. 

She was sitting back in Mr. Verner's old chair, now, filling it a greatdeal better than he used to do. Lionel took her hand cordially. Everytime he saw her he thought her looking bigger and bigger. However muchshe may have grieved at the time for her son John's death, it had nottaken away either her flesh or her high colour. Nothing would havetroubled Mrs. Verner permanently, unless it had been the depriving herof her meals. Now John was gone, she cared for nothing else in life. 

"It's kind of you to come, Lionel, " said she. "I want to talk to you. What will you have?--some wine?"

"Not anything, " replied Lionel. "Tynn said you wished to see me forsomething particular. "

"And so I do. You must take the management of the estate until Fred's athome. "

The words grated on his ear, and his brow knit itself into lines. But heanswered calmly--

"I cannot do that, Mrs. Verner. "

"Then what can I do?" she asked. "Here's all this great estate, nobodyto see after it, nobody to take it in charge! I'm sure I have no moreright to be teased over it than you have, Lionel. "

"It is your son's. "

"I asked you not to leave Verner's Pride. I asked you to take themanagement of out-door things! You did so, between your uncle's deathand his burial. "

"Believing that I was taking the management of what was mine, " repliedLionel. 

"Why do you visit upon me the blame of all that has happened?" pursuedMrs. Verner. "I declare that I knew nothing of what was done; I couldnot believe my own ears when I heard Matiss read out the will. Youshould not blame me. "

"I never have blamed you for it, Mrs. Verner. I believe you to be asinnocent of blame in the matter as I am. "

"Then you ought not to turn haughty and cold, and refuse to help me. They are going to have me up before the Justice Courts at Heartburg!"

"Have you up before the Justice Courts at Heartburg!" repeated Lionel, in great astonishment. 

"It's all through Roy; I know it is. There's some stupid dispute about alease, and I am to be had up in evidence. Did you hear of the threat?"

"What threat?" asked he. 

"Some of the men are saying they'll burn down Verner's Pride. Roy turnedthem off the brick-yard, and they threaten they'll do it out of revenge. If you would just look to things and keep Roy quiet, nothing of thiswould happen. "

Lionel knew that. 

"Mrs. Verner, " he said, "were you the owner of Verner's Pride, I wouldspare no pains to help you. But I cannot act for Frederick Massingbird. "

"What has Fred done to you?" she asked quickly. 

"That is not the question--he has done nothing, " answered Lionel, speaking more rapidly still. "My management would--if I know anything ofhim--be essentially different from your son's; different from what hewould approve. Neither would I take authority upon myself only to haveit displaced upon his return. Have Roy before you, Mrs. Verner, andcaution him. "

"It does no good. I have already had him. He smoothes things over to me, so that black looks white. Lionel, I must say that you are unkind andobstinate. "

"I do not think I am naturally either one or the other, " he answered, smiling. "Perhaps it might answer your purpose to put things into thehands of Matiss, until your son's return. "

"He won't take it, " she answered. "I sent for him--what with this courtbusiness and the threat of incendiarism, I am like one upon thorns--andhe said he would not undertake it. He seemed to fear contact with Roy. "

"Were I to take the management, Mrs. Verner, my first act would be todischarge Roy. "

Mrs. Verner tried again to shake his resolution. But he was quite firm. And, wishing her good-day, he left Verner's Pride, and bent his stepstowards the village. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

PECKABY'S SHOP. 

On passing through Deerham from Verner's Pride, a little below the shopof Mrs. Duff, you come upon an opening on the left hand, which led toquite a swarm of cottages. Many of the labourers congregated here. Ifyou took this turning, which was called Clay Lane, and continued yourway past the cottages in a straight line over the fields, you wouldarrive at the residence of the gamekeeper, Broom, leaving somebrick-fields to the right, and the Willow Pool, which had been the endof poor Rachel Frost, on the left. But, unless you climbed hedges, youcould not get to the pool from this quarter without going round, nearthe gamekeeper's. The path which led to Verner's Pride past the pool, and which Rachel had taken that unfortunate night, had its commencementhigher up in the village, above Mrs. Duff's. A few cottages werescattered again beyond the gamekeeper's, and one or two on this side it;but we have nothing to do with them at present. 

A great part of the ill-feeling rife on the estate was connected withthese brick-fields. It had been a great mistake on Mr. Verner's partever to put Roy into power; had Mr. Verner been in the habit of goingout of doors himself, he would have seen this, and not kept the man on aweek. The former bailiff had died suddenly. He, the bailiff, had givensome little power to Roy during his lifetime; had taken him on as a sortof inferior helper; and Mr. Verner, put to shifts by the bailiffs death, had allowed Roy so to continue. Bit by bit, step by step, gradually, covertly, the man made good his footing: no other was put over his head, and in time he came to be called Roy the bailiff, without having everbeen formally appointed as bailiff. He drew his two pounds per week--hisstipulated wages--and he made, it is hard to say what, besides. Avariceand tyranny were the predominant passions of Roy's mind; bad qualities, and likely to bring forth bad fruits when joined to petty power. 

About three years previous to Mr. Verner's death, a stranger hadappeared in Clay Lane, and set up a shop there. Nearly every conceivablething in the shape of eatables was sold in it; that is, such eatables asare in request among the poor. Bread, flour, meat, potatoes, butter, tea, sugar, red herrings, and the like. Soap and candles were also sold;and afterwards the man added green vegetables and coals, the latterdoled out by the measure, so much a "kipe. " The man's name was Peckaby;he and his wife were without family, and they managed the shop betweenthem. A tall, strong, brawny man was he; his wife was a remarkably tallwoman, fond of gossip and of smart caps. She would go gadding out forhours at a stretch, leaving him to get through all the work at home, thepreparing meals, the serving customers. 

Folks fly to new things; to do so is a propensity inherent in humannature; and Mr. Peckaby's shop flourished. Not that he was much honouredwith the complimentary "Mr. "; his customers brought it outshort--"Peckaby's shop. " Much intimacy had appeared to exist from thefirst between him and Roy, so that it was surmised they had beenpreviously acquainted. The prices were low, the shop was close at hand, and Clay Lane flocked to it. 

New things, however, like new faces, are apt to turn out no better thanthe old; sometimes not as good. And thus it proved with Peckaby's shop. From rather underselling the shops of the village, Peckaby's shop grewto increase its charges until they were higher than those of anybodyelse; the wares also deteriorated in value. Clay Lane awoke to this bydegrees, and would have taken its custom away; but that was more easilycontemplated than done. A good many of its families had been allowed toget on Peckaby's books, and they also found that Roy set his faceagainst their leaving the shop. For Roy to set his face against ameasure was a formidable affair, not readily contended with: thelabourers did not dare to fly in his face, lest he should make an excuseto take their work from them. He had already discharged several. SoClay Lane, for the most part, found itself tied to Peckaby's shop, andto paying some thirty per cent. Beyond what they would have paid at theold shops; added to which was the grievance of being compelled to put upwith very inferior articles. Dissatisfaction at this state of things hadlong been smouldering. It grew and grew, threatening to break out intoopen rebellion, perhaps to bloodshed. The neighbourhood cried shame uponRoy, and felt inclined to echo the cry upon Mrs. Verner; while Clay Laneopenly avowed their belief that Peckaby's shop was Roy's shop, and thatthe Peckaby's were only put in to manage it. 

One fearfully hot Monday morning, in the beginning of July, LionelVerner was passing down Clay Lane. In another week he would be away fromDeerham. Lady Verner's illness had commenced near the latter end ofApril, and it was growing towards the end of June before she began toget better, or would give Lionel leave to depart. Jan, plain-speaking, truth-telling Jan, had at length quietly told his mother that there wasnothing the matter with her but "vexing and temper. " Lady Verner wentinto hysterics at Jan's unfilial conduct; but, certain it was, from thatvery time she began to amend. July came in, and Lionel was permitted tofix the day for his departure. 

Lionel was walking down Clay Lane. It was a short cut to Lord Elmsley'shouse over the hills, a mile or two distant. Not a very suitable day fora walk. Had Lionel been training for a light jockey, without anysuperfluous weight, he might have dispensed with extra covering in hisexercise, and done as effectually without it. A hotter day never wasknown in our climate; a more intensely burning sun never rode in theheavens. It blazed down with a force that was almost unbearable, scorching and withering all within its radius. Lionel looked up at it;it seemed to blister his face and dazzle his eyes; and his resolutionwavered as he thought of the walk before him. "I have a great mind notto go, " said he mentally. "They can set up their targets without me. Ishall be half dead by the time I get there. " Nevertheless, in theindecision, he still walked on. He thought he'd see how affairs lookedwhen he came to the green fields. Green! brown, rather. 

But Lionel found other affairs to look at before he reached the fields. On turning a sharp angle of Clay Lane, he was surprised to see a crowdcollected, stretching from one side of it to the other. Not a peaceablecrowd evidently, although it was composed for the most part of thegentler sex; but a crowd of threatening arms and inflamed faces, andswaying white caps and noisy tongues. The female population of Clay Lanehad collected there. 

Smash! went the breaking of glass in Lionel's ears as he came in view;smash! went another crash. Were Peckaby's shop windows suffering? Amisgiving that it must be so, crossed the mind of Lionel, and he madefew steps to the scene of warfare. 

Sure enough it was nothing less. Three great holes were staring in somany panes, the splinters of glass lying inside the shop-window, amidstbutter and flour, and other suchlike articles. The flour looked brown, and the butter was running away in an oily stream; but that was noreason why a shower of broken glass should be added to improve theirexcellences. Mr. Peckaby, with white gills and hair raised up on end, stood, the picture of fear, gazing at the damage, but too much afraid tostart out and prevent it. Those big men are sometimes physical cowards. Another pane smashed! the weapon used being a hard piece of flint coal, which just escaped short of Mr. Peckaby's head, and Lionel thought ittime to interfere. He pushed into the midst of them. 

They drew aside when they saw who it was. In their hot passions--hot andangry then--perhaps no one, friend or enemy, would have stood a chanceof being deferred to but Lionel Verner. They had so long looked upon himas the future lord of Verner's Pride that they forgot to look upon himas anything less now. And they all liked Lionel. His appearance was asoil poured upon troubled waters. 

"What is the meaning of this? What is the matter?" demanded Lionel. 

"Oh, sir, why don't you interfere to protect us, now things is come tothis pass? You be a Verner!" was the prayer of remonstrance from allsides that met his words. 

"Give me an explanation, " reiterated Lionel. "What is the grievance?"

The particular grievance of this morning, however easy to explain, wassomewhat difficult to comprehend, when twenty tongues were speaking atonce--and those, shrill and excited ones. In vain Lionel assured themthat if one, instead of all, would tell it, he should understand itsooner; that if their tone were subdued, instead of loud enough to beheard yonder at the brick-fields, it might be more desirable. Excitedwomen, suffering under what they deem a wrong, cannot be made quiet; youmay as well try to put down a rising flood. Lionel resigned himself tohis fate, and listened; and at this stage of the affair a new feature ofit struck his eye and surprised him. Scarcely one of the women but borein her hand some uncooked meat. Such meat! Lionel drew himself and hiscoat from too close proximity to it. It was of varied hues, and walkingaway alive. Upon plates, whole or broken, upon half-saucers, upondust-pans, upon fire-shovels, held at the end of tongs, hooked on to afork, spread out in a coal-box; anyhow so as to avoid contact withfingers, these dainty pieces were exhibited for inspection. 

By what Lionel could gather, it appeared that this meat had beenpurchased on Saturday night at Peckaby's shop. The women had said then, one and all, that it was not good; and Mr. Peckaby had been regaled withvarious open conjectures, more plain than polite, as to the state of theanimal from which it had been supplied. Independent of the quality ofthe meat, it was none the better, even then, for having been kept. Thewomen scented this; but Peckaby, and Peckaby's wife, who was always inthe shop with her husband on a Saturday night, protested and vowed thattheir customers' noses were mistaken; that the meat would be perfectlygood and fresh on the Sunday, and on the Monday too, if they liked tokeep it so long. The women, somewhat doubtfully giving ear to theassurance, knowing that the alternative was that or none, bought themeat and took it home. On Sunday morning they found the meatwas--anything you may imagine. It was neither cookable nor eatable; andtheir anger against Peckaby was not diminished by a certain fact whichoozed out to them; namely, that Peckaby himself did not cut _his_Sunday's dinner off the meat in his shop, but sent to buy it of one ofthe Deerham butchers. The general indignation was great; the men, deprived of their Sunday's meat, joined in it; but nothing could be doneuntil Monday morning. Peckaby's shop was always hermetically sealed on aSunday. Mr. Verner had been stringent in allowing no Sunday traffic onthe estate. 

Monday came. The men went to their work as usual, leaving their wives todeal with the matter. Behold them assembled with their meat, kept forthe occasion in spite of its state, before the shop of Peckaby. But ofredress they could get none; Peckaby was deaf; and Lionel arrived tofind hostilities commenced. Such was the summary of the story. 

"You are acting very wrongly, " were Lionel's first words to them inanswer. "You should blame the meat, not Peckaby. Is this weather forkeeping meat?"

"The weather didn't get to this heat till yesterday in the afternoon, "said they--and Lionel could not deny the fact. Mrs. Dawson took up theword. 

"_Our_ meat warn't bought at Peckaby's; our meat were got at Clark's, and it were sweet as a nut. 'Twere veal, too, and that's the worst meatfor keeping. Roy 'ud kill us if he could; but he can't force _us_ on toPeckaby's rubbish. We defy him to't. "

In point of defying Roy, the Dawsons had done that long ago. There wasopen warfare between them, and skirmishes took place occasionally. Thefirst act of Roy, after it was known that Lionel was disinherited, hadbeen to discharge old Dawson and his sons from work. How they hadmanaged to live since was a mystery; funds did not seem to run low withthem; tales of their night-poaching went about, and the sons got an oddjob at legitimate work now and then. 

"It's an awful shame, " cried a civil, quiet woman, Sarah Grind, one of avery numerous family, commonly called "Grind's lot, " "that we should bebeat down to have our victuals and other things at such a place asPeckaby's! Sometimes, sir, I'm almost inclined to ask, is it Christiansas rules over us?"

Lionel felt the shaft levelled at his family, though not personally athimself. 

"You are not beaten down to it, " he said. "Why do you deal at Peckaby's?Stay a bit! I know what you would urge: that by going elsewhere youwould displease Roy. It seems to me that if you would all go elsewhere, Roy _could_ not prevent it. Should one of you attempt to go, he might;but he could not prevent it if you all go with one accord. If Peckaby'sthings are bad--as I believe they are--why do you buy them?"

"There ain't a single thing as is good in his place, " spoke up a woman, half-crying. "Sir, it's truth. His flour is half bone-dust, and his'taturs is watery. His sugar is sand, and his tea is leaves dried overagain, while his eggs is rotten, and his coals is flint. "

"Allowing that, it is no good reason for your smashing his windows, "said Lionel. "It is utterly impossible that that can be tolerated. "

"Why do he palm his bad things off upon us, then?" retorted the crowd. "He makes us pay half as much again as we do in the other shops; andwhen we gets them home, we can't eat 'em. Sir, you be Mr. Verner now;you ought to see as we be protected. "

"I am Mr. Verner; but I have no power. My power has been taken from me, as you know. Mrs. Verner is--"

"A murrain light upon her!" scowled a man from the outskirts of thecrowd. "Why do she call _herself_ Mrs. Verner, and stick herself up formissis at Verner's Pride, if she is to take no notice on us? Why do sheleave us in the hands of Roy, to be--"

Lionel had turned upon the man like lightning. 

"Davies, how dare you presume so to speak of Mrs. Verner in my presence?Mrs. Verner is not the source of your ills; you must look nearer to you, for that. Mrs. Verner is aged and ailing; she cannot get out of doors tosee into your grievances. "

At the moment of Lionel's turning to the man, he, Davies, had commencedto push his way towards Lionel. This caused the crowd to sway, andLionel's hat, which he held carelessly in his hand, having taken it offto wipe his heated brow, got knocked down. Before he could stoop for itsrescue, it was trampled out of shape; not intentionally--they would haveprotected Lionel and his things with their lives--but inadvertently. Awoman picked it up with a comical look of despair. To put on _that_again was impossible. 

"Never mind, " said Lionel good-naturedly. "It was my own fault; I shouldhave held it better. "

"Put your handkercher over your head, sir, " was the woman's advice. "It'll keep the sun off. "

Lionel smiled, but did not take it. Davies was claiming his attention;while some of the women seemed inclined to go in for a fight, whichshould secure the hat. 

"Could Mr. Verner get out o' doors and look into our grievances, thelast years of his life, any more, sir, nor she can?" he was asking, incontinuation of the subject. 

"No, sir; he couldn't, and he didn't; but things wasn't then brought tothe pitch as they be now. "

"No, " acquiesced Lionel, "I was at hand then, to interpose between Royand Mr. Verner. "

"And don't you think, sir, as you might be able to do the same thingstill?"

"No, Davies. I have been displaced from Verner's Pride, and from allpower connected with it. I have no more right to interfere with theworking of the estate than you have. You must make the best of thingsuntil Mr. Massingbird's return. "

"There'll be some dark deed done, then, afore many weeks is gone over;that's what there'll be!" was Davies's sullen reply. "It ain't to bestood, sir, as a man and his family is to clam, 'cause Peckaby--"

"Davies, I will hear no more on that score, " interrupted Lionel. "Youmen should be men, and make common cause in that one point foryourselves against Roy. You have your wages in your hand on a Saturdaynight, and can deal at any shop you please. "

The man--he wore a battered old straw hat on his head, which looked asdirty as his face--raised his eyes with an air of surprise at Lionel. 

"What wages, sir? We don't get ours. "

"Not get your wages?" repeated Lionel. 

"No, sir; not on a Saturday night. That's just it--it's where the newshoe's a-pinching. Roy don't pay now on a Saturday night. He gives usall a sort o' note, good for six shilling, and we has, us or our wives, to take that to Peckaby's, and get what we can for it. On the Monday, attwelve o'clock, which is his new time for paying the wages, he docks usof six shilling. _That's_ his plan now; and no wonder as some of us haskicked at it, and then he have turned us off. I be one. "

Lionel's brow burned; not with the blazing sun, but with indignation. That this should happen on the lands of the Verner's! Hot words rose tohis lips--to the effect that Roy, as he believed, was acting against thelaw--but he swallowed them down ere spoken. It might not be expedient toproclaim so much to the men. 

"Since when has Roy done this?" he asked. "I am surprised not to haveheard of it. "

"This six weeks he have done it, sir, and longer nor that. It's get ourthings from Peckaby's or it's not get any at all. Folks won't trust thelikes of us, without us goes with the money in our hands. We might haveknowed there was some evil in the wind when Peckaby's took to give ustrust. Mr. Verner wasn't the best of masters to us, after he let Roy geton our backs--saving your presence for saying it, sir; but you must knowas it's truth--but there's things a-going on now as 'ud make him, if heknowed 'em, rise up out of his grave. Let Roy take care of hisself, thathe don't get burned up some night in his bed!" significantly added theman. 

"Be silent, Davies! You--"

Lionel was interrupted by a commotion. Upon turning to ascertain itscause, he found an excited crowd hastening towards the spot from thebrick-fields. The news of the affray had been carried thither, and Roy, with much intemperate language and loud wrath, had set off at full speedto quell it. The labourers set off after him, probably to protect theirwives. Shouting, hooting, swearing--at which pastime Roy was theloudest--on they came, in a state of fury. 

But for the presence of Lionel Verner, things might have come to acrisis--if a fight could have brought a crisis on. He interposed hisauthority, which even Roy did not yet dispute to his face, and hesucceeded in restoring peace for the time. He became responsible--Idon't know whether it was quite wise of him to do so--for the cost ofthe broken windows, and the women were allowed to go home unmolested. The men returned to their work, and Mr. Peckaby's face regained itscolour. Roy was turning away, muttering to himself, when Lionel beckonedhim aside with an authoritative hand. 

"Roy, this must not go on. Do you understand me? It must not go on. "

"What's not to go on, sir?" retorted Roy sullenly. 

"You know what I mean. This disgraceful system of affairs altogether. Ibelieve that you would be amenable to the law in thus paying the men, orin part paying them, with an order for goods; instead of in open, honestcoin. Unless I am mistaken, it borders very closely upon the trucksystem. "

"I can take care of myself and of the law, too, sir, " was the answer ofRoy. 

"Very good. I shall take care that this sort of oppression is lifted offthe shoulders of the men. Had I known it was being pursued, I shouldhave stopped it before. "

"You have no right to interfere between me and anything now, sir. "

"Roy, " said Lionel calmly, "you are perfectly well aware that the right, not only to interfere between you and the estate, but to invest me withfull power over it and you, was sought to be given me by Mrs. Verner atmy uncle's death. For reasons of my own I chose to decline it, and havecontinued to decline it. Do you remember what I once told you--that oneof my first acts of power would be to displace you? After what I haveseen and heard to-day, I shall deliberate whether it be not my duty toreconsider my determination, and assume this, and all other power. "

Roy's face turned green. He answered defiantly, not in tone, but inspirit--

"It wouldn't be for long, at any rate, sir; and Mr. Massingbird, I know, 'll put me into my place again on his return. "

Lionel did not reply immediately. The sun was coming down upon hisuncovered head like a burning furnace, and he was casting a glance roundto see if any friendly shade might be at hand. In his absorption overthe moment's business he had not observed that he had halted with Royright underneath its beams. No, there was no shade just in that spot. Apublic pump stood behind him, but the sun was nearly vertical, and thepump got as much of it as he did. A thought glanced through Lionel'smind of resorting to the advice of the women, to double his handkerchiefcornerwise over his head. But he did not purpose staying above anotherminute with Roy, to whom he again turned. 

"Don't deceive yourself, Roy. Mr. Massingbird is not likely tocountenance such doings as these. That Mrs. Verner will not, I know;and, I tell you plainly, I will not. You shall pay the men's wages atthe proper and usual time; you shall pay them in full, to the lasthalfpenny that they earn. Do you hear? I order you now to do so. We willhave no underhanded truck system introduced on the Verner estate. "

"You'd like to ruin poor Peckaby, I suppose, sir!"

"I have nothing to do with Peckaby. If public rumour is to be credited, the business is not Peckaby's, but yours--"

"Them that says it is a pack of liars!" burst forth Roy. 

"Possibly. I say I have nothing to do with that. Peckaby--"

Lionel's voice faltered. An awful pain--a pain, the like of which, foracute violence, he had never felt--had struck him in the head. He puthis hand up to it, and fell against the pump. 

"Are you ill, sir?" asked Roy. 

"What can it be?" murmured Lionel. "A sudden pain has attacked me here, Roy, " touching his head; "an awful pain. I'll get into Frost's, and sitdown. "

Frost's cottage was but a minute's walk, but Lionel staggered as he wentto it. Roy attended him. The man humbly asked if Mr. Lionel would bepleased to lean upon him, but Lionel waved him off. Matthew Frost wassitting indoors alone; his grandchildren were at school, his son's wifewas busy elsewhere. Matthew no longer went out to labour. He had beenalmost incapable of it before Mr. Verner's annuity fell to him. Robinwas away at work: but Robin was a sadly altered man since the death ofRachel. His very nature appeared to have changed. 

"My head! my head!" broke from Lionel, as he entered, in the intensityof his pain. "Matthew, I think I must have got a sun-stroke. "

Old Matthew pulled off his straw hat, and lifted himself slowly out ofhis chair. All his movements were slow now. Lionel had sat himself downon the settle, his head clasped by both hands, and his pale face turnedto fiery red--as deep a crimson as Mrs. Verner's was habitually. 

"A sun-stroke?" echoed old Matthew, leaning on his stick, as he stoodbefore him, attentively regarding Lionel. "Ay, sir, for sure it lookslike it. Have you been standing still in the sun, this blazing day?"

"I have been standing in it without my hat, " replied Lionel. "Not forlong, however. "

"It don't take a minute, sir, to do the mischief. I had one myself, years before you were born, Mr. Lionel. On a day as hot as this, I wasout in my garden, here, at the back of this cottage. I had gone outwithout my hat, and was standing over my pig, watching him eat his wash, when I felt something take my head--such a pain, sir, that I had neverfelt before, and never wish to feel again. I went indoors, and Robin, who might be a boy of five, or so, looked frightened at me, my face wasso red. I couldn't hold my head up, sir; and when the doctor came, hesaid it was a sun-stroke. I think there must be particular moments anddays when the sun has this power to harm us, though we don't know whichthey are nor how to avoid them, " added old Matthew, as much inself-soliloquy as to Lionel. "I had often been out before, without myhat, in as great heat; for longer, too; and it had never harmed me. Since then, sir, I have put a white handkerchief inside the crown of myhat in hot weather. The doctor told me to do so. "

"How long did the pain last?" asked Lionel, feeling _his_ pain growingworse with every moment. "Many hours?"

"_Hours_?" repeated old Matthew, with a strong emphasis on the word. "Mr. Lionel, it lasted for days and weeks. Before the next morning came, sir, I was in a raging fever; for three weeks, good, I was in my bed, above here, and never out of it; hardly the clothes smoothed a-top ofme. Sun-strokes are not frequent in this climate, sir, but when they docome, they can't be trifled with. "

Perhaps Lionel felt the same conviction. Perhaps he felt that with thispain, increasing as it was in intensity, he must make the best of hisway home, if he would get home at all. "Good-day, Matthew, " he said, rising from the bench. "I'll go home at once!"

"And send for Dr. West, sir, or for Mr. Jan, if you are no better whenyou get there, " was the parting salutation of the old man. 

He stood at the door, leaning on his stick, and watched Lionel down ClayLane. "A sun-stroke, for sure, " repeated he, slowly turning in, as theangle of the lane hid Lionel from his view. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

DAYS AND NIGHTS OF PAIN. 

In his darkened chamber at Deerham Court lay Lionel Verner. Whether itwas a sun-stroke, or whether it was but the commencement of a fever, which had suddenly struck him down that day, certain it was, that aviolent sickness attacked him, and he lay for many, many days--days andweeks as old Frost had called it--between life and death. Fever anddelirium struggled with life, which should get the mastery. 

Very little doubt was there, that his state of mind increased the dangerof his state of body. How bravely Lionel had struggled to do battle withhis great anguish, he might scarcely have known himself, in all its fullintensity, save for this illness. He had loved Sibylla with the purefervour of feelings young and fresh. He could have loved her to the endof life; he could have died for her. No leaven was mixed with his love, no base dross; it was refined as the purest silver. It is only theseexalted, ideal passions, which partake more of heaven's nature than ofearth's, that _tell_ upon the heart when their end comes. Terribly hadit told upon Lionel Verner's. In one hour he had learned that Sibyllawas false to him, was about to become the wife of another. In hissensitive reticence, in his shrinking pride, he had put a smiling faceupon it before the world. He had watched her marry FrederickMassingbird, and had "made no sign. " Deep, deep in his heart, fiftyfathom deep, had he pressed down his misery, passing his days in whatmay be called a false atmosphere--showing a false side to his friends. It seemed false to Lionel, the appearing what he was not. He was histrue self at night only, when he could turn, and toss, and groan out histrouble at will. But, when illness attacked him, and he had no strengthof body to throw off his pain of mind, then he found how completely theblow had shattered him. It seemed to Lionel, in his sane moments, in theintervals of his delirium, that it would be far happier to die, than towake up again to renewed life, to bear about within him thatever-present sorrow. Whether the fever--it was not brain fever, thoughbordering closely upon it--was the result of this state of mind, morethan of the sun-stroke, might be a question. Nobody knew anything ofthat inward state, and the sun-stroke got all the blame--save, perhaps, from Lionel himself. He may have doubted. 

One day Jan called in to see him. It was in August. Several weeks hadelapsed since the commencement of his illness, and he was so farrecovered as to be removed by day to a sitting-room on a level with hischamber--a wondrously pretty sitting-room over Lady Verner'sdrawing-room, but not so large as that, and called "Miss Decima's room. "The walls were panelled in medallions, white and delicate blue, thecurtains were of blue satin and lace, the furniture blue. In eachmedallion hung an exquisite painting in water colours, framed--Decima'sdoing. Lady Verner was one who liked at times to be alone, and thenDecima would sit in this room, and feel more at home than in any room inthe house. When Lionel began to recover, the room was given over to him. Here he lay on the sofa; or lounged on an easy-chair; or stood at thewindow, his hands clasping hold of some support, and his legs astottering as were poor old Matthew Frost's. Sometimes Lady Verner wouldbe his companion, sometimes he would be consigned to Decima and LucyTempest. Lucy was pleased to take her share of helping the time to pass;would read to him, or talk to him; or sit down on her low stool on thehearth-rug and only look at him, waiting until he should want somethingdone. Dangerous moments, Miss Lucy! Unless your heart is cased inadamant, you can scarcely be with that attractive man--ten times moreattractive now, in his sickness--and not get your wings singed. 

Jan came in one day when Lionel was sitting on the sofa, having proppedthe cushion up at the back of his head. Decima was winding some silk, and Lucy was holding the skein for her. Lucy wore a summer dress ofwhite muslin, a blue sprig raised upon it in tambour-stitch, with blueand white ribbons at its waist and neck. Very pretty, very simple itlooked, but wonderfully according with Lucy Tempest. Jan looked round, saw a tolerably strong table, and took up his seat upon it. 

"How d'ye get on, Lionel?" asked he. 

It was Dr. West who attended Lionel, and Jan was chary of interferingwith the doctor's proper patients--or, rather, the doctor was chary ofhis doing so--therefore Jan's visits were entirely unprofessional. 

"I don't get on at all--as it seems to me, " replied Lionel. "I'm sure Iam weaker than I was a week ago. "

"I dare say, " said Jan. 

"You dare say!" echoed Lionel. "When a man has turned the point of anillness, he expects to get stronger, instead of weaker. "

"That depends, " said Jan. "I beg your pardon, Miss Lucy; that's my footcaught in your dress, isn't it?"

Lucy turned to disentangle her dress from Jan's great feet. "You shouldnot sway your feet about so, Jan, " said she pleasantly. 

"It hasn't hurt it, has it?" asked Jan. 

"Oh, no. Is there another skein to hold, Decima?"

Decima replied in the negative. She rose, put the paper of silk upon thetable, and then turned to Jan. 

"Mamma and I had quite a contention yesterday, " she said to him. "I saythat Lionel is not being treated properly. "

"That's just my opinion, " laconically replied Jan. "Only West flares upso, if his treatment is called in question. I'd get him well in half thetime. "

Lionel wearily changed his position on the sofa. The getting well, orthe keeping ill, did not appear to interest him greatly. 

"Let's look at his medicine, Decima, " continued Jan. "I have not seenwhat has come round lately. "

Decima left the room and brought back a bottle with some medicine in it. 

"There's only one dose left, " she remarked to Jan. 

Jan took the cork out and smelt it; then he tasted it, apparently withgreat gusto, as anybody else might taste port wine; while Lucy watchedhim, drawing her lips away from her pretty teeth in distaste at theproceeding. 

"Psha!" cried Jan. 

"Is it not proper medicine for him?" asked Decima. 

"It's as innocent as water, " said Jan. "It'll do him neither good norharm. "

And finally Jan poured the lot down his own throat. 

Lucy shuddered. 

"Oh, Jan, how could you take it?"

"It won't hurt me, " said literal Jan. 

"But it must be so nasty! I never could have believed any one wouldwillingly drink medicine. It is bad enough to do it when compelled bysickness. "

"Law!" returned Jan. "If you call this nasty, Miss Lucy, you shouldtaste some of our physic. The smell would about knock you down. "

"I think nothing is worse than the smell of drugs, " resumed Lucy. "Theother day, when Lady Verner called in at your surgery to speak to you, and took me with her, I was glad to get into the open air again. "

"Don't you ever marry a doctor, then, Miss Lucy. "

"I am not going to marry one, " returned Lucy. 

"Well, you need not look so fierce, " cried Jan. "I didn't ask you. "

Lucy laughed. "Did I look fierce, Jan? I suppose I was thinking of thedrugs. I'd never, never be a surgeon, of all things in the world. "

"If everybody was of your mind, Miss Lucy, how would people getdoctored?"

"Very true, " answered Lucy. "But I don't envy them. "

"The doctors or the people?" asked Jan. 

"I meant the doctors. But I envy the patients less, " glancinginvoluntarily towards Lionel as she spoke. 

Jan glanced at him too. "Lionel, I'll bring you round some better stuffthan this, " said he. "What are you eating?"

"Nothing, " put in Decima. "Dr. West keeps him upon arrowroot andbeef-tea, and such things. "

"Slops, " said Jan contemptuously. "Have a fowl cooked every day, Lionel, and eat it all, if you like, bones and all; or a mutton--chop or two; orsome good eels. And have the window open and sit at it; don't lounge onthat sofa, fancying you can't leave it; and to-morrow or the next day, borrow Mrs. Verner's carriage----"

"No, thank you, " interposed Lionel. 

"Have a fly, then, " composedly went on Jan. "Rouse yourself, and eat anddrink, and go into the air, and you'll soon be as well as I am. It's thestewing and fretting indoors, fancying themselves ill, that keeps folksback. "

Something like a sickly smile crossed Lionel's wan lips. "Do youremember how you offended your mother, Jan, by telling her she onlywanted to rouse herself?"

"Well, " said Jan, "it was the truth. West keeps his patientsdilly-dallying on, when he might have them well in no time. If he saysanything about them to me, I always tell him so; otherwise I don'tinterfere; it's no business of mine. But you are my brother, you know. "

"Don't quarrel with West on my account, Jan. Only settle it amicablybetween you, what I am to do, and what I am to take. I don't care. "

"Quarrel!" said Jan. "You never knew me to quarrel in your life. Westcan come and see you as usual, and charge you, if you please; and youcan just pour his physic down the sink. I'll send you some bark: butit's not of much consequence whether you take it or not; it's goodkitchen physic you want now. Is there anything on your mind that'skeeping you back?" added plain Jan. 

A streak of scarlet rose to Lionel's white cheek. 

"Anything on my mind, Jan! I do not understand you. "

"Look here, " said Jan, "if there is nothing, you ought to be better thanthis by now, in spite of old West. What you have got to do is to rouseyourself, and believe you are well, instead of lying by, here. My motherwas angry with me for telling her that, but didn't she get well all oneway after it? And look at the poor! They have their illnesses that bring'em down to skeletons; but when did you ever find them lie by, afterthey got better? They can't; they are obliged to go out and turn to atwork again; and the consequence is they are well in no time. You haveyour fowl to-day, " continued Jan, taking himself off the table todepart; "or a duck, if you fancy it's more savoury; and if West comes inwhile you are eating it, tell him I ordered it. He can't grumble at mefor doctoring _you_. "

Decima left the room with Jan. Lucy Tempest went to the window, threw itopen, drew an easy-chair, with its cushions, near to it, and thenreturned to the sofa. 

"Will you come to the window?" said she to Lionel. "Jan said you were tosit there, and I have put your chair ready. "

Lionel unclosed his eyelids. "I am better here, child, thank you. "

"But you heard what Jan said--that you were not going the right way toget well. "

"It does not much matter, Lucy, whether I get well, or whether I don't, "he answered wearily. 

Lucy sat down; not on her favourite stool, but on a low chair, and fixedher eyes upon him gravely. 

"Do you know what Mr. Cust would say to that?" she asked. "He would tellyou that you were ungrateful to God. You are already half-way towardsgetting well. "

"I know I am, Lucy. But I am nearly tired of life. "

"It is only the very old who say that, or ought to say it. I am not surethat they _ought_--even if they were a hundred. But you are young. Stay!I will find it for you. "

He was searching about for his handkerchief. Lucy found it, fallen onthe floor at the back of the sofa. She brought it round to him, and hegently laid hold of her hand as he took it. 

[Illustration: "He gently laid hold of her hand. "]

"My little friend, you have yet to learn that _things_, not years, tireus of life. "

Lucy shook her head. 

"No; I have not to learn it. I know it must be so. Will you _please_ tocome to the window?"

Lionel, partly because his tormentor (may the word be used? he was sick, bodily and mentally, and would have lain still for ever) was a younglady, partly to avoid the trouble of persisting in "No, " rose, and tookhis seat in the arm-chair. 

"What an obstinate nurse you would make, Lucy! Is there anything else, pray, that you wish me to do?"

She did not smile in response to his smile; she looked very grave andserious. 

"I would do all that Jan says, were I you, " was her answer. "I believein Jan. He will get you well sooner than Dr. West. "

"Believe in Jan?" repeated Lionel, willing to be gay if he could. "Doyou mean that Jan is Jan?"

"I mean that I have faith in Jan. I have none in Dr. West. "

"In his medical skill? Let me tell you, Lucy, he is a very clever man, in spite of what Jan may say. "

"I can't tell anything about his skill. Until Jan spoke now I did notknow but he was treating you rightly. But I have no faith in himself. Ithink a good, true, faithful-natured man should be depended on for cure, more certainly than one who is false-natured. "

"False-natured!" echoed Lionel. "Lucy, you should not so speak of Dr. West. You know nothing wrong of Dr. West. He is much esteemed among usat Deerham. "

"Of course I know nothing wrong of him, " returned Lucy, with some slightsurprise. "But when I look at people I always seem to know what theyare. I am sorry to have said so much. I--I think I forgot it was to youI spoke. "

"Forgot!" exclaimed Lionel. "Forgot what?"

She hesitated at the last sentence, and she now blushed vividly. 

"I forgot for the moment that he was Sibylla's father, " she simply said. 

Again the scarlet rose in the face of Lionel. Lucy leaned against thewindow-frame but a few paces from him, her large soft eyes, in theirearnest sympathy, lifted to his. He positively shrank from them. 

"What's Sibylla to me?" he asked. "She is Mrs. Frederick Massingbird. "

Lucy stood in penitence. "Do not be angry with me, " she timidly cried. "I ought not to have said it to you, perhaps. I see it always. "

"See what, Lucy?" he continued, speaking gently, not in anger. 

"I see now much you think of her, and how ill it makes you. When Janasked just now if you had anything on your mind to keep you back, I knewwhat it was. "

Lionel grew hot and cold with a sudden fear. "Did I say anything in mydelirium?"

"Nothing at all--that I heard of. I was not with you. I do not thinkanybody suspects that you are ill because--because of _her_. "

"Ill because of her!" he sharply repeated, the words breaking from himin his agony, in his shrinking dread at finding so much suspected. "I amill from fever. What else should I be ill from?"

Lucy went close to his chair and stood before him meekly. 

"I am so sorry, " she whispered. "I cannot help seeing things, but I didnot mean to make you angry. "

He rose, steadying himself by the table, and laid his hand upon herhead, with the same fond motion that a father might have used. 

"Lucy, I am not angry--only vexed at being watched so closely, " heconcluded, his lips parting with a faint smile. 

In her earnest, truthful, serious face of concern, as it was turned upto him, he read how futile it would be to persist in his denial. 

"I did not watch you for the purpose of watching. I saw how it was, without being able to help myself. "

Lionel bent his head. 

"Let the secret remain between us, Lucy. Never suffer a hint of it toescape your lips. "

Nothing answered him save the glad expression that beamed out from hercountenance, telling him how implicitly he might trust to her. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

DANGEROUS COMPANIONSHIP. 

Lionel Verner grew better. His naturally good constitution triumphedover the disease, and his sick soreness of mind lost somewhat of itssharpness. So long as he brooded in silence over his pain and hiswrongs, there was little chance of the sting becoming much lighter; itwas like the vulture preying upon its own vitals; but that season ofsilence was past. When once a deep grief can be _spoken of_, its greatagony is gone. I think there is an old saying, or a proverb--"Griefslose themselves in telling, " and a greater truism was never uttered. Theice once broken, touching his feelings with regard to Sibylla, Lionelfound comfort in making it his theme of conversation, of complaint, although his hearer and confidant was only Lucy Tempest. A strangecomfort, but yet a natural one, as those who have suffered as Lionel didmay be able to testify. At the time of the blow, when Sibylla desertedhim with coolness so great, Lionel could have died rather than giveutterance to a syllable betraying his own pain; but several months hadelapsed since, and the turning-point was come. He did not, unfortunately, love Sibylla one shade less; love such as his cannot beovercome so lightly; but the keenness of the disappointment, the blow tohis self-esteem--to his vanity, it may be said--was growing lessintense. In a case like this, of faithlessness, let it happen to man orto woman, the wounding of the self-esteem is not the least evil thatmust be borne. Lucy Tempest was, in Lionel's estimation, little morethan a child, yet it was singular how he grew to love to talk with her. Not for love of _her_--do not fancy that--but for the opportunity itgave him of talking of Sibylla. You may deem this an anomaly; I knowthat it was natural; and, like oil poured upon a wound, so did it bringbalm to Lionel's troubled spirit. 

He never spoke of her save at the dusk hour. During the broad, garishlight of day, his lips were sealed. In the soft twilight of the evening, if it happened that Lucy was alone with him, then he would pour out hisheart--would tell of his past tribulation. As past he spoke of it; hadhe not regarded it as past, he never would have spoken. Lucy listened, mostly in silence, returning him her earnest sympathy. Had Lucy Tempestbeen a little older in ideas, or had she been by nature and rearing lessentirely single-minded, she might not have sat unrestrainedly with him, going into the room at any moment, and stopping there, as she would hadhe been her brother. Lucy was getting to covet the companionship ofLionel very much--too much, taking all things into consideration. Itnever occurred to her that, for that very reason, she might do well tokeep away. She was not sufficiently experienced to define her ownsensations; and she did not surmise that there was anything inexpedientor not perfectly orthodox in her being so much with Lionel. She liked tobe with him, and she freely indulged the liking upon any occasion thatoffered. 

"Oh, Lucy, I loved her! I did love her!" he would say, having repeatedthe same words perhaps fifty times before in other interviews; and hewould lean back in his easy-chair, and cover his eyes with his hand, asif willing to shut out all sight save that of the past. "Heaven knowswhat she was to me! Heaven only knows what her faithlessness has cost!"

"Did you dream of her last night, Lionel?" answered Lucy, from her lowseat where she generally sat, near to Lionel, but with her face mostlyturned from him. 

And it may as well be mentioned that Miss Lucy never thought of such athing as _discouraging_ Lionel's love and remembrance of Sibylla. Herwhole business in the matter seemed to be to listen to him, and help himto remember her. 

"Ay, " said Lionel, in answer to the question. "Do you suppose I shoulddream of anything else?"

Whatever Lucy may or may not have supposed, it was a positive fact, known well to Lionel--known to him, and remembered by him to thishour--that he constantly dreamed of Sibylla. Night after night, sincethe unhappy time when he learned that she had left him for FrederickMassingbird, had she formed the prominent subject of his dreams. It isthe strict truth; and it will prove to you how powerful a hold she musthave possessed over his imagination. This he had not failed to make anitem in his revelations to Lucy. 

"What was your dream last night, Lionel?"

"It was only a confused one; or seemed to be when I awoke. It was fullof trouble. Sibylla appeared to have done something wrong, and I wasdefending her, and she was angry with me for it. Unusually confused itwas. Generally my dreams are too clear and vivid. "

"I wonder how long you will dream of her, Lionel? For a year, do youthink?"

"I hope not, " heartily responded Lionel. "Lucy, I wish I could forgether?"

"I wish you could--if you do wish to do it, " simply replied Lucy. 

"Wish! I wish I could have swallowed a draught of old Lethe's streamlast February, and never recalled her again!"

He spoke vehemently, and yet there was a little undercurrent ofsuppressed consciousness deep down in his heart, whispering that hisgreatest solace was to remember her, and to talk of her as he was doingnow. To talk of her as he would to his own soul: and that he had nowlearned to do with Lucy Tempest. Not to any one else in the whole worldcould Lionel have breathed the name of Sibylla. 

"Do you suppose she will soon be coming home?" asked Lucy, after asilence. 

"Of course she will. The news of his inheritance went out shortly afterthey started, and must have got to Melbourne nearly as soon as they did. There's little doubt they are on their road home now. Massingbird wouldnot care to stop to look after what was left by John, when he knowshimself to be the owner of Verner's Pride. "

"I wish Verner's Pride had not been left to Frederick Massingbird!"exclaimed Lucy. 

"Frankly speaking, so do I, " confessed Lionel. "It ought to be mine byall good right. And, putting myself entirely out of consideration, Ijudge Frederick Massingbird unworthy to be its master. That's betweenourselves, mind, Lucy. "

"It is all between ourselves, " returned Lucy. 

"Ay. What should I have done without you, my dear little friend?"

"I am glad you have not had to do without me, " simply answered Lucy. "Ihope you will let me be your friend always!"

"That I will. Now Sibylla's gone, there's nobody in the whole world Icare for, but you. "

He spoke it without any double meaning: he might have used the samewords, been actuated by precisely the same feelings, to his mother orhis sister. His all-absorbing love for Sibylla barred even the idea ofany other love to his mind, yet awhile. 

"Lionel!" cried Lucy, turning her face full upon him in her earnestness, "_how_ could she choose Frederick Massingbird, when she might havechosen you?"

"Tastes differ, " said Lionel, speaking lightly, a thing he rarely didwhen with Lucy. "There's no accounting for them. Some time or other, Lucy, you may be marrying an ugly fellow with a wooden leg and redbeard; and people will say, 'How could Lucy Tempest have chosen him?'"

Lucy coloured. "I do not like you to speak in that joking way, if youplease, " she gravely said. 

"Heigh ho, Lucy!" sighed he. "Sometimes I fancy a joke may cheat me outof a minute's care. I wish I was well, and away from this place. InLondon I shall have my hands full, and can rub off the rust of oldgrievances with hard work. "

"You will not like London better than Deerham. "

"I shall like it ten thousand times better, " impulsively answeredLionel. "I have no longer a place in Deerham, Lucy. That is gone. "

"You allude to Verner's Pride?"

"Everything's gone that I valued in Deerham, " cried Lionel, with thesame impulse--"Verner's Pride amongst the rest. I would never stop hereto see the rule of Fred Massingbird. Better that John had lived to takeit, than that it should have come to him. "

"Was John better than his brother?"

"He would have made a better master. He was, I believe, a better man. Not but that John had his faults, as we all have. "

"All!" echoed Lucy. "What are your faults?"

Lionel could not help laughing. She asked the question, as she did allher questions, in the most genuine, earnest manner, really seeking theinformation. "I think for some time back, Lucy, my chief fault has beengrumbling. I am sure you must find it so. Better days may be in storefor us both. "

Lucy rose. "I think it must be time for me to go and make Lady Verner'stea. Decima will not be home for it. "

"Where is Decima this evening?"

"She is gone her round to the cottages. She does not find time for it inthe day, since you were ill. Is there anything I can do for you before Igo down?"

"Yes, " he answered, taking her hand. "You can let me thank you for yourpatience and kindness. You have borne with me bravely, Lucy. God blessyou, my dear child. "

She neither went away, nor drew her hand away. She stood there--as hehad phrased it--patiently, until he should release it. He soon did so, with a weary movement: all he did was wearisome to him then, save thethinking and talking of the theme which ought to have been a barredone--Sibylla. 

"Will you please to come down to tea this evening?" asked Lucy. 

"I don't care for tea; I'd rather be alone. "

"Then I will bring you some up. "

"No, no; you shall not be at the trouble. I'll come down, then, presently. "

Lucy Tempest disappeared. Lionel leaned against the window, looking outon the night landscape, and lost himself in thoughts of his faithlesslove. He aroused himself from them with a stamp of impatience. 

"I must shake it off, " he cried to himself; "I _will_ shake it off. None, save myself or a fool, but would have done it months ago. And yet, Heaven alone knows how I have tried and battled, and how vain the battlehas been!"

CHAPTER XXV. 

HOME TRUTHS FOR LIONEL. 

The cottages down Clay Lane were ill-drained. It might be nearer thetruth to say they were not drained at all. As is the case with manyanother fine estate besides Verner's Pride, while the agricultural landwas well drained, no expense spared upon it, the poor dwellings had beenneglected. Not only in the matter of draining, but in other respects, were these habitations deficient: but that strong terms are apt to grateunpleasingly upon the ear, one might say shamefully deficient. Theconsequence was that no autumn ever went over, scarcely any spring, butsomebody would be down with ague, with low fever; and it was reckoned afortunate season if a good many were not prostrate. 

The first time that Lionel Verner took a walk down Clay Lane after hisillness was a fine day in October. He had been out before in otherdirections, but not in that of Clay Lane. He had not yet recovered hisfull strength; he looked ill and emaciated. Had he been strong, as heused to be, he would not have found himself nearly losing hisequilibrium at being run violently against by a woman, who turnedswiftly out of her own door. 

"Take care, Mrs. Grind! Is your house on fire?"

"It's begging a thousand pardons, sir! I hadn't no idea you was there, "returned Mrs. Grind, in lamentable confusion, when she saw whom she hadall but knocked down. "Grind, he catches sight o' one o' the brick mengoing by, and he tells me to run and fetch him in; but I had got myhands in the soap-suds, and couldn't take 'em convenient out of it atthe minute, and I was hasting lest he'd gone too far to be caught up. Hehave now. "

"Is Grind better?"

"He ain't no worse, sir. There he is, " she added, flinging the dooropen. 

On the side of the kitchen, opposite to the door, was a pallet-bedstretched against the wall, and on it lay the woman's husband, Grind, dressed. It was a small room, and it appeared literally full ofchildren, of encumbrances of all sorts. A string extended from one sideof the fire-place to the other, and on this hung some wet colouredpinafores, the steam ascending from them in clouds, drawn out by theheat of the fire. The children were in various stages of _un_-dress, these coloured pinafores doubtless constituting their sole outergarment. But that Grind's eye had caught his, Lionel might havehesitated to enter so uncomfortable a place. His natural kindness ofheart--nay, his innate regard for the feelings of others, let them beever so inferior in station--prevented his turning back when the man hadseen him. 

"Grind, don't move, don't get off the bed, " Lionel said hastily. ButGrind was already up. The ague fit was upon him then, and he shook thebed as he sat down upon it. His face wore that blue, pallid appearance, which you may have seen in aguish patients. 

"You don't seem much better, Grind. "

"Thank ye, sir, I be baddish just now again, but I ain't worse on thewhole, " was the man's reply. A civil, quiet, hard-working man as any onthe estate; nothing against him but his large flock of children, and hisdifficulty of getting along any way. The mouths to feed weremany--ravenous young mouths, too; and the wife, though anxious andwell-meaning, was not the most thrifty in the world. She liked gossipingbetter than thrift; but gossip was the most prevalent complaint of ClayLane, so far as its female population was concerned. 

"How long is it that you have been ill?" asked Lionel, leaning his elbowon the mantel-piece, and looking down on Grind, Mrs. Grind havingwhisked away the pinafores. 

"It's going along of four weeks, sir, now. It's a illness, sir, I takesit, as must have its course. "

"All illnesses must have that, as I believe, " said Lionel. "Mine hastaken its own time pretty well, has it not?"

Grind shook his head. 

"You don't look none the better for your bout, sir. And it's a long timeyou must have been a-getting strong. Mr. Jan, he said, just a month ago, when he first come to see me, as you was well, so to say, then. Ah! it'sonly them as have tried it knows what the pulling through up to strengthagain is, when the illness itself seems gone. "

Lionel's conscience was rather suggestive at that moment. He might havebeen stronger than he was, by this time, had he "pulled through" with abetter will, and given way less. "I am sorry not to see you better, Grind, " he kindly said. 

"You see me at the worst, sir, to-day, " said the man, in a tone ofapology, as if seeking to excuse his own sickness. "I _be_ gettingbetter, and that's a thing to be thankful for. I only gets the feveronce in three days now. Yesterday, sir, I got down to the field, andearned what'll come to eighteen pence. I did indeed, sir, though you'dnot think it, looking at me to-day. "

"I should not, " said Lionel. "Do you mean to say you went to work inyour present state?"

"I didn't seem a bit ill yesterday, sir, except for the weakness. Thefever, it keeps me down all one day, as may be to-day; then the morrow Ibe quite prostrate with the weakness it leaves; and the third day I be, so to speak, well. But I can't do a full day's work, sir; no, nor hardlyhalf of a one, and by evening I be so done over I can scarce crawl tomy place here. It ain't much, sir, part of a day's work in three; but Ibe thankful for that improvement. A week ago, I couldn't do as much asthat. "

More suggestive thoughts for Lionel. 

"He'd a got better quicker, sir, if he could do his work regular, " putin the woman. "What's one day's work out o' three--even if 'twas a fullday's--to find us all victuals? In course he can't fare better nor we;and Peckaby's, they don't give much trust to us. He gets a pot o' gruel, or a saucer o' porridge, or a hunch o' bread with a mite o' cheese. "

Lionel looked at the man. "You cannot eat plain bread now, can you, Grind?"

"All this day, sir, I shan't eat nothing; I couldn't swallow it, " heanswered. "After the fever and the shaking's gone, then I could eat, butnot bread; it seems too dry for the throat, and it sticks in it. I get adish o' tea, or something in that way. The next day--my well day, as Icalls it--I can eat all afore me. "

"You ought to have more strengthening food. "

"It's not for us to say, sir, as we ought to have this here food, orthat there food, unless we earns it, " replied Grind, in a meek spirit ofcontented resignation that many a rich man might have taken a patternfrom. "Mr. Jan he says, 'Grind, ' says he, 'you should have some meat toeat, and some good beef-tea, and a drop o' wine wouldn't do you noharm, ' says he. And it makes me smile, sir, to think where the like o'poor folks is to get such things. Lucky to be able to get a bit o' breadand a drain o' tea without sugar, them as is off their work, just to rubon and keep theirselves out o' the workhouse. I know I'm thankful to doit. Jim, he have got a place, sir. "

"Jim, --which is Jim?" asked Lionel, turning his eyes on the group ofchildren, supposing one must be meant. 

"He ain't here, sir, " cried the woman. "It's the one with the blackhair, and he was six year old yesterday. He's gone to Farmer Johnson'sto take care o' the pigs in the field. He's to get a shilling a week. "

Lionel moved from his position. "Grind, " he said, "don't you think itwould be better if you gave yourself complete rest, not attempting to goout to work until you are stronger?"

"I couldn't afford it, sir. And as to its being better for me, I don'tsee that. If I can work, sir, I'm better at work. I know it tires me, but I believe I get stronger the sooner for it. Mr. Jan, he says to me, says he, 'Don't lie by never, Grind, unless you be obliged to it; itonly rusts the limbs. ' And he ain't far out, sir. Folks gets more harmfrom idleness nor they do from work. "

"Well, good-day, Grind, " said Lionel, "and I heartily hope you'll soonbe on your legs again. Lady Verner shall send you something morenourishing than bread, while you are still suffering. "

"Thank ye kindly, sir, " replied Grind. "My humble duty to my lady. "

Lionel went out. "What a lesson for me!" he involuntarily exclaimed. "This poor half-starved man struggling patiently onward through hissickness; while I, who had every luxury about me, spent my time inrepining. What a lesson! Heaven help me to take it to my heart!"

He lifted his hat as he spoke, his feeling at the moment full ofreverence; and went on to Frost's. "Where's Robin?" he asked of thewife. 

"He's in the back room, sir, " was the answer. "He's getting better fast. The old father, he have gone out a bit, a-warming of himself in thesun. "

She opened the door of a small back room as she spoke; but it proved tobe empty. Robin was discerned in the garden, sitting on a bench;possibly to give _him_self a warming in the sun--as Mrs. Frost expressedit. He sat in a still attitude, his arms folded, his head bowed. Sincethe miserable occurrence touching Rachel, Robin Frost was a fearfullychanged man; never, from the hour that the coroner's inquest was heldand certain evidence had come out, had he been seen to smile. He had nowbeen ill with ague, in the same way as Grind. Hearing the approach offootsteps, he turned his head, and rose when he saw it was Lionel. 

"Well, Robin, how fares it? You are better, I hear. Sit yourself down;you are not strong enough to stand. What an enemy this low fever is! Iwish we could root it out!"

"Many might be all the healthier for it, sir, if it could be done, " wasRobin's answer, spoken indifferently--as he nearly always spoke now. "Asfor me, I'm not far off being well again. "

"They said in the village you were going to die, Robin, did they not?"continued Lionel. "You have cheated them, you see. "

"They said it, some of 'em, sir, and thought it, too. Old father thoughtit. I'm not sure but Mr. Jan thought it. _I_ didn't, bad as I was, "continued Robin, in a significant tone. "I had my oath to keep. "

"Robin!"

"Sir, I have sworn--and you know I have sworn it--to have my revengeupon him that worked ill to Rachel. I can't die till that oath has beenkept. "

"There's a certain sentence, Robin, given us for our guidance, amid manyother such sentences, which runs somewhat after this fashion: 'Vengeanceis mine, '" quietly spoke Lionel. "Have you forgotten who it is saysthat?"

"Why did he--the villain--forget them sentences? Why did he forget 'emand harm her?" retorted Robin. "Sir, it's of no good for you to look atme in that way. I'll never be baulked in this matter. Old father, nowand again, _he'll_ talk about forgiveness; and when I say, 'weren't youher father?' 'Ay, ' he'll answer, 'but I've got one foot in the grave, Robin, and anger will not bring her back to life. ' No, it won't, "doggedly went on Robin. "It won't undo what was done, neither: but I'llkeep my oath--so far as it is in my power to keep it. Dead though he is, he shall be exposed to the world. "

The words "dead though he is" aroused the attention of Lionel. "To whomdo you allude, Robin?" he asked. "Have you obtained any fresh clue?"

"Not much of a fresh one, " answered the man, with a stress upon the word"fresh. " "I have had it this six or seven months. When they heard he wasdead, then they could speak out and tell me their suspicions of him. "

"Who could? What mystery are you talking?" reiterated Lionel. 

"Never mind who, sir. It was one that kept the mouth shut, as long asthere was any good in opening it. 'Not to make ill-blood, ' was theexcuse gave to me after. If I had but knowed at the time!" added theman, clenching his fist, "I'd have went out and killed him, if he hadbeen double as far off!"

"Robin, what have you heard?"

"Well, sir, I'll tell _you_--but I have not opened my lips to a livingsoul, -not even to old father--The villain that did the harm to Rachelwas John Massingbird!"

Lionel remained silent from surprise. 

"I don't believe it, " he presently said, speaking emphatically. "Who hasaccused him?"

"Sir, I have said that I can't tell you. I passed my word not to do it. It was one that had cause to suspect him at the time. And it was nevertold me--_never told me_--until John Massingbird was dead!"

Robin's voice rose to a sound of wailing pain, and he raised his handswith a gesture of despair. 

"Did your informant _know_ that it was John Massingbird?" Lionel gravelyasked. 

"They had not got what is called positive proof, such as might avail ina Court of Justice; but they was morally certain, " replied Robin; "andso am I. I am only waiting for one thing, sir, to tell it out to all theworld. "

"And what's that?"

"The returning home of Luke Roy. There's not much doubt that he knowsall about it; I have my reasons for saying so, and I'd like to be quitesure before I tell out the tale. Old Roy says Luke may be expected homeby any ship as comes; he don't think he'll stop there, now JohnMassingbird's dead. "

"Then, Robin, listen to me, " returned Lionel. "I have no positive proof, any more than it appears your informant has; but I am perfectlyconvinced in my own mind that the guilty man was _not_ John Massingbird, but another. Understand me, " he emphatically continued, "I have good andsufficient reason for saying this. Rely upon it, whoever it may havebeen, John Massingbird it was not. "

Robin lifted his eyes to the face of Lionel. 

"You say you don't know this, sir?"

"Not of actual proof. But so sure am I that it was not he, that I couldstake all I possess upon it. "

"Then, sir, you'd lose it, " doggedly answered Robin. "When the timecomes that I choose to speak out--"

"What are you doing there?" burst forth Lionel, in a severely haughtytone. 

It caused Robin to start from his seat. 

In a gap of the hedge behind them, Lionel had caught sight of a humanface, its stealthy ears complacently taking in every word. It was thatof Roy the bailiff. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE PACKET IN THE SHIRT-DRAWER. 

Mrs. Tynn, the housekeeper at Verner's Pride, was holding one of thoseperiodical visitations that she was pleased to call, when in familiarcolloquy with her female assistants, a "rout out. " It appeared toconsist of turning a room and its contents topsy-turvy, and then puttingthem straight again. The chamber this time subjected to the ordeal wasthat of her late master, Mr. Verner. His drawers, closets, and otherplaces consecrated to clothes, had not been meddled with since hisdeath. Mrs. Verner, in some moment unusually (for her) given tosentiment, had told Tynn she should like to "go over his dear clothes"herself. Therefore Tynn left them alone for that purpose. Mrs. Verner, however, who loved her personal ease better than any earthly thing, andwas more given to dropping off to sleep in her chair than ever, not onlyafter dinner but all day long, never yet had ventured upon the task. Tynn suggested that she had better do it herself, after all; and Mrs. Verner replied, perhaps she had. So Tynn set about it. 

Look at Mrs. Tynn over that deep, open drawer full of shirts. She callsit "Master's shirt-drawer. " Have the shirts scared away her senses? Shehas sat herself down on the floor--almost fallen back as it seems--insome shock of alarm, and her mottled face has turned as white as hermaster's was, when she last saw him lying on that bed at her elbow. 

"Go downstairs, Nancy, and stop there till I call you up again, " shesuddenly cried out to her helpmate. 

And the girl left the room, grumbling to herself; for Nancy at Verner'sPride did not improve in temper. 

Between two of the shirts, in the very middle of the stack, Mrs. Tynnhad come upon a parcel, or letter. Not a small letter--if it was aletter--but one of very large size, thick, looking not unlike agovernment despatch. It was sealed with Mr. Verner's own seal, andaddressed in his own handwriting--"For my nephew, Lionel Verner. To beopened after my death. "

Mrs. Tynn entertained not the slightest doubt that she had come upon thelost codicil. That the parcel must have been lying quietly in thedrawer since her master's death, was certain. The key of the drawer hadremained in her own possession. When the search after the codicil tookplace, this drawer was opened--as a matter of form more than anythingelse--and Mrs. Tynn herself had lifted out the stack of shirts. She hadassured those who were searching that there was no need to do so, forthe drawer had been locked up at the time the codicil was made, and thedeed could not have been put into it. They accepted her assurance, anddid not look between the shirts. It puzzled Mrs. Tynn, now, to think howit could have got in. 

"I'll not tell Tynn, " she soliloquised--she and Tynn being somewhatinclined to take opposite sides of a question, in socialintercourse--"and I'll not say a word to my mistress. I'll go straightoff now and give it into the hands of Mr. Lionel. What a blessedthing!--If he should be come into his own!"

The inclosed paved court before Lady Verner's residence had a broadflower-bed round it. It was private from the outer world, save for theiron gates, and here Decima and Lucy Tempest were fond of lingering on afine day. On this afternoon of Mary Tynn's discovery, they were therewith Lionel. Decima went indoors for some string to tie up a fuchsiaplant, just as Tynn appeared at the iron gates. She stopped on seeingLionel. 

"I was going round to the other entrance, sir, to ask to speak to you, "she said. "Something very strange has happened. "

"Come in, " answered Lionel. "Will you speak here, or go indoors? What isit?"

Too excitedly eager to wait to go indoors, or to care for the presenceof Lucy Tempest, Mrs. Tynn told her tale, and handed the paper toLionel. "It's the missing codicil, as sure as that we are here, sir. "

He saw the official-looking nature of the document, its great seal, andthe superscription in his uncle's handwriting. Lionel did not doubt thatit was the codicil, and a streak of scarlet emotion arose to his palecheek. 

"You don't open it, sir!" said the woman, as feverishly impatient as ifthe good fortune were her own. 

No. Lionel did not open it. In his high honour, he deemed that, beforeopening, it should be laid before Mrs. Verner. It had been found in herhouse; it concerned her son. "I think it will be better that Mrs. Verner should open this, Tynn, " he quietly said. 

"You won't get me into a mess, sir, for bringing it out to you first?"

Lionel turned his honest eyes upon her, smiling then. "Can't you trustme better than that? You have known me long enough. "

"So I have, Mr. Lionel. The mystery is, how it could ever have got intothat shirt-drawer!" she continued. "I can declare that for a good weekbefore my master died, up to the very day that the codicil was lookedfor, the shirt-drawer was never unlocked, nor the key of it out of mypocket. "

She turned to go back to Verner's Pride, Lionel intending to follow herat once. He was going out at the gate when he caught the pleased eyes ofLucy Tempest fixed on him. 

"I am so glad, " she simply said. "Do you remember my telling you thatyou did not look like one who would have to starve on bread-and-cheese. "

Lionel laughed in the joy of his heart. "I am glad also, Lucy. The placeis mine by right, and it is just that I should have it. "

"I have thought it very unfair, all along, that Verner's Pride shouldbelong to _her_ husband, and not to you, after--after what she did toyou, " continued Lucy, dropping her voice to a whisper. 

"Things don't go by fairness, Lucy, in this world, " said he, as he wentthrough the gate. "Stay, " he said, turning back from it, a thoughtcrossing his mind. "Lucy, oblige me by not mentioning this to my motheror Decima. It may be as well to be sure that we are right, beforeexciting their hopes. "

Lucy's countenance fell. "I will not speak of it. But, is it not sure tobe the codicil?"

"I hope it is, " cordially answered Lionel. 

Mrs. Tynn had got back before him. She came forward and encountered himin the hall, her bonnet still on. 

"I have told my mistress, sir, that I had found what I believed to bethe codicil, and had took it off straight to you. She was not a bitangry; she says she hopes it is it. "

Lionel entered. Mrs. Verner, who was in a semi-sleepy state, having beenroused up by Mary Tynn from a long nap after a plentiful luncheon, received Lionel graciously--first of all asking him what he wouldtake--it was generally her chief question--and then inquiring what thecodicil said. 

"I have not opened it, " replied Lionel. 

"No!" said she, in surprise. "Why did you wait?"

He laid it on the table beside her. "Have I your cordial approval toopen it, Mrs. Verner?"

"You are ceremonious, Lionel. Open it at once; Verner's Pride belongs toyou, more than to Fred; and you know I have always said so. "

Lionel took up the deed. His finger was upon the seal when a thoughtcrossed him; ought he to open it without further witnesses? He spoke hisdoubt aloud to Mrs. Verner. 

"Ring the bell and have in Tynn, " said she; "his wife also; she foundit. "

Lionel rang. Tynn and his wife both came in, in obedience to therequest. Tynn looked at it curiously; and began rehearsing mentally aprivate lecture for his wife, for acting upon her own responsibility. 

The seal was broken. The stiff writing-paper of the outer cover revealeda second cover of stiff writing-paper precisely similar to the first;but on this last there was no superscription. It was tied round withfine white twine. Lionel cut it, Tynn and Mrs. Tynn waited with theutmost eagerness; even Mrs. Verner's eyes were open wider than usual. 

Alas! for the hopes of Lionel. The parcel contained nothing but a glove, and a small piece of writing-paper, folded once. Lionel unfolded it, andread the following lines:--

"This glove has come into my possession. When I tell you that I knowwhere it was found and how you lost it, you will not wonder at the shockthe discovery has been to me. I hush it up, Lionel, for your latefather's sake, as much as for that of the name of Verner. I am about toseal it up that it may be given to you after my death; and you will thenknow why I disinherit you. S. V. "

Lionel gazed on the lines like one in a dream. They were in thehandwriting of his uncle. Understand them, he could not. He took up theglove--a thick, fawn-coloured riding-glove--and remembered it for one ofhis own. When he had lost it, or where he had lost it, he knew no morethan did the table he was standing by. He had worn dozens of thesegloves in the years gone by, up to the period when he had gone inmourning for John Massingbird, and, subsequently, for his uncle. 

"What is it, Lionel?"

Lionel put the lines in his pocket, and pushed the glove toward Mrs. Verner. "I do not understand it in the least, " he said. "My uncleappears to have found the glove somewhere, and he writes to say that hereturns it to me. The chief matter that concerns us is"--turning hiseyes on the servants--"that it is not the codicil!"

Mrs. Tynn lifted her hands. "How one may be deceived!" she uttered. "Mr. Lionel, I'd freely have laid my life upon it. "

"It was not exactly my place to speak, sir: to give my opinionbeforehand, " interposed Tynn; "but I was sure that was not the lostcodicil, by the very look of it. The codicil might have been about thatsize, and it had a big seal like that; but it was different inappearance. "

"All that puzzled me was, how it could have got into the shirt-drawer, "cried Mrs. Tynn. "As it has turned out not to be the codicil, of coursethere's no mystery about that. It may have been lying there weeks andweeks before the master died. "

Lionel signed to them to leave the room: there was nothing to call fortheir remaining in it. Mrs. Verner asked him what the glove meant. 

"I assure you I do not know, " was his reply. And he took it up, andexamined it well again. One of his riding gloves, scarcely worn, with atear near the thumb; but there was nothing upon it, not so much as atrace, a spot, to afford any information. He rolled it up mechanicallyin the two papers, and placed them in his pocket, lost in thought. 

"Do you know that I have heard from Australia?" asked Mrs. Verner. 

The words aroused him thoroughly. "Have you? I did not know it. "

"I wonder Mary Tynn did not tell you. The letters came this morning. Ifyou look about"--turning her eyes on the tables and places--"you willfind them somewhere. "

Lionel knew that Mary Tynn had been too much absorbed in his business tofind room in her thoughts for letters from Australia. "Are these theletters?" he asked, taking up two from a side-table. 

"You'll know them by the post-marks. Do sit down and read them to me, Lionel. My sight is not good for letters now, and I couldn't read halfthat was in them. The ink's as pale as water. If it was the ink Fredtook out, the sea must have washed into it. Yes, yes, you must I readboth to me, and I shall not let you go away before dinner. "

He did not like, in his good nature, to refuse her. And he sat there andread the long letters. Read Sibylla's. Before the last one was fullyaccomplished, Lionel's cheeks wore their hectic flush. 

They had made a very quick and excellent passage. But Sibylla foundMelbourne _hateful_. And Fred was ill; ill with fever. A fever wasraging in a part of the crowded town, and he had caught it. She did notthink it was a catching fever, either, she added; people said it arosefrom the over-population. They could not as yet hear of John, or hismoney, or anything about him; but Fred would see into it when he gotbetter. They were at a part of Melbourne called Canvas Town, and she, Sibylla, was sick of it, and Fred drank heaps of brandy. If it were allland between her and home, she should set off at once on foot, and toilher way back again. She _wished_ she had never come! Everything shecared for, except Fred, seemed to be left behind in England. 

Such was her letter. Fred's was gloomy also, in a different way. He saidnothing about any fever; he mentioned, casually, as it appeared, that hewas not well, but that was all. He had not learned tidings of John, buthad not had time yet to make inquiries. The worst piece of news hementioned was the loss of his desk, which had contained the chiefportion of his money. It had disappeared in a mysterious mannerimmediately after being taken off the ship--he concluded by the lightfingers of some crimp, or thief, shoals of whom crowded on the quay. Hewas in hopes yet to find it, and had not told Sibylla. That was all hehad to say at present, but would write again by the next packet. 

"It is not very cheering news on the whole, is it?" said Mrs. Verner, asLionel folded the letters. 

"No. They had evidently not received the tidings of my uncle's death, orwe should have heard that they were already coming back again. "

"I don't know that, " replied Mrs. Verner. "Fred worships money, and hewould not suffer what was left by poor John to slip through his fingers. He will stay till he has realised it. I hope they will think to bring meback some memento of my lost boy! If it were only the handkerchief heused last, I should value it. "

The tears filled her eyes. Lionel respected her grief, and remainedsilent. Presently she resumed, in a musing tone--

"I knew Sibylla would only prove an encumbrance to Fred, out there; andI told him so. If Fred thought he was taking out a wife who would makeshift, and put up pleasantly with annoyances, he was mistaken. Sibyllain Canvas Town! Poor girl! I wonder she married him. Don't you?"

"Rather so, " answered Lionel, his scarlet blush deepening. 

"I do; especially to go to that place. Sibylla's a pretty flower, madeto sport in the sunshine; but she never was constituted for a roughlife, or to get pricked by thorns. "

Lionel's heart beat. It echoed to every word. Would that she could havebeen sheltered from the thorns, the rough usages of life, as he wouldhave sheltered her. 

Lionel dined with Mrs. Verner, but quitted her soon afterwards. When hegot back to Deerham Court, the stars were peeping out in the clearsummer sky. Lucy Tempest was lingering in the courtyard, no doubtwaiting for him, and she ran to meet him as soon as he appeared at thegate. 

"How long you have been!" was her greeting, her glad eyes shining forthhopefully. "And is it all yours?"

Lionel drew her arm within his own in silence, and walked with her insilence until they reached the pillared entrance of the house. Then hespoke--

"You have not mentioned it, Lucy?"

"Of course I have not. "

"Thank you. Let us both forget it. It was not the codicil. And Verner'sPride is not mine. "

CHAPTER XXVII. 

DR. WEST'S SANCTUM. 

For some little time past, certain rumours had arisen in Deerhamsomewhat to the prejudice of Dr. West. Rumours of the same nature hadcirculated once or twice before during the progress of the last halfdozen years; but they had died away again, or had been hushed up, nevercoming to anything. For one thing, their reputed scene had not lain atthe immediate spot, but at Heartburg; and distance is a greatdiscouragement to ill-natured tattle. This fresh scandal, however, wasnearer. It touched the very heart of Deerham, and people made themselvesremarkably busy over it--none the less busy because the accusations werevague. Tales never lose anything in carrying, and the most outrageousthings were whispered of Dr. West. 

A year or two previous to this, a widow lady named Baynton, with her twodaughters, no longer very young, had come to live at a pretty cottage inDeerham. Nothing was known of who they were, or where they came from. They appeared to be very reserved, and made no acquaintance whatever. Under these circumstances, of course, their history was supplied forthem. If you or I went and established ourselves in a fresh placeto-morrow, saying nothing of who we were, or what we were, it would onlybe the signal for some busybody in that place to coin a story for us, and all the rest of the busybodies would immediately circulate it. Itwas said of Mrs. Baynton that she had been left in reducedcircumstances; had fallen from some high pedestal of wealth, through thedeath of her husband; that she lived in a perpetual state ofmortification in consequence of her present poverty, and would not admita single inhabitant of Deerham within her doors to witness it. There mayhave been as little truth in it as in the greatest _canard_ that everflew; but Deerham promulgated it, Deerham believed in it, and theBayntons never contradicted it. The best of all reasons for this mayhave been that they never heard of it. They lived quietly on alone, interfering with nobody, and going out rarely. In appearance and mannersthey were gentlewomen, and rather haughty gentlewomen, too; but theykept no servant. How their work was done, Deerham could not conceive: itwas next to impossible to fancy one of those ladies scrubbing a floor ormaking a bed. The butcher called for orders, and took in the meat, whichwas nearly always mutton-chops; the baker left his bread at the door, and the laundress was admitted inside the passage once a week. 

The only other person admitted inside was Dr. West. He had been calledin, on their first arrival, to the invalid daughter--a delicate-lookinglady, who, when she did walk out, leaned on her sister's arm. Dr. West's visits became frequent; they had continued frequent up to withina short period of the present time. Once or twice a week he called inprofessionally; he would also occasionally drop in for an hour in theevening. Some people passing Chalk Cottage (that was what it was named)had contrived to stretch their necks over the high privet hedge whichhid the lower part of the dwelling from the road, and were immenselygratified by the fact of seeing Dr. West in the parlour, seated at teawith the family. How the doctor was questioned, especially in theearlier period of their residence, he alone could tell. Who were they?Were they well connected, or ill connected, or not connected at all?Were they known to fashion? How much was really their income? What wasthe matter with the one whom he attended, the sickly daughter, and whatwas her name? The questions would have gone on until now, but that thedoctor stopped them. He had not made impertinent inquiries himself, hesaid, and had nothing at all to tell. The younger lady's complaint arosefrom disordered liver; he had no objection to tell them that; she hadbeen so long a sufferer from it that the malady had become chronic; andher name was Kitty. 

Now, it was touching this very family that the scandal had arisen. _How_it arose was the puzzle; since the ladies themselves never spoke toanybody, and Dr. West would not be likely to invent or to spread storiesaffecting himself. Its precise nature was buried in uncertainty, alsoits precise object. Some said one thing, some another. The scandal, onthe whole, tended to the point that Dr. West had misbehaved himself. Inwhat way? What had he done? Had he personally ill-treated them--sworn atthem--done anything else unbecoming a gentleman? And which had been thesufferer? The old lady in her widow's cap? or the sickly daughter? orthe other one? Could he have carelessly supplied wrong medicine; sent tothem some arsenic instead of Epsom Salts, and so thrown them intofright, and danger, and anger? Had he scaled the privet hedge in thenight, and robbed the garden of its cabbages? What, in short, was itthat he had done? Deerham spoke out pretty broadly, as to the mainfacts, although the rumoured details were varied and obscure. Itdeclared that some of Dr. West's doings at Chalk Cottage had not beenorthodox, and that discovery had followed. 

There are two classes of professional men upon whom not a taint shouldrest; who ought, in familiar phrase, to keep their hands clean--theparson of the parish, and the family doctor. Other people may dyethemselves in Warren's jet if they like; but let as much as a spot geton him who stands in the pulpit to preach to us, or on him who isadmitted to familiar intercourse with our wives and children, and thespot grows into a dark thundercloud. What's the old saying? "One man maywalk in at the gate, while another must not look over the hedge. " Itruns something after that fashion. Had Dr. West not been a familydoctor, the scandal might have been allowed to die out: as it was, Deerham kept up the ball, and rolled it. The chief motive for this, theone that influenced Deerham above all others, was unsatisfied curiosity. Could Deerham have gratified this to the full, it would have beencontent to subside into quietness. 

Whether it was true, or whether it was false, there was no denying thatit had happened at an unfortunate moment for Dr. West. A man always indebt--and what he did with his money Deerham could not make out, for hispractice was a lucrative one--he had latterly become actuallyembarrassed. Deerham was good-natured enough to say that a handsome sumhad found its way to Chalk Cottage, in the shape of silence-money, orsomething of the sort; but Deerham did not know. Dr. West was at hiswits' end where to turn to for a shilling--had been so, for some weekspast; so that he had no particular need of anything worse coming downupon him. Perhaps what gave a greater colour to the scandal thananything else was the fact that, simultaneously with its rise, Dr. West's visits to Chalk Cottage had suddenly ceased. 

Only one had been bold enough to speak upon the subject personally toDr. West, and that was the proud old baronet, Sir Rufus Hautley. He rodedown to the doctor's house one day; and, leaving his horse with hisgroom, had a private interview with the doctor. That Dr. West must havecontrived to satisfy him in some way, was undoubted. Rigidly severe andhonourable, Sir Rufus would no more have countenanced wrongdoing, thanhe would have admitted Dr. West again to his house, whether as doctor oranything else, had he been guilty of it. But when Sir Rufus went away, Dr. West attended him to the door, and they parted cordially, Sir Rufussaying something to the effect that he was glad his visit had dispelledthe doubt arising from these unpleasing rumours, and he would recommendDr. West to inquire into their source, with a view of bringing theirauthors to punishment. Dr. West replied that he should make it hisbusiness to do so. Dr. West, however, did nothing of the sort; or if hedid do it, it was in strict privacy. 

Jan sat one day astride on the counter in his frequent abiding-place, the surgery. Jan had got a brass vessel before him, and was mixingcertain powders in it, preparatory to some experiment in chemistry, Master Cheese performing the part of looker-on, his elbows, as usual, onthe counter. 

"I say, we had such a start here this morning, " began young Cheese, asif the recollection had suddenly occurred to him. "It was while you hadgone your round. "

"What start was that?"

"Some fellow came here, and--I say, Jan, " broke off young Cheese, "didyou ever know that room had got a second entrance to it?"

He pointed to the door of the back room--a room which was usedexclusively by Dr. West. He had been known to see patients there on rareoccasions, but neither Jan nor young Cheese was ever admitted into it. It opened with a latch-key only. 

"There is another door leading into it from the garden, " replied Jan. "It's never opened. It has got all those lean-to boards piled againstit. "

"Is it never opened, then?" retorted Master Cheese. "You just hear. Afellow came poking his nose into the premises this morning, staring upat the house, staring round about him, and at last he walks in here. Aqueer-looking fellow he was, with a beard, and appeared as if he hadcome a thousand miles or two, on foot. 'Is Dr. West at home?' he asked. I told him the doctor was not at home; for, you see, Jan, it wasn't tenminutes since the doctor had gone out. So he said he'd wait. And he wentpeering about and handling the bottles; and once he took the scales up, as if he'd like to test their weight. I kept my eye on him. I thought aqueer fellow like that might be going to walk off with some physic, likeMiss Amilly walks off the castor oil. Presently he comes to that door. 'Where does this lead to?' said he. 'A private room, ' said I, 'andplease to keep your hands off it. ' Not he. He lays hold of the falseknob, and shakes it, and turns it, and pushes the door, trying to openit. It was fast. Old West had come out of there before going out, andcatch him ever leaving that door open! I say, Jan, one would think hekept skeletons there. "

"Is that all?" asked Jan, alluding to the story. 

"Wait a bit. The fellow put his big fist upon the latch-key-hole--Ithink he must have been a feller of trees, I do--and his knee to thedoor, and he burst it open. Burst it open, Jan! you never saw suchstrength. "

"I could burst any door open that I had a mind to, " was the response ofJan. 

"He burst it open, " continued young Cheese, "and burst it against oldWest. You should have seen 'em stare! They both stared. I stared. Ithink the chap did not mean to do it; that he was only trying hisstrength for pastime. But now, Jan, the odd part of the business is, howdid West get in? If there's not another door, he must have got down thechimney. "

Jan went on with his compounding, and made no response. 

"And if there _is_ a door, he must have been mortal sly over it, "resumed the young gentleman. "He must have gone right out from here, andin at the side gate of the garden, and got in that way. I wonder what hedid it for?"

"It isn't any business of ours, " said Jan. 

"Then I think it is, " retorted Master Cheese. "I'd like to know how manytimes he has been in there, listening to us, when we thought him a mileoff. It's a shame!"

"It's nothing to me who listens, " said Jan equably. "I don't say thingsbehind people's backs, that I'd not say before their faces. "

"I do, " acknowledged young Cheese. "Wasn't there a row! Didn't he andthe man go on at each other! They shut themselves up in that room, andhad it out. "

"What did the man want?" asked Jan. 

"I'd like to know. He and old West had it out together, I say, but theydidn't admit me to the conference. Goodness knows where he had comefrom. West seemed to know him. Jan, I heard something about him and theChalk Cottage folks yesterday. "

"You had better take yourself to a safe distance, " advised Jan. "If thisgoes off with a bang, your face will come in for the benefit. "

"I say, though, it's you that must take care and not let it go off, "returned Master Cheese, edging, nevertheless, a little away. "But aboutthat room? If old West----"

The words were interrupted. The door of the room in question was pushedopen, and Dr. West came out of it. Had Master Cheese witnessed thearrival of an inhabitant from the other world, introduced by the mostprivileged medium extant, he could not have experienced more intenseastonishment. He had truly believed, as he had just expressed it, thatDr. West was at that moment a good mile away. 

"Put your hat on, Cheese, " said Dr. West. 

Cheese put it on, going into a perspiration at the same time. He thoughtnothing less than that he was about to be dismissed. 

"Take this note up to Sir Rufus Hautley's. "

It was a great relief; and Master Cheese received the note in his hand, and went off whistling. 

"Step in here, Mr. Jan, " said the doctor. 

Jan took one of his long legs over the counter, jumped off, and steppedin--into the doctor's sanctum. Had Jan been given to speculation, hemight have wondered what was coming; but it was Jan's method to takethings cool and easy, as they came, and not to anticipate them. 

"My health has been bad of late, " began the doctor. 

"Law!" cried Jan. "What has been the matter?"

"A general disarrangement of the system altogether, I fancy, " returnedDr. West. "I believe that the best thing to restore me will be change ofscene--travelling; and an opportunity to embrace it has presenteditself. I am solicited by an old friend of mine, in practice in London, to take charge of a nobleman's son for some months--to go abroad withhim. "

"Is he ill?" asked literal Jan, to whom it never occurred to ask whetherDr. West had first of all applied to his old friend to seek after such apost for him. 

"His health is delicate, both mentally and bodily, " replied Dr. West. "Ishould like to undertake it: the chief difficulty is leaving you herealone. "

"I dare say I can do it all, " said Jan. "My legs get over the groundquick. I can take to your horse. "

"If you find you cannot do it, you might engage an assistant, " suggestedDr. West. 

"So I might, " said Jan. 

"I should see no difficulty at all in the matter if you were my partner. It would be the same as leaving myself, and the patients could notgrumble. But it is not altogether the thing to leave only an assistant, as you are, Mr. Jan. "

"Make me your partner, if you like, " said cool Jan. "_I_ don't mind. What'll it cost?"

"Ah, Mr. Jan, it will cost more than you possess. At least, it ought. "

"I have got five hundred pounds, " said Jan. "I wanted Lionel to have it, but he won't. Is that of any use?"

Dr. West coughed. "Well, under the circumstances----But it is verylittle! I am sure you must know that it is. Perhaps, Mr. Jan, we cancome to some arrangement by which I take the larger share for thepresent. Say that, for this year, you forward me----"

"Why, how long do you mean to be away?" interrupted Jan. 

"I can't say. One year, two years, three years--it may be even more thanthat. I expect this will be a long and a lucrative engagement. Suppose, I say, that for the first year you transmit to me the one-half of thenet profits, and, beyond that, hand over to Deborah a certain sum, asshall be agreed upon, towards housekeeping. "

"I don't mind how it is, " said easy Jan. "They'll stop here, then?"

"Of course they will. My dear Mr. Jan, everything, I hope, will go onjust as it goes on now, save that I shall be absent. You andCheese--whom I hope you'll keep in order--and the errand boy: it willall be just as it has been. As to the assistant, that will be a futureconsideration. "

"I'd rather be without one, if I can do it, " cried Jan; "and Cheese willbe coming on. Am I to live with 'em?"

"With Deb and Amilly? Why not? Poor, unprotected old things, what wouldthey do without you? And now, Mr. Jan, as that is settled so far, wewill sit down, and go further into details. I know I can depend uponyour not mentioning this abroad. "

"If you don't want me to mention it, you can. But where's the harm?"

"It is always well to keep these little arrangements private, " said thedoctor. "Matiss will draw up the deed, and I will take you round andintroduce you as my partner. But there need not be anything saidbeforehand. Neither need there be anything said at all about my goingaway, until I actually go. You will oblige me in this, Mr. Jan. "

"It's all the same to me, " said accommodating Jan. "Whose will be thisroom, then?"

"Yours, to do as you please with, of course, so long as I am away. "

"I'll have a turn-up bedstead put in it and sleep here, then, " quothJan. "When folks come in the night, and ring me up, I shall be handy. It'll be better than disturbing the house, as is the case now. "

The doctor appeared struck with the proposition. 

"I think it would be a very good plan, indeed, " he said. "I don't fancythe room's damp. "

"Not it, " said Jan. "If it were damp, it wouldn't hurt me. I have notime to be ill, I haven't. Damp--Who's that?"

It was a visitor to the surgery--a patient of Dr. West's--and, for thetime, the conference was broken up, not to be renewed until evening. 

Dr. West and Jan were both fully occupied all the afternoon. Whenbusiness was over--as much so as a doctor's business ever can beover--Jan knocked at the door of this room, where Dr. West again was. 

It was opened about an inch, and the face of the doctor appeared in theaperture, peering out to ascertain who might be disturbing him. The sameaperture which enabled him to see out, enabled Jan to see in. 

"Why! what's up?" cried unceremonious Jan. 

Jan might well ask it. The room contained a table, a desk or two, somesets of drawers, and other receptacles for the custody of papers. Allthese were turned out, desks and drawers alike stood open, and theircontents, a mass of papers, were scattered everywhere. 

The doctor could not, in good manners, shut the door right in hisproposed new partner's face. He opened it an inch or two more. His ownface was purple: it wore a startled, perplexed look, and the drops ofmoisture had gathered on his forehead. That he was not in the most easyframe of mind was evident. Jan put one foot into the room: he could notput two, unless he had stepped upon the papers. 

"What's the matter?" asked Jan, perceiving the signs of perturbation onthe doctor's countenance. 

"I have had a loss, " said the doctor. "It's the most extraordinarything, but a--a paper, which was here this morning, I cannot findanywhere. I _must_ find it!" he added, in ill-suppressed agitation. "I'drather lose everything I possess, than lose that. "

"Where did you put it? When did you have it?" cried Jan, casting hiseyes around. 

"I kept it in a certain drawer, " replied Dr. West, too much disturbed tobe anything but straightforward. "I have not had it in my hand for--oh, I cannot tell how long--months and months, until this morning. I wantedto refer to it then, and got it out. I was looking it over when a rough, ill-bred fellow burst the door open----"

"I heard of that, " interrupted Jan. "Cheese told me. "

"He burst the door open, and I put the paper back in its place before Ispoke to him, " continued Dr. West. "Half an hour ago I went to take itout again, and I found it had disappeared. "

"The fellow must have walked it off, " cried Jan, a conclusion notunnatural. 

"He could not, " said Dr. West; "it is quite an impossibility. I wentback there"--pointing to a bureau of drawers behind him--"and put thepaper hastily in, and locked it in, returning the keys to my pocket. Theman had not stepped over the threshold of the door then; he was a littletaken to, I fancy, at his having burst the door, and he stood therestaring. "

"Could he have got at it afterwards?" asked Jan. 

"It is, I say, an impossibility. He never was within a yard or two ofthe bureau; and, if he had been, the place was firmly locked. That manit certainly was not. Nobody has been in the room since, save myself, and you for a few minutes to-day when I called you in. And yet the paperis gone!"

"Could anybody have come into the room by the other door?" asked Jan. 

"No. It opens with a latch-key only, as this does, and the key was safein my pocket. "

"Well, this beats everything, " cried Jan. "It's like the codicil atVerner's Pride. "

"The very thing it put me in mind of, " said Dr. West. "I'd rather--I'drather have lost that codicil, had it been mine, than lose this, Mr. Jan. "

Jan opened his eyes. Jan had a knack of opening his eyes when anythingsurprised him--tolerably wide, too, "What paper was it, then?" he cried. 

"It was a prescription, Mr. Jan. "

"A prescription!" returned Jan, the answer not lessening his wonder. "That's not much. Isn't it in the book?"

"No, it is not in the book, " said Dr. West. "It was too valuable to bein the book. You may look, Mr. Jan, but I mean what I say. This was aprivate prescription of inestimable value--a secret prescription, I maysay. I would not have lost it for the whole world. "

The doctor wiped the dew from his perplexed forehead, and strove, thoughunsuccessfully, to control his agitated voice to calmness. Jan couldonly stare. All this fuss about a prescription!

"Did it contain the secret for compounding Life's Elixir?" asked he. 

"It contained what was more to me than that, " said Dr. West. "But youcan't help me, Mr. Jan. I would rather be left to the search alone. "

"I hope you'll find it yet, " returned Jan, taking the hint andretreating to the surgery. "You must have overlooked it amongst some ofthese papers. "

"I hope I shall, " replied the doctor. 

And he shut himself up to the search, and turned over the papers. But henever found what he had lost, although he was still turning and turningthem at morning light. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MISS DEBORAH'S ASTONISHMENT. 

One dark morning, near the beginning of November--in fact, it was thefirst morning of that gloomy month--Jan was busy in the surgery. Jan wasarranging things there according to his own pleasure; for Dr. West haddeparted that morning early, and Jan was master of the field. 

Jan had risen betimes. Never a sluggard, he had been up now for somehours, and had effected so great a metamorphosis in the surgery that thedoctor himself would hardly have known it again: things in itpreviously never having been arranged to Jan's satisfaction. And now hewas looking at his watch to see whether breakfast time was coming on, Jan's hunger reminding him that it might be acceptable. He had not yetbeen into the house; his bedroom now being the room you have heard of, the scene of Dr. West's lost prescription. The doctor had gone by thesix o'clock train, after a cordial farewell to Jan; he had gone--as itwas soon to turn out--without having previously informed his daughters. But of this Jan knew nothing. 

"Twenty minutes past eight, " quoth Jan, consulting his watch, a silverone, the size of a turnip. Jan had bought it when he was poor: had givenabout two pounds for it, second-hand. It never occurred to Jan to buy abetter one while that legacy of his was lying idle. Why should he? Jan'sturnip kept time to a moment, and Jan did not understand buying thingsfor show. "Ten minutes yet! I shall eat a double share of bacon thismorning. --Good-morning, Miss Deb. "

Miss Deb was stealing into the surgery with a scared look and a whiteface. Miss Deb wore her usual winter morning costume, a huge brown cape. She was of a shivery nature at the best of times, but she shiveredpalpably now. 

"Mr. Jan, have you got a drop of ether?" asked she, her poor teethchattering together. Jan was too good-natured to tell Deerham thoseteeth were false, though Dr. West had betrayed the secret to Jan. 

"Who's it for?" asked Jan. "For you? Aren't you well, Miss Deb? Eat somebreakfast; that's the best thing. "

"I have had a dreadful shock, Mr. Jan. I have had bad news. Thatis--what has been done to the surgery?" she broke off, casting her eyesaround it in wonder. 

"Not much, " said Jan. "I have been making some odds and ends ofalteration. Is the news from Australia?" he continued, the open letterin her hand helping him to the suggestion. "A mail's due. "

Miss Deborah shook her head. "It is from my father, Mr. Jan. The firstthing I saw, upon going into the breakfast parlour, was this note forme, propped against the vase on the mantel-piece. Mr. Jan"--dropping hervoice to confidence--"it says he is gone! That he is gone away for anindefinite period. "

"You don't mean to say he never told you of it before!" exclaimed Jan. 

"I never heard a syllable from him, " cried poor Deborah. "He says you'llexplain to us as much as is necessary. You can read the note. Mr. Jan, where's he gone?"

Jan ran his eyes over the note; feeling himself probably in somewhat ofa dilemma as to how much or how little it might be expedient to explain. 

"He thought some travelling might be beneficial to his health, " saidJan. "He has got a rare good post as travelling doctor to some youngchap of quality. "

Miss Deborah was looking very hard at Jan. Something seemed to be on hermind; some great fear. "He says he may not be back for ever so long tocome, Mr. Jan. "

"So he told me, " said Jan. 

"And is that the reason he took you into partnership, Mr. Jan?"

"Yes, " said Jan. "Couldn't leave an assistant for an indefinite period. "

"You will never be able to do it all yourself. I little thought, whenall this bustle and changing of bedrooms was going on, what was up. Youmight have told me, Mr. Jan, " she added, in a reproachful tone. 

"It wasn't my place to tell you, " returned Jan. "It was the doctor's. "

Miss Deborah looked timidly round, and then sunk her voice to a lowerwhisper. "Mr. Jan, _why_ has he gone away?"

"For his health, " persisted Jan. 

"They are saying--they are saying--Mr. Jan, what is it that they aresaying about papa and those ladies at Chalk Cottage?"

Jan laid hold of the pestle and mortar, popped in a big lump of somehard-looking white substance, and began pounding away at it. "How shouldI know anything about the ladies at Chalk Cottage?" asked he. "I neverwas inside their door; I never spoke to any one of 'em. "

"But you know that things are being said, " urged Miss Deborah, withalmost feverish eagerness. "Don't you?"

"Who told you anything was being said?" asked Jan. 

"It was Master Cheese. Mr. Jan, folks have seemed queer lately. Theservants have whispered together, and then have glanced at me andAmilly, and I knew there was something wrong, but I could not get atit. This morning, when I picked up this note--it's not five minutes ago, Mr. Jan--in my fright and perplexity I shrieked out; and Master Cheese, he said something about Chalk Cottage. "

"What did he say?" asked Jan. 

Miss Deborah's pale face turned to crimson. "I can't tell, " she said. "Idid not hear the words rightly. Master Cheese caught them up again. Mr. Jan, I have come to you to tell me. "

Jan answered nothing. He was pounding very fiercely. 

"Mr. Jan, I ought to know it, " she went on. "I am not a child. If youplease I must _request_ you to tell me. "

"What are you shivering for?" asked Jan. 

"I can't help it. Is--is it anything that--that he can be taken up for?"

"Taken up!" replied Jan, ceasing from his pounding, and fixing hiswide-open eyes on Miss Deborah. "Can I be taken up for doing this?"--andhe brought down the pestle with such force as to threaten thedestruction of the mortar. 

"You'll tell me, please, " she shivered. 

"Well, " said Jan, "if you must know it, the doctor had a misfortune. "

"A misfortune! He! What misfortune! A misfortune at Chalk Cottage?"

Jan gravely nodded. "And they were in an awful rage with him, and saidhe should pay expenses, and all that. And he wouldn't pay expenses--thechimney-glass alone was twelve pound fifteen; and there was a regularquarrel, and they turned him out. "

"But what was the nature of the misfortune?"

"He set the parlour chimney on fire. "

Miss Deborah's lips parted with amazement; she appeared to find somedifficulty in closing them again. 

"Set the parlour chimney on fire, Mr. Jan!"

"Very careless of him, " continued Jan, with composure. "He had nobusiness to carry gunpowder about with him. Of course they won't believebut he flung it in purposely. "

Miss Deborah could not gather her senses. "Who won't?--the ladies atChalk Cottage?"

"The ladies at Chalk Cottage, " assented Jan. "If I saw all these bottlesgo to smithereens, through Cheese stowing gunpowder in his trousers'pockets, I might go into a passion too, Miss Deb. "

"But, Mr. Jan--_this_ is not what's being said in Deerham?"

"Law, if you go by all that's said in Deerham, you'll have enough todo, " cried Jan. "One says one thing and one says another. No two areever in the same tale. When that codicil was lost at Verner's Pride, tendifferent people were accused by Deerham of stealing it. "

"Were they?" responded Miss Deborah abstractedly. 

"Did you never hear it! You just ask Deerham about the row between thedoctor and Chalk Cottage, and you'll hear ten versions, all different. What else could be expected? As if he'd take the trouble to explain therights of it to them! Not that I should advise you to ask, " concludedJan pointedly. "Miss Deborah, do you know the time?"

"It must be half-past eight, " she repeated mechanically, her thoughtsburied in a reverie. 

"And turned, " said Jan. "I'd be glad of breakfast. I shall have thegratis patients here. "

"It shall be ready in two minutes, " said Miss Deborah meekly. And shewent out of the surgery. 

Presently young Cheese came leaping into it. "The breakfast's ready, "cried he. 

Jan stretched out his long arm, and pinned Master Cheese. 

"What have you been saying to Miss Deb?" he asked. "Look here; who isyour master now?"

"You are, I suppose, " said the young gentleman. 

"Very well. You just bear that in mind; and don't go carrying talesindoors of what Deerham says. Attend to your own business and leave Dr. West's alone. "

Master Cheese was considerably astonished. He had never heard such aspeech from easy Jan. 

"I say, though, are you going to turn out a bashaw with three tails?"asked he. 

"Yes, " replied Jan. "I have promised Dr. West to keep you in order, andI shall do it. "

CHAPTER XXIX. 

AN INTERCEPTED JOURNEY. 

Dr. West's was not the only departure from Deerham that was projectedfor that day. The other was that of Lionel Verner. Fully recovered, hehad deemed it well to waste no more time. Lady Verner suggested that heshould remain in Deerham until the completion of the year; Lionelreplied that he had remained in it rather too long already, that he mustbe up and doing. He was eager to be "up and doing, " and his first steptowards it was the proceeding to London and engaging chambers. He fixedupon the first day of November for his departure, unconscious that thatday had also been fixed upon by Dr. West for his. However, the doctorwas off long before Lionel was out of bed. 

Lionel rose all excitement--all impulse to begin his journey, to be awayfrom Deerham. Somebody else rose with feelings less pleasurable; andthat was Lucy Tempest. Now that the real time of separation had come, Lucy awoke to the state of her own feelings; to the fact, that the wholeworld contained but one beloved face for her--that of Lionel Verner. 

She awoke with no start, she saw nothing wrong in it, she did not askherself how it was to end, what the future was to be; any vision ofmarrying Lionel, which might have flashed across the active brain of amore sophisticated young lady, never occurred to Lucy. All she knew wasthat she had somehow glided into a state of existence different fromanything she had ever experienced before; that her days were allbrightness, the world an Eden, and that it was the presence of Lionelthat made the sunshine. 

She stood before the glass, twisting her soft brown hair, her cheekscrimson with excitement, her eyes bright. The morrow morning would belistless enough; but _this_, the last on which she would see him, wasgay with rose hues of love. Stay! not gay; that is a wrong expression. It would have been gay but for that undercurrent of feeling which waswhispering that, in a short hour or two, all would change to the darkestshade. 

"He says it may be a twelvemonth before he shall come home again, " shesaid to herself, her white fingers trembling as she fastened her prettymorning-dress. "How lonely it will be! What shall we do all that whilewithout him? Oh, dear, what's the matter with me this morning?"

In her perturbed haste, she had fastened her dress all awry, and had toundo it again. The thought that she might be keeping them waitingbreakfast--which was to be taken that morning a quarter of an hourearlier than usual--did not tend to expedite her. Lucy thought of theold proverb: "The more haste, the less speed. "

"How I wish I dare ask him to come sooner than that to see us! But hemight think it strange. I wonder he should not come! there's Christmas, there's Easter, and he must have holiday then. A whole year, perhapsmore; and not to see him!"

She passed out of the room and descended, her soft skirts of pink-shadedcashmere sweeping the staircase. You saw her in it the evening she firstcame to Lady Verner's. It had lain by almost ever since, and was nowconverted into a morning dress. The breakfast-room was empty. Instead ofbeing behind her time, Lucy found she was before it. Lady Verner had notrisen; she rarely did rise to breakfast; and Decima was in Lionel'sroom, busy over some of his things. 

Lionel himself was the next to enter. His features broke into a gladsmile when he saw Lucy. A fairer picture, she, Mr. Lionel Verner, thaneven that other vision of loveliness which your mind has been pleased tomake its ideal--Sibylla!

"Down first, Lucy!" he cried, shaking hands with her. "You wish mesomewhere, I dare say, getting you up before your time. "

"By how much--a few minutes?" she answered, laughing. "It wants twentyminutes to nine. What would they have said to me at the rectory, had Icome down so late as that?"

"Ah, well, you won't have me here to torment you to-morrow. I have beena trouble to you, Lucy, take it altogether. You will be glad to see myback turned. "

Lucy shook her head. She looked shyly up at him in her timidity; but sheanswered truthfully still. 

"I shall be sorry; not glad. "

"Sorry! Why should you be sorry, Lucy?" and his voice insensibly assumeda tone of gentleness. "You cannot have cared for me; for thecompanionship of a half-dead fellow, like myself!"

Lucy rallied her courage. "Perhaps it was because you were half deadthat I cared for you, " she answered. 

"I suppose it was, " mused Lionel, aloud, his thoughts cast back to thepast. "I will bid you good-bye now, Lucy, while we are alone. Believe methat I part from you with regret; that I do heartily thank you for allyou have been to me. "

Lucy looked up at him, a yearning, regretful sort of look, and hereyelashes grew wet. Lionel had her hand in his, and was looking down ather. 

"Lucy, I do think you are sorry to part with me!" he exclaimed. 

"Just a little, " she answered. 

If you, good, grave sir, had been stoical enough to resist the upturnedface, Lionel was not. He bent his lips and left a kiss upon it. 

"Keep it until we meet again, " he whispered. 

Jan came in while they were at breakfast. 

"I can't stop a minute, " were his words when Decima asked him why he didnot sit down. "I thought I'd run up and say good-bye to Lionel, but I amwanted in all directions. Mrs. Verner has sent for me, and there are theregular patients. "

"Dr. West attends Mrs. Verner, Jan, " said Decima. 

"He did, " replied Jan. "It is to be myself, now. West is gone. "

"Gone!" was the universal echo. And Jan gave an explanation. 

It was received in silence. The rumours affecting Dr. West had reachedDeerham Court. 

"What is the matter with Mrs. Verner?" asked Lionel. "She appeared aswell as usual when I quitted her last night. "

"I don't know that there's anything more the matter with her thanusual, " returned Jan, sitting down on a side-table. "She has been goingin some time for apoplexy. "

"Oh, Jan!" uttered Lucy. 

"So she has, Miss Lucy--as Dr. West has said. _I_ have not attendedher. "

"Has she been told it, Jan?"

"Where's the good of telling her?" asked Jan. "She knows it fastenough. She'd not forego a meal, if she saw the fit coming on beforenight. Tynn came round to me, just now, and said his mistress feltpoorly. The Australian mail is in, " continued Jan, passing to anothersubject. 

"Is it?" cried Decima. 

Jan nodded. 

"I met the postman as I was coming out, and he told me. I supposethere'll be news from Fred and Sibylla. "

After this little item of information, which called the colour intoLucy's cheek--she best knew why--but which Lionel appeared to listen toimpassively, Jan got off the table--

"Good-bye, Lionel, " said he, holding out his hand. 

"What's your hurry, Jan?" asked Lionel. 

"Ask my patients, " responded Jan, "I am off the first thing to Mrs. Verner, and then shall take my round. I wish you luck, Lionel. "

"Thank you, Jan, " said Lionel. "Nothing less than the woolsack, ofcourse. "

"My gracious!" said literal Jan. "I say, Lionel, I'd not count uponthat. If only one in a thousand gets to the woolsack, and all the lotexpect it, what an amount of heart-burning must be wasted. "

"Right, Jan. Only let me lead my circuit and I shall deem myself lucky. "

"How long will it take you before you can accomplish that?" asked Jan. "Twenty years?"

A shade crossed Lionel's countenance. That he was beginning late inlife, none knew better than he. Jan bade him farewell, and departed forVerner's Pride. 

Lady Verner was down before Lionel went. He intended to take thequarter-past ten o'clock train. 

"When are we to meet again?" she asked, holding her hand in his. 

"I will come home to see you soon, mother. "

"Soon! I don't like the vague word, " returned Lady Verner. "Why cannotyou come for Christmas?"

"Christmas! I shall scarcely have gone. "

"You will come, Lionel?"

"Very well, mother. As you wish it, I will. "

A crimson flush--a flush of joy--rose to Lucy's countenance. Lionelhappened to have glanced at her. I wonder what he thought of it!

His luggage had gone on, and he walked with a hasty step to thestation. The train came in two minutes after he reached it. Lionel tookhis ticket, and stepped into a first-class carriage. 

All was ready. The whistle sounded, and the guard had one foot on hisvan-step, when a shouting and commotion was heard. "Stop! Stop!" Lionel, like others, looked out, and beheld the long legs of his brother Jancome flying along the platform. Before Lionel had well known what wasthe matter, or had gathered in the hasty news, Jan had pulled him out ofthe carriage, and the train went shrieking on without him. 

"There goes my luggage, and here am I and my ticket!" cried Lionel. "Youhave done a pretty thing, Jan. _What_ do you say?"

"It's all true, Lionel. She was crying over the letters when I gotthere. And pretty well I have raced back to stop your journey. Of courseyou will not go away now. He's dead. "

"I don't understand yet, " gasped Lionel, feeling, however, that he didunderstand. 

"Not understand, " repeated Jan. "It's easy enough. Fred Massingbird'sdead, poor fellow; he died of fever three weeks after they landed; andyou are master of Verner's Pride. "

CHAPTER XXX. 

NEWS FROM AUSTRALIA. 

Lionel Verner could scarcely believe in his own identity. The train, which was to have contained him, was whirling towards London; he, a pooraspirant for future fortune, ought to have been in it; he had countedmost certainly to be in it; but here was he, while the steam of thattrain yet snorted in his ears, walking out of the station, a wealthyman, come into a proud inheritance, the inheritance of his fathers. Inthe first moment of tumultuous thought, Lionel almost felt as if somefairy must have been at work with a magic wand. 

It was all true. He linked his arm within Jan's, and listened to therecital in detail. Jan had found Mrs. Verner, on his arrival at Verner'sPride, weeping over letters from Australia; one from a Captain Cannonby, one from Sibylla. They contained the tidings that Frederick Massingbirdhad died of fever, and that Sibylla was anxious to come home again. 

"Who is Captain Cannonby?" asked Lionel of Jan. 

"Have you forgotten the name?" returned Jan. "That friend of FredMassingbird's who sold out, and was knocking about London; Fred went uponce or twice to see him. He went to the diggings last autumn, and itseems Fred and Sibylla lighted on him at Melbourne. He had laid poorFred in the grave the day before he wrote, he says. "

"I can scarcely believe it all now, Jan, " said Lionel. "What a change!"

"Ay. You won't believe it for a day or two. I say, Lionel, Uncle Stephenneed not have left Verner's Pride to the Massingbirds; they have notlived to enjoy it. Neither need there have been all that bother aboutthe codicil. I know what. "

"What?" asked Lionel, looking at him; for Jan spoke significantly. 

"That Madam Sibylla would give her two ears now to have married you, instead of Fred Massingbird. "

Lionel's face flushed, and he replied coldly, hauteur in his tone, "Nonsense, Jan! you are speaking most unwarrantably. When Sibylla choseFred Massingbird, I was the heir to Verner's Pride. "

"_I_ know, " said Jan. "Verner's Pride would be a great temptation toSibylla; and I can but think she knew it was left to Fred when shemarried him. "

Lionel did not condescend to retort. He would as soon believe himselfcapable of bowing down before the god of gold, in a mean spirit, asbelieve Sibylla capable of it. Indeed, though he was wont to charmhimself with the flattering notion that his love for Sibylla had diedout, or near upon it, he was very far off the point when he could thinkany ill of Sibylla. 

"My patients will be foaming, " remarked Jan, who continued his way toVerner's Pride with Lionel. "They will conclude I have gone off with Dr. West; and I have his list on my hands now, as well as my own. I say, Lionel, when I told you the letters from Australia were in, how littlewe guessed they would contain this news. "

"Little, indeed!" said Lionel. 

"I suppose you won't go to London now?"

"I suppose not, " was the reply of Lionel; and a rush of gladnessillumined his heart as he spoke it. No more toil over those dry old lawbooks! The study had never been to his taste. 

The servants were gathered in the hall when Lionel and Jan entered it. Decorously sorry, of course, for the tidings which had arrived, butunable to conceal the inward satisfaction which peeped out--notsatisfaction at the death of Fred, but at the accession of Lionel. It iscurious to observe how jealous the old retainers of a family are, uponall points which touch the honour or the well-being of the house. FredMassingbird was an alien; Lionel was a Verner; and now, as Lionelentered, they formed into a double line that he might pass between them, their master from henceforth. 

Mrs. Verner was in the old place, the study. Jan had seen her in bedthat morning; but, since then, she had risen. Early as the hour yet was, recent as the sad news had been, Mrs. Verner had dropped asleep. She satnodding in her chair, snoring heavily, breathing painfully, her neck andface all one colour--carmine red. That she looked--as Jan hadobserved--a very apoplectic subject, struck Lionel most particularly onthis morning. 

"Why don't you bleed her, Jan?" he whispered. 

"She won't be bled, " responded Jan. "She won't take physic. She won't doanything that she ought to do. You may as well talk to a post. She'll donothing but eat and drink, and fall asleep afterwards, and then wake upto eat and drink and fall asleep again. Mrs. Verner"--exalting hisvoice--"here's Lionel. "

Mrs. Verner partially woke up. Her eyes opened sufficiently to observeJan; and her mind apparently grew awake to a confused remembrance offacts. "He's gone to London, " said she to Jan. "You won't catch him:"and then she nodded again. 

"I did catch him, " shouted Jan. "Lionel's here. "

Lionel sat down by her, and she woke up pretty fully. 

"I am grieved at this news for your sake, Mrs. Verner, " he said in akind tone, as he took her hand. "I am sorry for Frederick. "

"Both my boys gone before me, Lionel!" she cried, melting intotears--"John first; Fred next. Why did they go out there to die?"

"It is indeed sad for you, " replied Lionel. "Jan says Fred died offever. "

"He has died of fever. Don't you remember when Sibylla wrote, she saidhe was ill with fever? He never got well. He never got well! I take itthat it must have been a sort of intermittent fever--pretty well oneday, down ill the next--for he had started for the place where Johndied--I forget its name, but you'll find it written there. Only a fewhours after quitting Melbourne, he grew worse and died. "

"Was he alone?" asked Lionel. 

"Captain Cannonby was with him. They were going together up to--Iforget, I say, the name of the place--where John died, you know. It wasnine or ten days' distance from Melbourne, and they had travelled but aday of it. And I suppose, " added Mrs. Verner, with tears in her eyes, "that he'd be put into the ground like a dog!"

Lionel, on this score, could give no consolation. He knew not whetherthe fact might be so, or not. Jan hoisted himself on to the top of ahigh bureau, and sat in comfort. 

"He'd be buried like a dog, " repeated Mrs. Verner. "What do they knowabout parsons and consecrated ground out there? Cannonby buried him, hesays, and then he went back to Melbourne to carry the tidings toSibylla. "

"Sibylla? Was Sibylla not with him when he died?" exclaimed Lionel. 

"It seems not. It's sure not, in fact, by the letters. You can readthem, Lionel. There's one from her and one from Captain Cannonby. "

"It's not likely they'd drag Sibylla up to the diggings, " interposedJan. 

"And yet almost as unlikely that her husband would leave her alone insuch a place as Melbourne appears to be, " dissented Lionel. 

"She was not left alone, " said Mrs. Verner. "If you'd read the letters, Lionel, you would see. She stayed in Melbourne with a family: friends, Ithink she says, of Captain Cannonby's. She has written for money to besent out to her by the first ship, that she may pay her passage homeagain. "

This item of intelligence astonished Lionel more than any other. 

"Written for money to be sent out for her passage home!" he reiterated. "_Has_ she no money?"

Mrs. Verner looked at him. "They accuse me of forgetting things in mysleep, Lionel; but I think you must be growing worse than I am. PoorFred told us in his last letter that he had been robbed of his desk, andthat it had got his money in it. "

"But I did not suppose it contained all--that they were reduced so lowas for his wife to have no money left for a passage. What will she dothere until some can be got out?"

"If she is with comfortable folks, they'd not turn her out, " cried Jan. 

Lionel took up the letters, and ran his eyes over them. They told himlittle else of the facts; though more of the details. It appeared tohave taken place pretty much as Mrs. Verner said. The closing part ofSibylla's letter ran as follows:--

 "After we wrote to you, Fred met Captain Cannonby. You must remember, dear aunt, how often Fred would speak of him. Captain Cannonby has relatives out here, people in very good position--if people can be said to be in a position at all in such a horrid place. We knew Captain Cannonby had come over, but thought he was at the Bendigo diggings. However, Fred met him; and he was very civil and obliging. He got us apartments in the best hotel--one of the very places that had refused us, saying they were crowded. Fred seemed to grow a trifle better, and it was decided that they should go to the place where John died, and try to get particulars about his money, etc. , which in Melbourne we could hear nothing of. Indeed, nobody seemed to know even John's name. Captain Cannonby (who has really made money here in some way--trading, he says--and expects to make a good deal more) agreed to go with Fred. Then Fred told me of the loss of his desk and money, his bills of credit, and that; whatever the term may be. It was stolen from the quay, the day we arrived, and he had never been able to hear of it; but, while there seemed a chance of finding it, he would not let me know the ill news. Of course, with this loss upon us, there was all the more necessity for our getting John's money as speedily as might be. Captain Cannonby introduced me to his relatives, the Eyres, told them my husband wanted to go up the country for a short while, and they invited me to stay with them. And here I am, and very kind they are to me in this dreadful trouble. 

 "Aunt Verner, I thought I should have died when, a day or two after they started, I saw Captain Cannonby come back alone, with a long, sorrowful face. I seemed to know in a moment what had happened; I had thought at the time they started that Fred was too ill to go. I said to him, 'My husband is dead!' and he confessed that it was so. He had been taken ill at the end of the first day, and did not live many hours. 

 "I can't tell you any more, dear Aunt Verner; I am too sick and ill, and if I filled ten sheets with the particulars, it would not alter the dreadful facts. I want to come home to _you_; I know you will receive me, and let me live with you always. I have not any money. Please send me out sufficient to bring me home by the first ship that sails. I don't care for any of the things we brought out; they may stop here or be lost in the sea, for all the difference it will make to me: I only want to come home. Captain Cannonby says he will take upon himself now to look after John's money, and transmit it to us, if he can get it. 

 "Mrs. Eyre has just come in. She desires me to say that they are taking every care of me, and are all happy to have me with them: she says I am to tell you that her own daughters are about my age. It is all true, dear aunt, and they are exceedingly kind to me. They seem to have plenty of money, are intimate with the governor's family, and with what they call the good society of the colony. When I think what my position would have been now had I not met with them, I grow quite frightened. 

 "I have to write to papa, and must close this. I have requested Captain Cannonby to write to you himself, and give you particulars about the last moments of Frederick. Send me the money without delay, dear aunt. The place is hateful to me now he is gone, and I'd rather be dead than stop in it. 

 "Your affectionate and afflicted niece, "SIBYLLA MASSINGBIRD. "

Lionel folded the letter musingly. "It would almost appear that they hadnot heard of your son's accession to Verner's Pride, " he remarked toMrs. Verner. "It is not alluded to in any way. "

"I think it is sure they had not heard of it, " she answered "I remarkedso to Mary Tynn. The letters must have been delayed in their passage. Lionel, you will see to the sending out of the money for me. "

"Immediately, " replied Lionel. 

"And when do you come home?"

"Do you mean--do you mean when do I come here?" returned Lionel. 

"To be sure I mean it. It is your home. Verner's Pride is your home, Lionel, now; not mine. It has been yours this three or four months past, only we did not know it. You must come home to it at once, Lionel. "

"I suppose it will be right that I should do so, " he answered. 

"And I shall be thankful, " said Mrs. Verner. "There will be a masteronce more, and no need to bother me. I have been bothered, Lionel. Mr. Jan, "--turning to the bureau--"it's that which has made me feel ill. Onecomes to me with some worry or other, and another comes to me: they_will_ come to me. The complaints and tales of that Roy fidget my lifeout. "

"I shall discharge Roy at once, Mrs. Verner. "

Mrs. Verner made a deprecatory movement of the hands, as much as to saythat it was no business of hers. "Lionel, I have only one request tomake of you: never speak of the estate to me again, or of anythingconnected with its management. You are its sole master, and can do asyou please. Shall you turn me out?"

Lionel's face flushed. "No, Mrs. Verner, " he almost passionatelyanswered. "You could not think so. "

"You have the right. Had Fred come home, he would have had the right. But I'd hardly reconcile myself to any other house how. "

"It is a right which I should never exercise, " said Lionel. 

"I shall mostly keep my room, " resumed Mrs. Verner; "perhaps wholly keepit: and Mary Tynn will wait upon me. The servants will be yours, Lionel. In fact, they are yours; not mine. What a blessing! to know that I maybe at peace from henceforth: that the care will be upon another'sshoulders! My poor Fred! My dear sons! I little thought I was takingleave of them both for the last time!"

Jan jumped off his bureau. Now that the brunt of the surprise was over, and plans began to be discussed, Jan bethought himself of his impatientsick list, who were doubtlessly wondering at the non-appearance of theirdoctor. Lionel rose to depart with him. 

"But, you should not go, " said Mrs. Verner. "In five minutes I vacatethis study; resign it to you. This change will give you plenty to do, Lionel. "

"I know it will, dear Mrs. Verner. I shall be back soon, but I musthasten to acquaint my mother. "

"You will promise not to go away again, Lionel. It is your lawful home, remember. "

"I shall not go away again, " was Lionel's answer; and Mrs. Vernerbreathed freely. To be emancipated from what she had regarded as thegreat worry of life, was felt to be a relief. Now she could eat andsleep all day, and never need be asked a single question, or hearwhether the outside world had stopped, or was going on still. 

"You will just pen a few words for me to Sibylla, Lionel, " she calledout. "I am past much writing now. "

"If it be necessary that I should, " he coldly replied. 

"And send them with the remittance, " concluded Mrs. Verner. "You willknow how much to send. Tell Sibylla that Verner's Pride is no longermine, and I cannot invite her to it. It would hardly be the--the thingfor a young girl, and she's little better, to be living here with youall day long, and I always shut up in my room. Would it?"

Lionel somewhat haughtily shrugged his shoulders. "Scarcely, " heanswered. 

"She must go to her sisters, of course. Poor girl! what a thing it seemsto have to return to her old house again!"

Jan put in his head. "I thought you said you were coming, Lionel?"

"So I am--this instant. " And they departed together: encountering Mr. Bitterworth in the road. 

He grasped hold of Lionel in much excitement. 

"Is it true--what people are saying? That you have come into Verner'sPride?"

"Quite true, " replied Lionel. And he gave Mr. Bitterworth a summary ofthe facts. 

"Now look there!" cried Mr. Bitterworth, who was evidently deeplyimpressed; "it's of no use to try to go against honest right: sooner orlater it will triumph. In your case, it has come wonderfully soon. Itold my old friend that the Massingbirds had no claim to Verner's Pride;that if they were exalted to it, over your head, it would not prosperthem--not, poor fellows, that I thought of their death. May you remainin undisturbed possession of it, Lionel! May your children succeed to itafter you!"

Lionel and Jan continued their road. But they soon parted company, forJan turned off to his patients. Lionel made the best of his way toDeerham Court. In the room he entered, steadily practising, was LucyTempest, alone. She turned her head to see who it was, and at the sightof Lionel started up in alarm. 

"What is it? Why are you back?" she exclaimed. "Has the train brokendown?"

Lionel smiled at her vehemence; at her crimsoned countenance; at herunbounded astonishment altogether. 

"The train has not broken down, I trust, Lucy. I did not go with it. Doyou know where my mother is?"

"She is gone out with Decima. "

He felt a temporary disappointment; the news, he was aware, would be sodeeply welcome to Lady Verner. Lucy stood regarding him, waiting thesolution of the mystery. 

"What should you say, Lucy, if I tell you Deerham is not going to getrid of me at all?"

"I do not understand you, " replied Lucy, colouring with surprise andemotion. "Do you mean that you are going to remain here?"

"Not here--in this house. That would be a calamity for you. "

Lucy looked as if it would be anything but a calamity. 

"You are as bad as our French mistress at the rectory, " she said. "Shewould never tell us anything; she used to make us guess. "

Her words were interrupted by the breaking out of the church bells: aloud peal, telling of joy. A misgiving crossed Lionel that the news hadgot wind, and that some officious person had been setting on the bellsto ring for him, in honour of his succession. The exceeding bad taste ofthe proceeding--should it prove so--called a flush of anger to hisbrow. His inheritance had cost Mrs. Verner her son. 

The suspicion was confirmed. One of the servants, who had been to thevillage, came running in at this juncture with open mouth, calling outthat Mr. Lionel had come into his own, and that the bells were ringingfor it. Lucy Tempest heard the words, and turned to Lionel. 

"It is so, Lucy, " he said, answering the look. "Verner's Pride is atlast mine. But--"

She grew strangely excited. Lionel could see her heart beat--could seethe tears of emotion gather in her eyes. 

"I am so glad!" she said in a low, heartfelt tone. "I thought it wouldbe so, sometime. Have you found the codicil?"

"Hush, Lucy! Before you express your gladness, you must learn that sadcircumstances are mixed with it. The codicil has not been found; butFrederick Massingbird has died. "

Lucy shook her head. "He had no right to Verner's Pride, and I did notlike him. I am sorry, though, for himself, that he is dead. And--Lionel--you will never go away now?"

"I suppose not: to live. "

"I am so glad! I may tell you that I am glad, may I not?"

She half timidly held out her hand as she spoke. Lionel took it betweenboth of his, toying with it as tenderly as he had ever toyed withSibylla's. And his low voice took a tone which was certainly not that ofhatred, as he bent towards her. 

"I am glad also, Lucy. The least pleasant part of my recent projecteddeparture was the constantly remembered fact that I was about to put adistance of many miles between myself and you. It grew all too palpabletowards the last. "

Lucy laughed and drew away her hand, her radiant countenance fallingbefore the gaze of Lionel. 

"So you will be troubled with me yet, you see, Miss Lucy, " he added, ina lighter tone, as he left her and strode off with a step that mighthave matched Jan's, on his way to ask the bells whether they were notashamed of themselves. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

ROY EATING HUMBLE PIE. 

And so the laws of right and justice had eventually triumphed, andLionel Verner took possession of his own. Mrs. Verner took possession ofher own--her chamber; all she was ever again likely to take possessionof at Verner's Pride. She had no particular ailment, unless heavinesscould be called an ailment, and steadily refused any suggestion ofJan's. 

"You'll go off in a fit, " said plain Jan to her. 

"Then I must go, " replied Mrs. Verner. "I can't submit to be madewretched with your medical and surgical remedies, Mr. Jan. Old peopleshould be let alone, to doze away their days in peace. "

"As good give some old people poison outright, as let them always doze, "remonstrated Jan. 

"You'd like me to live sparingly--to starve myself, in short--and you'dlike me to take exercise!" returned Mrs. Verner. "Wouldn't you, now?"

"It would add ten years to your life, " said Jan. 

"I dare say! It's of no use your coming preaching to me, Mr. Jan. Go andtry your eloquence upon others. I always have had enough to eat, and Ihope I always shall. And as to my getting about, or walking, I _can't_. When folks come to be my size, it's cruel to want them to do it. "

Mrs. Verner was nodding before she had well spoken the last words, andJan said no more. You may have met with some such case in your ownexperience. 

When the news of Lionel Verner's succession fell upon Roy, the bailiff, he could have gnashed his teeth in very vexation. Had he foreseen whatwas to happen he would have played his cards so differently. It had notentered into the head-piece of Roy to reflect that Frederick Massingbirdmight die. Scarcely had it that he _could_ die. A man, young and strong, what was likely to take him off? John had died, it was true; but John'sdeath had been a violent one. Had Roy argued the point at all--which hedid not, for it had never occurred to his mind--he might have assumedthat because John had died, Fred was the more likely to live. It is asomewhat rare case for two brothers to be cut down in their youth andprime, one closely following upon the other. 

Roy lived in a cottage standing by itself, a little beyond Clay Lane, but not so far off as the gamekeeper's. On the morning when the bellshad rung out--to the surprise and vexation of Lionel--Roy happened to beat home. Roy never grudged himself holiday when it could be devoted tothe benefit of his wife. A negative benefit she may have thought it, since it invariably consisted in what Roy called a "blowing of her up. "

Mrs. Roy had heard that the Australian mail was in. But the postman hadnot been to their door, therefore no letter could have arrived for themfrom Luke. A great many mails, as it appeared to Mrs. Roy, had come inwith the like result. That Luke had been murdered, as his master, JohnMassingbird, had been before him, was the least she feared. Her fearsand troubles touching Luke were great; they were never at rest; and hertears fell frequently. All of which excited the ire of Roy. 

She sat in a rocking-chair in the kitchen--a chair which had been newwhen the absent Luke was a baby, and which was sure to be the seatchosen by Mrs. Roy when she was in a mood to indulge any passingtribulation. The kitchen opened to the road, as the kitchens of many ofthe dwellings did open to it; a parlour was on the right, which was usedonly on the grand occasion of receiving visitors; and the stairs, leading to two rooms above, ascended from the kitchen. Here she sat, silently wiping away her dropping tears with a red cottonpocket-handkerchief. Roy was not in the sweetest possible temper himselfthat morning, so, of course, he turned it upon her. 

"There you be, a-snivelling as usual! I'd have a bucket always at myfeet, if I was you. It might save the trouble of catching rain-water. "

"If the letter-man had got anything for us, he'd have been round here anhour ago, " responded Mrs. Roy, bursting into unrestrained sobs. 

Now, this happened to be the very grievance that was affecting thegentleman's temper--the postman's not having gone there. They had heardthat the Australian mail was in. Not that he was actuated by any strongpaternal feelings--such sentiments did not prey upon Mr. Roy. Thehearing or the not hearing from his son would not thus have disturbedhis equanimity. He took it for granted that Luke was alivesomewhere--probably getting on--and was content to wait until himself ora letter should turn up. The one whom he had been expecting to hear fromwas his new master, Mr. Massingbird. He had fondly indulged the hopethat credential letters would arrive for him, confirming him in hisplace of manager; he believed that this mail would inevitably bringthem, as the last mails had not. Hence he had stayed at home to receivethe postman. But the postman had not come, and it gave Roy a pain in histemper. 

"They be a-coming back, that's what it is, " was the conclusion hearrived at, when his disappointment had a little subsided. "Perhaps theymight have come by this very ship! I wonder if it brings folks as wellas letters?"

"I know he must be dead!" sobbed Mrs. Roy. 

"He's dead as much as you be, " retorted Roy. "He's a-making his fortune, and he'll come home after it--that's what Luke's a-doing. For all youknow he may be come too. "

The words appeared to startle Mrs. Roy; she looked up, and he saw thather face had gone white with terror. 

"Why! what _does_ ail you?" cried he, in wonder. "Be you took crazy?"

"I don't want him to come home, " she replied in an awe-struck whisper. "Roy, I don't want him to. "

"You don't want to be anything but a idiot, " returned Roy, with supremecontempt. 

"But I'd like to hear from him, " she wailed, swaying herself to and fro. "I'm always a-dreaming of it. "

"You'll just dream a bit about getting the dinner ready, " commanded Roymorosely; "that's what you'll dream about now. I said I'd have biledpork and turnips, and nicely you be a-getting on with it. Hark ye! I'ma-going now, but I shall be in at twelve, and if it ain't ready, mindyour skin!"

He swung open the kitchen door just in time to hear the church bellsburst out with a loud and joyous peal. It surprised Roy. In quietDeerham, such sounds were not very frequent. 

"What's up now?" cried Roy savagely. Not that the abstract fact of thebells ringing was of any moment to him, but he was in a mood to be angrywith everything. "Here, you!" continued he, seizing hold of a boy whowas running by, "what be them bells a-clattering for?"

Brought to thus summarily, the boy had no resource but to stop. It was ayoung gentleman whom you have had the pleasure of meeting before--MasterDan Duff. So fast had he been flying, that a moment or two elapsed erehe could get breath to speak. 

The delay did not tend to soothe his capturer; and he administered aslight shake. "Can't you speak, Dan Duff? Don't you see who it is that'sa-asking of you? What be them bells a-working for?"

"Please, sir, it's for Mr. Lionel Verner. "

The answer took Roy somewhat aback. He knew--as everybody elseknew--that Mr. Lionel Verner's departure from Deerham was fixed for thatday; but to believe that the bells would ring out a peal of joy on thataccount was a staggerer even to Roy's ears. Dan Duff found himselftreated to another shake, together with a sharp reprimand. 

"So they be a-ringing for him!" panted he. "There ain't no call toshake my inside out of me for saying so. Mr. Lionel have got Verner'sPride at last, and he ain't a-going away at all, and the bells bea-ringing for it. Mother have sent me to tell the gamekeeper. She saidhe'd sure to give me a penny, if I was the first to tell him. "

Roy let go the boy. His arms and his mouth alike dropped. "Is that--thatthere codicil found?" gasped he. 

Dan Duff shook his head. "I dun know nothink about codinals, " said he. "Mr. Fred Massingbird's dead. He can't keep Mr. Lionel out of his ownany longer, and the bells is a-ringing for it. "

Unrestrained now, he sped away. Roy was not altogether in a state tostop him. He had turned of a glowing heat, and was asking himselfwhether the news could be true. Mrs. Roy stepped forward, her tearsarrested. 

"Law, Roy, whatever shall you do?" spoke she deprecatingly. "I said asyou should have kept in with Mr. Lionel. You'll have to eat humble pie, for certain. "

The humble pie would taste none the more palatable for his beingreminded of it by his wife, and Roy drove her back with a shower ofharsh words. He shut the door with a bang, and went out, a forlorn hopelighting him that the news might be false. 

But the news, he found, was too true. Frederick Massingbird was reallydead, and the true heir had come into his own. 

Roy stood in much inward perturbation. The eating of humble pie--as Mrs. Roy had been kind enough to suggest--would not cost much to a man of hiscringing nature; but he entertained a shrewd suspicion that no amount ofhumble pie would avail him with Mr. Verner; that, in short, he should bediscarded entirely. While thus standing, the centre of a knot ofgossipers, for the news had caused Deerham to collect in groups, thebells ceased as suddenly as they had begun, and Lionel Verner himselfwas observed coming from the direction of the church. Roy stood out fromthe rest, and, as a preliminary slice of the humble pie, took off hishat, and stood bare-headed while Lionel passed by. 

It did not avail him. On the following day Roy found himself summoned toVerner's Pride. He went up, and was shown to the old business room--thestudy. 

Ah! things were changed now--changed from what they had been; and Roywas feeling it to his heart's core. It was no longer the feebleinvalid, Stephen Verner, who sat there, to whom all business wasunwelcome, and who shunned as much of it as he could shun, leaving it toRoy; it was no longer the ignorant and easy Mrs. Verner to whom (as sheherself had once expressed it) Roy could represent white as black, andblack as white: but he who reigned now was essentially master--master ofhimself and of all who were dependent on him. 

Roy felt it the moment he entered; felt it keenly. Lionel stood before atable covered with papers. He appeared to have risen from his chair andto be searching for something. He lifted his head when Roy appeared, quitted the table and stood looking at the man, his figure drawn to itsfull height. The exceeding nobility of the face and form struck evenRoy. 

But Lionel greeted him in a quiet, courteous tone; to meet any one, thepoorest person on his estate, otherwise than courteously was next to animpossibility for Lionel Verner. "Sit down, Roy, " he said. "You are atno loss, I imagine, to guess what my business is with you. "

Roy did not accept the offered seat. He stood in discomfiture, sayingsomething to the effect that he'd change his mode of dealing with themen, would do all he could to give satisfaction to his master, Mr. Verner, if the latter would consent to continue him on. 

"You must know, yourself, that I am not likely to do it, " returnedLionel briefly. "But I do not wish to be harsh, Roy--I trust I nevershall be harsh with any one--and if you choose to accept of work on theestate, you can do so. "

"You'll not continue me in my post over the brick-yard, sir--over themen generally?"

"No, " replied Lionel, "Perhaps the less we go into those past mattersthe better. _I_ have no objection to speak of them, Roy; but, if I do, you will hear some home truths that may not be palatable. You can havework if you wish for it; and good pay. "

"As one of the men, sir?" asked Roy, a shade of grumbling in his tone. 

"As one of the superior men!"

Roy hesitated. The blow had fallen; but it was only what he feared. "Might I ask as you'd give me a day to consider it over, sir?" hepresently said. 

"A dozen days if you choose. The work is always to be had; it will notrun away; if you prefer to spend time deliberating upon the point, it isyour affair, not mine. "

"Thank ye, sir. Then I'll think it over. It'll be hard lines, comingdown to be a workman, where I've been, as may be said, a sort ofmaster. "

"Roy. "

Roy turned back. He had been moving away. "Yes, sir. "

"I shall expect you to pay rent for your cottage now, if you remain init. Mr. Verner, I believe, threw it into your post; made it part of yourperquisites. Mrs. Verner has, no doubt, done the same. But that is at anend. I can show no more favour to you than I do to others. "

"I'll think it over, sir, " concluded Roy, his tone as sullen a one as hedared let appear. And he departed. 

Before the week was out, he came again to Verner's Pride, and said hewould accept the work, and pay rent for the cottage; but he hoped Mr. Verner would name a fair rent. 

"I should not name an unfair one, Roy, " was the reply of Lionel. "Youwill pay the same that others pay, whose dwellings are the same size asyours. Mr Verner's scale of rents is not high, but low, as you know; Ishall not alter it. "

And so Roy continued on the estate. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

"IT'S APPLEPLEXY. "

A short period elapsed. One night Jan Verner, upon getting into bed, found he need not have taken the trouble, for the night-bell rang, andJan had to get up again. He opened his window and called out to know whowas there. A boy came round from the surgery door into view, and Janrecognised him for the youngest son of his brother's gamekeeper, a youthof twelve. He said his mother was ill. 

"What's the matter with her?" asked Jan. 

"Please, sir, she's took bad in the stomach. She's a-groaning awful. Father thinks she'll die. "

Jan dressed himself and started off, carrying with him a dose oftincture of opium. When he arrived, however, he found the woman soviolently sick and ill, that he suspected it did not arise simply fromnatural causes. "What has she been eating?" inquired Jan. 

"Some late mushrooms out of the fields. "

"Ah, that's just it, " said Jan. And he knew the woman had been poisoned. He took a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote a rapid word on it, andordered the boy to carry it to the house, and give it to Mr. Cheese. 

"Now, look you, Jack, " said he, "if you want your mother to get well, you'll go there and back as fast as your legs can carry you. I can dolittle till you bring me what I have sent for. Go past the Willow Pool, and straight across to my house. "

The boy looked aghast at the injunction. "Past the Willow Pool!" echoedhe. "I'd not go past there, sir, at night, for all the world. "

"Why not?" questioned Jan. 

"I'd see Rachel Frost's ghost, may be, " returned Jack, his round eyesopen with perplexity. 

The conceit of seeing a ghost amused Jan beyond everything. He sat downon a high press that was in the kitchen, and grinned at the boy. "Whatwould the ghost do to you?" cried he. 

Jack Broom could not say. All he knew was that neither he, nor a goodmany more, had gone near that pond at night since the report had arisen(which, of course, it had, simultaneously with the death) that Rachel'sghost was to be seen there. 

"Wouldn't you go to save your mother?" cried Jan. 

"I'd--I'd not go to be made winner of the leg of mutton atop of agreased pole, " responded the boy, in a mortal fright lest Jan shouldsend him. 

"You are a nice son, Mr. Jack! A brave young man, truly!"

"Jim Hook, he was a-going by the pond one night, and he see'd it, " criedthe boy earnestly. "It don't take two minutes longer to cut down ClayLane, please, sir. "

"Be off, then, " said Jan, "and see how quick you can be. What has putsuch a thing into his head?" he presently asked of the gamekeeper, whowas hard at work preparing hot water. 

"Little fools!" ejaculated the man. "I think the report first took itsrise, sir, through Robin Frost's going to the pond of a moonlightnight, and walking about on its brink. "

"Robert Frost did!" cried Jan. "What did he do that for?"

"What indeed, sir! It did no good, as I told him more than once, when Icame upon him there. He has not been lately, I think. Folks get up atalk that Robin went there to meet his sister's spirit, and it put theyoungsters into a fright. "

Back came Mr. Jack in an incredibly short time. He could not have comemuch quicker, had he dashed right through the pool. Jan set himself tohis work, and did not leave the woman until she was better. That was thebest of Jan Verner. He paid every atom as much attention to the poor ashe did to the rich. Jan never considered who or what his patients were:all his object was, to get them well. 

His nearest way home lay past the pool, and he took it: _he_ did notfear poor Rachel's ghost. It was a sharpish night, bright, somewhat of afrost. As Jan neared the pool, he turned his head towards it and halfstopped, gazing on its still waters. He had been away when thecatastrophe happened; but the circumstances had been detailed to him. "How it would startle Jack and a few of those timid ones, " said healoud, "if some night--"

"Is that you, sir?"

Some persons, with nerves less serene than Jan's, might have started atthe sudden interruption there and then. Not so Jan. He turned round withcomposure, and saw Bennet, the footman from Verner's Pride. The man hadcome up hastily from behind the hedge. 

"I have been to your house, sir, and they told me you were at thegamekeeper's, so I was hastening there. My mistress is taken ill, sir. "

"Is it a fit?" cried Jan, remembering his fears and prognostications, with regard to Mrs. Verner. 

"It's worse than that, sir; it's appleplexy. Leastways, sir, my masterand Mrs. Tynn's afraid that it is. She looks like dead, sir, and there'sfroth on her mouth. "

Jan waited for no more. He turned short round, and flew by the nearestpath to Verner's Pride. 

The evil had come. Apoplexy it indeed was, and Jan feared that all hisefforts to remedy it would be of no avail. 

"It was by the merest chance that I found it out, sir, " Mrs. Tynn saidto him. "I happened to wake up, and I thought how quiet my mistress waslying; mostly she might be heard ever so far off when she was asleep. Igot up, sir, and took the rushlight out of the shade, and looked at her. And then I saw what had happened, and went and called Mr. Lionel. "

"Can you restore her, Jan?" whispered Lionel. 

Jan made no reply. He had his own private opinion; but, whatever thatmay have been, he set himself to the task in right earnest. 

She never rallied. She lived only until the dawn of morning. Scarcelyhad the clock told eight, when the death-bell went booming over thevillage; the bell of that very church which had recently been so merryfor the succession of Lionel. And when people came running from far andnear to inquire for whom the passing-bell was ringing out, they hushedtheir voices and their footsteps when informed that it was for Mrs. Verner. 

Verily, within the last year, Death had made himself at home at Verner'sPride!

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

JAN'S REMEDY FOR A COLD. 

A cold bright day in mid-winter. Luncheon was just over at DeerhamCourt, and Lady Verner, Decima, and Lucy Tempest had gathered round thefire in the dining-room. Lucy had a cold. _She_ laughed at it; said shewas used to colds; but Lady Verner had insisted upon her wrappingherself in a shawl, and not stirring out of the dining-room--which wasthe warmest room in the house--for the day. So there reclined Lucy instate, in an arm-chair with cushions; half laughing at being made intoan invalid, half rebelling at it. 

Lady Verner sat opposite to her. She wore a rich black silk dress--themourning for Mrs. Verner--and a white lace cap of the finest guipure. The white gloves on her hands were without a wrinkle, and her curiouslyfine handkerchief lay on her lap. Lady Verner could indulge her tastefor snowy gloves and for delicate handkerchiefs now, untroubled by thethought of the money they cost. The addition to her income, which shehad spurned from Stephen Verner, she accepted willingly from Lionel. Lionel was liberal as a man and as a son. He would have given the halfof his fortune to his mother, and not said, "It is a gift. " DeerhamCourt had its carriage and horses now, and Deerham Court had itsadditional servants. Lady Verner visited and received company, and thelook of care had gone from her face, and the querulousness from hertone. 

But it was in Lady Verner's nature to make a trouble of things; and ifshe could not do it in a large way, she must do it in a small. To-day, occurred this cold of Lucy's, and that afforded scope for Lady Verner. She sent for Jan as soon as breakfast was over, in defiance of thelaughing protestations of Lucy. But Jan had not made his appearance yet, and Lady Verner waxed wroth. 

He was coming in now--now, as the servant was carrying out theluncheon-tray, entering by his usual mode--the back-door, and nearlyknocking over the servant and tray in his haste, as his long legs strodeto the dining-room. Lady Verner had left off reproaching Jan for usingthe servants' entrance, finding it waste of breath: Jan would have comedown the chimney with the sweeps, had it saved him a minute's time. "Who's ill?" asked he. 

Lady Verner answered the question by a sharp reprimand, touching Jan'stardiness. 

"I can't be in two places at once, " good-humouredly replied Jan. "I havebeen with one patient since four o'clock this morning, until fiveminutes ago. Who is it that's ill?"

Lucy explained her ailments, giving Jan her own view of them, that therewas nothing the matter with her but a bit of a cold. 

"Law!" contemptuously returned Jan. "If I didn't think somebody must bedying! Cheese said they'd been after me about six times!"

"If you don't like to attend Miss Tempest, you can let it alone, " saidLady Verner. "I can send elsewhere. "

"I'll attend anybody that I'm wanted to attend, " said Jan. "Where d'yefeel the symptoms of the cold?" asked he of Lucy. "In the head orchest?"

"I am beginning to feel them a little here, " replied Lucy, touching herchest. 

"Only beginning to feel them, Miss Lucy?"

"Only beginning, Jan. "

"Well, then, you just wring out a long strip of rag in cold water, andput it round your neck, letting the ends rest on the chest, " said Jan. "A double piece, from two to three inches broad. It must be coveredoutside with thin waterproof skin to keep the wet in; you know what Imean; Decima's got some; oil-skin's too thick. And get a lot of toastand water, or lemonade; any liquid you like; and sip a drop of it everyminute, letting it go down your throat slowly. You'll soon get rid ofyour sore chest if you do this; and you'll have no cough. "

Lady Verner listened to these directions of Jan's in unqualifiedamazement. She had been accustomed to the very professional remedies ofDr. West. Decima laughed. "Jan, " said she, "I could fancy an old womanprescribing this, but not a doctor. "

"It'll cure, " returned Jan. "It will prevent the cough coming on; andprevention's better than cure. You try it at once, Miss Lucy; and you'llsoon see. You will know then what to do if you catch cold in future. "

"Jan, " interposed Lady Verner, "I consider the very mention of suchremedies beneath the dignity of a medical man. "

Jan opened his eyes. "But if they are the best remedies, mother?"

"At any rate, Jan, if this is your fashion of prescribing, you will notfill your pockets, " said Decima. 

"I don't want to fill my pockets by robbing people, " returned plain Jan. "If I know a remedy that costs nothing, why shouldn't I let my patientshave the benefit of it, instead of charging them for drugs that won't dohalf the good?"

"Jan, " said Lucy, "if it cost gold I should try it. I have great faithin what you say. "

"All right, " replied Jan. "But it must be done at once, mind. If you letthe cold get ahead first, it will not be so efficacious. And nowgood-day to you all, for I must be off to my patients. Good-bye, mother. "

Away went Jan. And, amidst much laughter from Lucy, the wet "rag, " Jan'selegant phrase for it, was put round her neck, and covered up. Lionelcame in, and they amused him by reciting Jan's prescription. 

"It is this house which has given her the cold, " grumbled Lady Verner, who invariably laid faults and misfortunes upon something or somebody. "The servants are for ever opening that side-door, and then there comesa current of air throughout the passage. Lionel, I am not sure but Ishall leave Deerham Court. "

Lionel leaned against the mantel-piece, a smile upon his face. He hadcompletely recovered his good looks, scared away though they had beenfor a time by his illness. He was in deep mourning for Mrs. Verner. Decima looked up, surprised at Lady Verner's last sentence. 

"Leave Deerham Court, mamma! When you are so much attached to it!"

"I don't dislike it, " acknowledged Lady Verner. "But it suited me betterwhen we were living quietly, than it does now. If I could find a largerhouse with the same conveniences, and in an agreeable situation, I mightleave this. "

Decima did not reply. She felt sure that her mother was attached to thehouse, and would never quit it. Her eyes said as much as theyencountered Lionel's. 

"I wish my mother would leave Deerham Court!" he said aloud. 

Lady Verner turned to him. "Why should you wish it, Lionel?"

"I wish you would leave it to come to me, mother. Verner's Pride wants amistress. "

"It will not find one in me, " said Lady Verner. "Were you an old man, Lionel, I might then come. Not as it is. "

"What difference can my age make?" asked he. 

"Every difference, " said Lady Verner. "Were you an old man, you mightnot be thinking of getting married; as it is, you will be. Your wifewill reign at Verner's Pride, Lionel. "

Lionel made no answer. 

"You _will_ be marrying sometime, I suppose?" reiterated Lady Verner, with emphasis. 

"I suppose I shall be, " replied Lionel; and his eyes, as he spoke, involuntarily strayed to Lucy. She caught the look, and blushed vividly. 

"How much of that do you intend to drink, Miss Lucy?" asked Lionel, asshe sipped the tumbler of lemonade, at her elbow. 

"Ever so many tumblers of it, " she answered. "Jan said I was to keepsipping it all day long. The water, going down slowly, heals the chest. "

"I believe if Jan told you to drink boiling water, you'd do it, Lucy, "cried Lady Verner. "You seem to fall in with all he says. "

"Because I like him, Lady Verner. Because I have faith in him; and ifJan prescribes a thing, I know that he has faith in it. "

"It is not displaying a refined taste to like Jan, " observed LadyVerner, intending the words as a covert reprimand to Lucy. 

But Lucy stood up for Jan. Even at the dread of openly disagreeing withLady Verner, Lucy would not be unjust to one whom she deemed of sterlingworth. 

"I like Jan very much, " said she resolutely, in her championship. "There's nobody I like so well as Jan, Lady Verner. "

Lady Verner made a slight movement with her shoulders. It was almost asmuch as to say that Lucy was growing as hopelessly incorrigible as Jan. Lionel turned to Lucy. 

"_Nobody_ you like so well as Jan, did you say?"

Poor Lucy! If the look of Lionel, just before, had brought the hot blushto her cheek, that blush was nothing compared to the glowing crimsonwhich mantled there now. She had not been thinking of one sort of likingwhen she so spoke of Jan: the words had come forth in the honestsimplicity of her heart. 

Did Lionel read the signs aright, as her eyes fell before his? Veryprobably. A smile stole over his lips. 

"I do like Jan very much, " stammered Lucy, essaying to mend the matter. "I _may_ like him, I suppose? There's no harm in it. "

"Oh! no harm, certainly, " spoke Lady Verner, with a spice of irony. "Inever thought Jan could be a favourite before. Not being fastidiouslypolished yourself, Lucy--forgive my saying it--you entertain, Iconclude, a fellow feeling for Jan. "

Lucy--for Jan's sake--would not be beaten. 

"Don't you think it is better to be like Jan, Lady Verner, than--than--like Dr. West, for instance?"

"In what way?" returned Lady Verner. 

"Jan is so true, " debated Lucy, ignoring the question. 

"And Dr. West was not, I suppose, " retorted Lady Verner. "He wrote falseprescriptions, perhaps? Gave false advice?"

Lucy looked a little foolish. "I will tell you the difference, as itseems to me, between Jan and other people, " she said. "Jan is like arough diamond--real within, unpolished without--but a genuine diamondwithal. Many others are but the imitation stone--glittering outside, false within. "

Lionel was amused. 

"Am I one of the false ones, Miss Lucy?"

She took the question literally. 

"No; you are true, " she answered, shaking her head, and speaking withgrave earnestness. 

"Lucy, my dear, I would not espouse Jan's cause so warmly, were I you, "advised Lady Verner. "It might be misconstrued. "

"How so?" simply asked Lucy. 

"It might be thought that you--pray excuse the common vulgarity of thesuggestion--were in love with Jan. "

"In love with Jan!" Lucy paused for a moment after the words, and thenburst into a merry fit of laughter. "Oh, Lady Verner! I cannot fancyanybody falling in love with Jan. I don't think he would know what todo. "

"I don't think he would, " quietly replied Lady Verner. 

A peal at the courtyard bell, and the letting down the steps of acarriage. Visitors for Lady Verner. They were shown to the drawing-room, and the servant came in. 

"The Countess of Elmsley and Lady Mary, my lady. "

Lady Verner rose with alacrity. They were favourite friends ofhers--nearly the only close friends she had made in her retirement. 

"Lucy, you must not venture into the drawing-room, " she stayed to say. "The room is colder than this. Come. "

The last "come" was addressed conjointly to her son and daughter. Decimaresponded to it, and followed; Lionel remained where he was. 

"The cold room would not hurt me, but I am glad not to go, " began Lucy, subsiding into a more easy tone, a more social manner, than she venturedon in the presence of Lady Verner. "I think morning visiting thegreatest waste of time! I wonder who invented it?"

"Somebody who wanted to kill time, " answered Lionel. 

"It is not as though friends, who really cared for each other, met andtalked. The calls are made just for form's sake, and for nothing else, _I_ will never fall into it when I am my own mistress. "

"When is that to be?" asked Lionel, smiling. 

"Oh! I don't know, " she answered, looking up at him in all confidingsimplicity. "When papa comes home, I suppose. "

Lionel crossed over to where she was sitting. 

"Lucy, I thank you for your partisanship of Jan, " he said, in a low, earnest tone. "I do not believe anybody living knows his worth. "

"Yes; for I do, " she replied, her eyes sparkling. 

"Only, don't you get to like him too much--as Lady Verner hinted, "continued Lionel, his eyes dancing with merriment at his own words. 

Lucy's eyelashes fell on her hot cheek. "Please not to be so foolish, "she answered, in a pleading tone. 

"Or a certain place--that has been mentioned this morning--might have togo without a mistress for good, " he whispered. 

What made him say it? It is true he spoke in a light, joking tone; butthe words were not justifiable, unless he meant to follow them upseriously in future. He _did_ mean to do so when he spoke them. 

Decima came in, sent by Lady Verner to demand Lionel's attendance. 

"I am coming directly, " replied Lionel. And Decima went back again. 

"You ought to take Jan to live at Verner's Pride, " said Lucy to him, thewords unconsciously proving that she had understood Lionel's allusion toit. "If he were my brother, I would not let him be always slavinghimself at his profession. "

"If he were your brother, Lucy, you would find that Jan would slave justas he does now, in spite of you. Were Jan to come into Verner's Prideto-morrow, through my death, I really believe he would let it, and liveon where he does, and doctor the parish to the end of time. "

"Will Verner's Pride go to Jan after you?"

"That depends. It would, were I to die as I am now, a single man. But Imay have a wife and children some time, Lucy. "

"So you may, " said Lucy, filling up her tumbler from the jug oflemonade. "Please to go into the drawing-room now, or Lady Verner willbe angry. Mary Elmsley's there, you know. "

She gave him a saucy glance from her soft bright eyes. Lionel laughed. 

"Who made you so wise about Mary Elmsley, young lady?"

"Lady Verner, " was Lucy's answer, her voice subsiding into aconfidential tone. "She tells us all about it, me and Decima, when weare sitting by the fire of an evening. _She_ is to be the mistress ofVerner's Pride. "

"Oh, indeed, " said Lionel. "She is, is she! Shall I tell you something, Lucy?"

"Well?"

"If that mistress-ship--is there such a word?--ever comes to pass, Ishall not be the master of it. "

Lucy looked pleased. "That is just what Decima says. She says it to LadyVerner. I wish you would go to them. "

"So I will. Good-bye. I shall not come in again. I have a hundred andone things to do this afternoon. "

He took her hand and held it. She, ever courteous of manner, simplethough she was, rose and stood before him to say her adieu, her eyesraised to his, her pretty face upturned. 

Lionel gazed down upon it, and, as he had forgotten himself once before, so he now forgot himself again. He clasped it to him with a suddenmovement of affection, and left on it some fervent kisses, whisperingtenderly--

"Take care of yourself, my darling Lucy!"

Leaving her to make the best of the business, Mr. Lionel proceeded tothe drawing-room. A few minutes' stay in it, and then he pleaded anengagement, and departed. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

IMPROVEMENTS. 

Things were changed now out of doors. There was no dissatisfaction, nocomplaining. Roy was deposed from his petty authority, and all men wereat peace, with the exception, possibly, of Mr. Peckaby. Mr. Peckaby didnot, find his shop flourish. Indeed, far from flourishing, so completelywas it deserted, that he was fain to give up the trade, and accept workat Chuff the blacksmith's forge, to which employment, it appeared, hehad been brought up. A few stale articles remained in the shop, and thecounters remained; chiefly for show. Mrs. Peckaby made a pretence ofattending to customers; but she did not get two in a week. And if thosetwo entered, they could not be served, for she was pretty sure to beout, gossiping. 

This state of things did not please Mrs. Peckaby. In one point of viewthe failing of the trade pleased her, because it left her less work todo; but she did not like the failing of their income. Whether the shophad been actually theirs, or whether it had been Roy's, there was nodoubt that they had drawn sufficient from it to live comfortably and tofind Mrs. Peckaby in smart caps. This source was gone, and all they hadnow was an ignominious fourteen shillings a week, which Peckaby earned. The prevalent opinion in Clay Lane was that this was quite as much asPeckaby deserved; and that it was a special piece of undeserved goodfortune which had taken off the blacksmith's brother and assistant inthe nick of time, Joe Chuff, to make room for him. Mrs. Peckaby, however, was in a state of semi-rebellion; the worse, that she did notknow upon whom to visit it, or see any remedy. She took to passing hertime in groaning and tears, somewhat after the fashion of Dinah Roy, venting her complaints upon anybody that would listen to her. 

Lionel had not said to the men, "You shall leave Peckaby's shop. " He hadnot even hinted to them that it might be desirable to leave it. Inshort, he had not interfered. But, the restraint of Roy being removedfrom the men, they quitted it of their own accord. "No more Roy; no morePeckaby; no more grinding down--hurrah!" shouted they, and went back tothe old shops in the village. 

All sorts of improvements had Lionel begun. That is, he had plannedthem: begun yet, they were not. Building better tenements for thelabourers, repairing and draining the old ones, adding whatever might bewanted to make the dwellings healthy: draining, ditching, hedging. "Itshall not be said that while I live in a palace, my poor live inpigsties, " said Lionel to Mr. Bitterworth one day. "I'll do what I canto drive that periodical ague from the place. "

"Have you counted the cost?" was Mr. Bitterworth's rejoinder. 

"No, " said Lionel. "I don't intend to count it. Whatever the changes maycost, I shall carry them out. "

And Lionel, like other new schemers, was red-hot upon them. He drew outplans in his head and with his pencil; he consulted architects, hespent half his days with builders. Lionel was astonished at the mean, petty acts of past tyranny, exercised by Roy, which came to light, farmore than he had had any idea of. He blushed for himself and for hisuncle, that such a state of things had been allowed to go on; hewondered that it could have gone on; that he had been blind to so muchof it, or that the men had not exercised Lynch law upon Roy. 

Roy had taken his place in the brick-yard as workman; but Lionel, in theanger of the moment, when these things came out, felt inclined to spurnhim from the land. He would have done it but for his promise to the manhimself; and for the pale, sad face of Mrs. Roy. In the hour when hisanger was at its height, the woman came up to Verner's Pride, stealthily, as it seemed, and craved him to write to Australia, "now hewas a grand gentleman, " and ask the "folks over there" if they couldsend back news of her son. "It's going on of a twelvemonth since hewrited to us, sir, and we don't know where to write to him, and I'ma'most fretted into my grave. "

"My opinion is that he is coming home, " said Lionel. 

"Heaven sink the ship first!" she involuntarily muttered, and then sheburst into a violent flood of tears. 

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Lionel. "Don't you want him to come home?"

"No, sir. No. "

"But why? Are you fearing"--he jumped to the most probable solution ofher words that he could suggest--"are you fearing that he and Roy wouldnot agree?--that there would be unpleasant scenes between them, as thereused to be?"

The woman had her face buried in her hands, and she never lifted it asshe answered, in a stifled voice, "It's what I'm a-fearing, sir. "

Lionel could not quite understand her. He thought her more weak andsilly than usual. 

"But he is not coming home, " she resumed. "No, sir, I don't believe thatEngland will ever see him again; and it's best as it is, for there'snothing but care and sorrow here, in the old country. But I'd like toknow what's become of him; whether he is alive or dead, whether he isstarving or in comfort. Oh, sir!" she added, with a burst of wailinganguish, "write for me, and ask news of him! They'd answer _you_. Myheart is aching for it. "

He did not explain to her then, how very uncertain was the fate ofemigrants to that country, how next to impossible it might be to obtainintelligence of an obscure young man like Luke; he contented himselfwith giving her what he thought would be better comfort. 

"Mrs. Frederick Massingbird will be returning in the course of a fewmonths, and I think she may bring news of him. Should she not, I willsee what inquiries can be made. "

"Will she be coming soon, sir?"

"In two or three months, I should suppose. The Misses West may be ableto tell you more definitely, if they have heard from her. "

"Thank ye, sir; then I'll wait till she's home. You'll not tell Roy thatI have been up here, sir?"

"Not I, " said Lionel. "I was debating, when you came in, whether Ishould not turn Roy off the estate altogether. His past conduct to themen has been disgraceful. "

"Ay, it have, sir! But it was my fate to marry him, and I have had tolook on in quiet, and see things done, not daring to say as my soul's myown. It's not my fault, sir. "

Lionel knew that it was not. He pitied her, rather than blamed. 

"Will you go into the servants' hall and eat something after your walk?"he kindly asked. 

"No, sir, many thanks. I don't want to see the servants. They might gettelling that I have been here. "

She stole out from his presence, her pale, sad face, her evidently deepsorrow, whatever might be its source, making a vivid impression uponLionel. But for that sad face, he might have dealt more harshly with herhusband. And so Roy was tolerated still. 

It was upon these various past topics that Lionel's mind was running ashe walked away from Deerham Court after that afternoon's interview withLucy, which he had made so significant. He had pleaded an engagement, asan excuse for quitting his mother's drawing-room and her guests. It musthave been at home, we must suppose, for ho took his way straight towardsVerner's Pride, sauntering through the village as if he had leisure tolook about him, his thoughts deep in his projected improvements. 

Here, a piece of stagnant water was to be filled in; there was the siteof his new tenements; yonder, was the spot for a library andreading-room; on he walked, throwing his glances everywhere. As heneared the shop of Mrs. Duff, a man came suddenly in view, facing him; alittle man, in a suit of rusty black, and a white neckcloth, with a paleface and red whiskers, whom Lionel remembered to have seen once before, a day or two previously. As soon as he caught sight of Lionel he turnedshort off, crossed the street, and darted out of sight down theBelvidere Road. 

"That looks as though he wanted to avoid me, " thought Lionel. "I wonderwho he may be? Do you know who that man is, Mrs. Duff?" asked he aloud;for that lady was taking the air at her shop-door, and had watched themovement. 

"I don't know much about him, sir. He have been stopping in the placethis day or two. What did I hear his name was, again?" added Mrs. Duff, putting her fingers to her temples in a considering fit. "Jarrum, Ithink. Yes, that was it. Brother Jarrum, sir. "

"Brother Jarrum?" repeated Lionel, uncertain whether the "Brother" mightbe spoken in a social point of view, or was a name bestowed upon thegentleman in baptism. 

"He's a missionary from abroad, or something of that sort, sir. He iscome to see what he can do towards converting us. "

"Oh, indeed, " said Lionel, his lip curling with a smile. The man's facehad not taken his fancy. "Honest missionaries do not need to run away toavoid meeting people, Mrs. Duff. "

"He have got cross eyes, " responded Mrs. Duff. "Perhaps that's a reasonhe mayn't like to look gentlefolks in the face, sir. "

"Where does he come from?"

"Well, now, sir, I did hear, " replied Mrs. Duff, putting on herconsidering cap again, "it were some religious place, sir, that's talkedof a good deal in the Bible. Jericho, were it? No. It began with a J, though. Oh, I have got it, sir! It were Jerusalem. He conies all the wayfrom Jerusalem. "

"Where is he lodging?" continued Lionel. 

"He have been lodging at the George and Dragon, sir. But to-day he havegone and took that spare bedroom as the Peckabys have wanted to let, since their custom fell off. "

"He means to make a stay, then?"

"It looks like it, sir. Susan Peckaby, she were in here half an hourago, a-buying new ribbons for a cap, all agog with it. He's a-going tohold forth in their shop, she says, and see how many of the parish hecan turn into saints. I say it won't be a bad 'turn, ' if it keeps themen from the beer-houses. "

Lionel laughed as he went on. He supposed it was a new movement thatwould have its brief day and then be over, leaving results neither goodnor bad behind it; and he dismissed the man from his memory. 

He walked on, in the elasticity of his youth and health. All natureseemed to be smiling around him. Outward things take their hue very muchfrom the inward feelings, and Lionel felt happier than he had done formonths and months. Had the image of Lucy Tempest anything to do withthis? No--nothing. He had not yet grown to love Lucy in that idolisingmanner, as to bring her ever present to him. He was thinking of thechange in his own fortunes; he cast his eyes around to the right and theleft, and they rested on his own domains--domains which had for a timebeen wrested from him; and as his quick steps rung on the frosty road, his heart went up in thankfulness to the Giver of all good. 

Just before he reached Verner's Pride, he overtook Mr. Bitterworth, whowas leaning against a roadside gate. He had been attacked by suddengiddiness, he said, and asked Lionel to give him an arm home. Lionelproposed that he should come in and remain for a short while at Verner'sPride; but Mr. Bitterworth preferred to go home. 

"It is one of my bilious attacks coming on, " he remarked, as he wentalong. "I have not had a bad one for this four months. "

Lionel took him safe home, and remained with him for some time, talking;the chief theme being his own contemplated improvements, and how to goto work upon them; a topic which seemed to bring no satiety to LionelVerner. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

BACK AGAIN. 

It was late when Lionel reached Verner's Pride. Night had set in, andhis dinner was waiting. 

He ate it hurriedly--he mostly did eat hurriedly when he was alone, asif he were glad to get it over--Tynn waiting on him. Tynn liked to waitupon his young master. Tynn had been in a state of glowing delight sincethe accession of Lionel. Attached to the old family, Tynn had felt italmost as keenly as Lionel himself, when the estate had lapsed to theMassingbirds. Mrs. Tynn was in a glow of delight also. There was nomistress, and she ruled the household, including Tynn. 

The dinner gone away and the wine on the table, Lionel drew his chair infront of the fire, and fell into a train of thought, leaving the wineuntouched. Full half an hour had he thus sat, when the entrance of Tynnaroused him. He poured out a glass, and raised it to his lips. Tynn borea note on his silver waiter. 

"Matiss's boy has just brought it. He is waiting to know whether there'sany answer. "

Lionel opened the note, and was reading it, when a sound of carriagewheels came rattling on to the terrace, passed the windows, and stoppedat the hall door. "Who can be paying me a visit to-night, I wonder?"cried he. "Go and see, Tynn. "

"It sounded like one of them rattling one-horse flies from the railwaystation, " was Tynn's comment to his master, as he left the room. 

Whoever it might be, they appeared pretty long in entering, and Lionel, very greatly to his surprise, heard a sound as of much luggage beingdeposited in the hall. He was on the point of going out to see, when thedoor opened, and a lovely vision glided forward--a young, fair face andform, clothed in deep mourning, with a shower of golden curls shadingher damask cheeks. For one single moment, Lionel was lost in the beautyof the vision. Then he recognised her, before Tynn's announcement washeard; and his heart leaped as if it would burst its bounds--

"Mrs. Massingbird, sir. "

--leaped within him fast and furiously. His pulses throbbed, his bloodcoursed on, and his face went hot and cold with emotion. Had he beenfondly persuading himself, during the past months, that she wasforgotten? Truly the present moment rudely undeceived him. 

Tynn shut the door, leaving them alone. Lionel was not so agitated as toforget the courtesies of life. He shook hands with her, and, in theimpulse of the moment, called her Sibylla; and then bit his tongue fordoing it. 

She burst into tears. There, as he held her hand. She lifted her lovelyface to him with a yearning, pleading look. "Oh, Lionel!--you will giveme a home, won't you?"

What was he to say? He could not, in that first instant, abruptly say toher--No, you cannot have a home here. Lionel could not hurt the feelingsof any one. "Sit down, Mrs. Massingbird, " he gently said, drawing aneasy-chair to the fire. "You have taken me quite by surprise. When didyou land?"

She threw off her bonnet, shook back those golden curls, and sat down inthe chair, a large heavy shawl on her shoulders. "I will not take it offyet, " she said in a plaintive voice. "I am very cold. "

She shivered slightly. Lionel drew her chair yet nearer the fire, andbrought a footstool for her feet, repeating his question as he did so. 

"We reached Liverpool late yesterday, and I started for home thismorning, " she answered, her eyelashes wet still, as she gazed into thefire. "What a miserable journey it has been!" she added, turning toLionel. "A miserable voyage out; a miserable ending!"

"Are you aware of the changes that have taken place since you left?" heasked. "Your aunt is dead. "

"Yes, I know it, " she answered. "They told me at the station just now. That lame porter came up and knew me; and his first news to me was thatMrs. Verner was dead. What a greeting! I was coming home here to livewith her. "

"You could not have received my letter. One which I wrote at the requestof Mrs. Verner in answer to yours. "

"What news was in it?" she asked. "I received no letter from you. "

"It contained remittances. It was sent, I say, in answer to yours, inwhich you requested money should be forwarded for your home passage. You did not wait for it?"

"I was tired of waiting. I was sick for home. And one day, when I hadbeen crying more than usual, Mrs. Eyre said to me that if I were soanxious to go, there need be no difficulty about the passage-money, thatthey would advance me any amount I might require. Oh, I was so glad! Icame away by the next ship. "

"Why did you not write saying that you were coming?"

"I did not think it mattered--and I knew I had this home to come to. IfI had had to go to my old home again at papa's, then I should havewritten. I should have seemed like an intruder arriving at their house, and have deemed it necessary to warn them of it. "

"You heard in Australia of Mr. Verner's death, I presume?"

"I heard of that, and that my husband had inherited Verner's Pride. Thenews came out just before I sailed for home. Of course I thought I had aright to come to this home, though he was dead. I suppose it is yoursnow?"

"Yes. "

"Who lives here?"

"Only myself. "

"Have I a right to live here--as Frederick's widow?" she continued, lifting her large blue eyes anxiously at Lionel. "I mean would the lawgive it me?"

"No, " he replied, in a low tone. He felt that the truth must be told toher without disguise. She was placing both him and herself in anembarrassing situation. 

"Was there any money left to me?--or to Frederick?"

"None to you. Verner's Pride was left to your husband; but at his demiseit came to me. "

"Did my aunt leave me nothing?"

"She had nothing to leave, Mrs. Massingbird. The settlement which Mr. Verner executed on her, when they married, was only for her life. Itlapsed back to the Verner's Pride revenues when she died. "

"Then I am left without a shilling, to the mercy of the world!"

Lionel felt for her--felt for her rather more than was safe. He beganplanning in his own mind how he could secure to her an income from theVerner's Pride estate, without her knowing whence it came. FrederickMassingbird had been its inheritor for a short three or four months, and Lionel's sense of justice revolted against his widow being thrown onthe world, as she expressed it, without a shilling. 

"The revenues of the estate during the short time that elapsed betweenMr. Verner's death and your husband's are undoubtedly yours, Mrs. Massingbird, " he said. "I will see Matiss about it, and they shall bepaid over. "

"How long will it be first?"

"A few days, possibly. In a note which I received but now from Matiss, he tells me he is starting for London, but will be home the beginning ofthe week. It shall be arranged on his return. "

"Thank you. And, until then, I may stay here?"

Lionel was at a nonplus. It is not a pleasing thing to tell a lady thatshe must quit your house, in which, like a stray lamb, she has takenrefuge. Even though it be, for her own fair sake, expedient that sheshould go. 

"I am here alone, " said Lionel, after a pause. "Your temporary home hadbetter be with your sisters. "

"No, that it never shall, " returned Sibylla, in a hasty tone of fear. "Iwill never go home to them, now papa's away. Why did he leave Deerham?They told me at the station that he was gone, and Jan was doctor. "

"Dr. West is travelling on the Continent, as medical attendant andcompanion to a nobleman. At least--I think I heard it was a nobleman, "continued Lionel. "I am really not sure. "

"And you would like me to go home to those two cross, fault-findingsisters!" she resumed. "They might reproach me all day long with cominghome to be kept. As if it were my fault that I am left without anything. Oh, Lionel! don't turn me out! Let me stay until I can see what is to bedone for myself. I shall not hurt you. It would have been all mine hadFrederick lived. "

He did not know what to do. Every moment there seemed to grow lesschance that she would leave the house. A bright thought darted into hismind. It was, that he would get his mother or Decima to come and staywith him for a time. 

"What would you like to take?" he inquired. "Mrs. Tynn will get youanything you wish. I----"

"Nothing yet, " she interrupted. "I could not eat; I am too unhappy. Iwill take some tea presently, but not until I am warmer. I am verycold. "

She cowered over the fire again, shivering much. Lionel, saying he had anote to write, sat down to a distant table. He penned a few hasty linesto his mother, telling her that Mrs. Massingbird had arrived, under theimpression that she was coming to Mrs. Verner, and that he could notwell turn her out again that night, fatigued and poorly as she appearedto him to be. He begged his mother to come to him for a day or two, inthe emergency, or to send Decima. 

An undercurrent of conviction ran in Lionel's mind during the time ofwriting it that his mother would not come; he doubted even whether shewould allow Decima to come. He drove the thought away from him; but theimpression remained. Carrying the note out of the room when written, hedespatched it to Deerham Court by a mounted groom. As he was returningto the dining-room he encountered Mrs. Tynn. 

"I hear Mrs. Massingbird has arrived, sir, " cried she. 

"Yes, " replied Lionel. "She will like some tea presently. She appearsvery much fatigued. "

"Is the luggage to be taken upstairs, sir?" she continued, pointing tothe pile in the hall. "Is she going to stay here?"

Lionel really did not know what answer to make. 

"She came expecting to stay, " he said, after a pause. "She did not knowbut your mistress was still here. Should she remain, I dare say LadyVerner, or my sister, will join her. You have beds ready?"

"Plenty of them, sir, at five minutes' notice. "

When Lionel entered the room, Sibylla was in the same attitude, shivering over the fire. Unnaturally cold she appeared to be, and yether cheeks were brilliantly bright, as if with a touch of fever. 

"I fear you have caught cold on the journey to-day, " he said. 

"I don't think so, " she answered. "I am cold from nervousness. I wentcold at the station when they told me that my aunt was dead, and I havebeen shivering ever since. Never mind me; it will go off presently. "

Lionel drew a chair to the other side of the fire, compassionatelyregarding her. He could have found in his heart to take her in his arms, and warm her there. 

"What was that about a codicil?" she suddenly asked him. "When my auntwrote to me upon Mr. Verner's death, she said that a codicil had beenlost: or that, otherwise, the estate would have been yours. "

Lionel explained it to her, concealing nothing. 

"Then--if that codicil had been forthcoming, Frederick's share wouldhave been but five hundred pounds?"

"That is all. "

"It was very little to leave him, " she musingly rejoined. 

"And still less to leave me, considering my nearer relationship--mynearer claims. When the codicil could not be found, the will had to beacted upon: and five hundred pounds was all the sum it gave me. "

"Has the codicil never been found?"

"Never. "

"How very strange! What became of it, do you think?"

"I wish I could think what, " replied Lionel. "Although Verner's Pridehas come to me without it, it would be satisfactory to solve themystery. "

Sibylla looked round cautiously, and sunk her voice. "Could Tynn or hiswife have done anything with it? You say they were present when it wassigned. "

"Most decidedly they did not. Both of them were anxious that I shouldsucceed. "

"It is so strange! To lock a paper up in a desk, and for it to disappearof its own accord! The moths could not have got in and eaten it?"

"Scarcely, " smiled Lionel. "The day before your aunt died, she----"

"Don't talk of that, " interrupted Mrs. Massingbird. "I will hear abouther death to-morrow. I shall be ill if I cry much to-night. "

She sank into silence, and Lionel did not interrupt it. It continued, until his quick ears caught the sound of the groom's return. The manrode his horse round to the stables at once. Presently Tynn came in witha note. It was from Lady Verner. A few lines, written hastily with apencil:--

"I do not understand your request, Lionel, or why you make it. Whatevermay be my opinion of Frederick Massingbird's widow, I will not insulther sense of propriety by supposing that she would attempt to remain atVerner's Pride now her aunt is dead. It is absurd of you to ask me tocome; neither shall I send Decima. Were I and Decima residing with you, it would not be the place for Sibylla Massingbird. She has her own hometo go to. "

There was no signature. Lionel knew his mother's handwriting too well torequire the addition. It was just the note that he might have expectedher to write. 

What was he to do? In the midst of his ruminations, Sibylla rose. 

"I am warm now, " she said. "I should like to go upstairs and take thisheavy shawl off. "

Lionel rang the bell for Mrs. Tynn. And Sibylla left the room with her. 

"I'll get her sisters here!" he suddenly exclaimed, the thought of themdarting into his mind. "They will be the proper persons to explain toher the inexpediency of her remaining here. Poor girl! she is unable tothink of it in her fatigue and grief. "

He did not give it a second thought, but snatched his hat, and went downhimself to Dr. West's with strides as long as Jan's. Entering thegeneral sitting-room without ceremony, his eyes fell upon a supper-tableand Master Cheese; the latter regaling himself upon apple-puffs to hisheart's content. 

"Where are the Misses West?" asked Lionel. 

"Gone to a party, " responded the young gentleman, as soon as he couldget his mouth sufficiently empty to speak. 

"Where to?"

"To Heartburg, sir. It's a ball at old Thingumtight's, the doctor's. They are gone off in gray gauze, with, branches of white flowers hangingto their curls, and they call that mourning. The fly is to bring themback at two in the morning. They left these apple-puffs for me and Jan. Jan said he should not want any; he'd eat meat; so I have got his shareand mine!"

And Master Cheese appeared to be enjoying the shares excessively. Lionelleft him to it, and went thoughtfully back to Verner's Pride. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A MOMENT OF DELIRIUM. 

The dining-room looked a picture of comfort, and Lionel thought so as heentered. A blaze of light and warmth burst upon him. A well-spreadtea-table was there, with cold meat, game and else, at one end of it. Standing before the fire, her young, slender form habited in its blackrobes, was Sibylla. No one, looking at her, would have believed her tobe a widow; partly from her youth, partly that she did not wear thewidow's dress. Her head was uncovered, and her fair curls fell, shadingher brilliant cheeks. It has been mentioned that her chief beauty lay inher complexion: seen by candle-light, flushed as she was now, she wasinexpressibly beautiful. A dangerous hour, a perilous situation for theyet unhealed heart of Lionel Verner. 

The bright flush was the result of excitement, of some degree of inwardfever. Let us allow that it was a trying time for her. She had arrivedto find Mrs. Verner dead, her father absent; she had arrived to findthat no provision had been made for her by Mr. Verner's will, as thewidow of Frederick Massingbird. Frederick's having succeeded to theinheritance debarred her even of the five hundred pounds. It is truethere would be the rents, received for the short time it had been his. There was no doubt that Sibylla, throughout the long voyage, hadcherished the prospect of finding a home at Verner's Pride. If herhusband had lived, it would have been wholly hers; she appeared still topossess a right in it; and she never gave a thought to the possibilitythat her aunt would not welcome her to it. Whether she cast a reflectionto Lionel Verner in the matter, she best knew: had she reflectedproperly, she might have surmised that Lionel would be living at it, itsmaster. But, the voyage ended, the home gained, what did she find? ThatMrs. Verner was no longer at Verner's Pride, to press the kiss ofwelcome upon her lips; a few feet of earth was all her home now. 

It was a terrible disappointment. There could be no doubt of that. Andanother disappointment was, to find Dr. West away. Sibylla's sisters hadbeen at times over-strict with her, much as they loved her, and thevision of returning to her old home, to them, was one of bitterness. Sobitter, in fact, that she would not glance at its possibility. 

Fatigued, low-spirited, feverishly perplexed, Sibylla did not know whatshe could do. She was not in a state that night to give much care to thefuture. All she hoped was, to stay in that haven until something elsecould be arranged for her. Let us give her her due. Somewhat careless, naturally, of the punctilios of life, it never occurred to her that itmight not be the precise thing for her to remain, young as she was, thesole guest of Lionel Verner. Her voyage out, her residence in that veryunconventional place, Melbourne, the waves and storms which had goneover her there in more ways than one, the voyage back again alone, allhad tended to give Sibylla Massingbird an independence of thought; acontempt for the rules and regulations, the little points of etiquetteobtaining in civilised society. She really thought no more harm ofstaying at Verner's Pride with Lionel, than she would have thought ithad old Mr. Verner been its master. The eyelashes, resting on her hotcheeks, were wet, as she turned round when Lionel entered. 

"Have you taken anything, Mrs. Massingbird?"

"No. "

"But you should have done so, " he remonstrated, his tone one of the mostconsiderate kindness. 

"I did not observe that tea waited, " she replied, the covered tablecatching her eye for the first time. "I have been thinking. "

He placed a chair for her before the tea-tray, and she sat down. "Am Ito preside?" she asked. 

"If you will. If you are not too tired. "

"Who makes tea for you in general?" she continued. 

"They send it in, made. "

Sibylla busied herself with the tea, in a languid sort of manner. Invain Lionel pressed her to eat. She could touch nothing. She took apiece of rolled bread-and-butter, but left it. 

"You must have dined on the road, Mrs. Massingbird?" he said, with asmile. 

"I? I have not taken anything all day. I kept thinking 'I shall get toVerner's Pride in time for my aunt's dinner. ' But the train arrivedlater than I anticipated; and when I got here she was gone. "

Sibylla bent her head, as if playing with her teaspoon. Lionel detectedthe dropping tears. 

"Did you wonder where I was going just now, when I went out?"

"I did not know you had been out, " replied Sibylla. 

"I went to your sisters'. I thought it would be better for them to comehere. Unfortunately, I found them gone out; and young Cheese says theywill not be home until two in the morning. "

"Why, where can they be gone?" cried Sibylla, aroused to interest. Itwas so unusual for the Misses West to be out late. 

"To some gathering at Heartburg. Cheese was eating apple-puffs withunlimited satisfaction. "

The connection of apple-puffs with Master Cheese called up a faint smileinto Sibylla's face. She pushed her chair away from the table, turningit towards the fire. 

"But you surely have not finished, Mrs. Massingbird?"

"Yes, thank you. I have drunk my tea. I cannot eat anything. "

Lionel rang, and the things were removed. Sibylla was standing beforethe mantel-piece when they were left alone, unconsciously looking atherself in the glass. Lionel stood near her. 

"I have not got a widow's cap, " she exclaimed, turning to him, thethought appearing suddenly to strike her. "I had two or three curiousthings made, that they called widows' caps in Melbourne, but they werespoiled on the voyage. "

"You have seen some trouble since you went out, " Lionel observed. 

"Yes, I have. It was an ill-starred voyage. It has been ill-starred fromthe beginning to the end; all of it together. "

"The voyage has, you mean?"

"I mean more than the voyage, " she replied. But her tone did not invitefurther question. 

"Did you succeed in getting particulars of the fate of John?"

"No. Captain Cannonby promised to make inquiries, but we had not heardfrom him before I came away. I wish we could have found Luke Roy. "

"Did you not find him?"

"We heard of him from the Eyres--the friends I was staying with. It wasso singular, " she continued, with some animation in her tone. "Luke Roycame to Melbourne after John was killed, and fell in with the Eyres. Hetold them about John, little thinking that I and Frederick should meetthe Eyres afterwards. John died from a shot. "

"From a shot!" involuntarily exclaimed Lionel. 

"He and Luke were coming down to Melbourne from--where was it?--theBendigo Diggings, I think; but I heard so much of the different names, that I am apt to confound one with another. John had a great deal ofgold on him, in a belt round his waist, and Luke supposes that it gotknown. John was attacked as they were sleeping by night in the open air, beaten, and shot. It was the shot that killed him. "

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Lionel, his eyes fixed on vacancy, mentallybeholding John Massingbird. "And they robbed him!"

"They had robbed him of all. Not a particle of gold was left upon him. And the report sent home by Luke, that the gold and men were taken, proved to be a mistaken one. Luke came on afterwards to Melbourne, andtried to discover the men; but he could not. It was this striving atdiscovery which brought him in contact with Mr. Eyre. After we reachedMelbourne and I became acquainted with the Eyres, they did all theycould to find out Luke, but they were unsuccessful. "

"What had become of him?"

"They could not think. The last time Mr. Eyre saw him, Luke said hethought he had obtained a clue to the men who killed John. He promisedto go back the following day and tell Mr. Eyre more about it. But he didnot. And they never saw him afterwards. Mrs. Eyre used to say to me thatshe sincerely trusted no harm had come to Luke. "

"Harm in what way?" asked Lionel. 

"She thought--but she would say that it was a foolish thought--if Lukeshould have found the men, and been imprudent enough to allow them toknow that he recognised them, they might have worked him some ill. Perhaps killed him. "

Sibylla spoke the last words in a low tone. She was standing very still;her hands lightly resting before her, one upon another. How Lionel'sheart was beating as he gazed on her, he alone knew. She was once againthe Sibylla of past days. He forgot that she was the widow of another;that she had left him for that other of her own free will. All his pastresentment faded in that moment: nothing was present to him but hislove; and Sibylla with her fascinating beauty. 

"You are thinner than when you left home, " he remarked. 

"I grew thin with vexation; with grief. He ought not to have taken me. "

The concluding sentence was spoken in a strangely resentful tone. Itsurprised Lionel. "Who ought not to have taken you?--taken you where?"he asked, really not understanding her. 

"He. Frederick Massingbird. He might have known what a place thatMelbourne was. It was not fit for a lady. We had lodgings in a woodenhouse, near a spot that had used to be called Canvas Town. The place wascrowded with people. "

"But surely there are decent hotels at Melbourne?"

"All I know is he did not take me to one. He inquired at one or two, butthey were full; and then somebody recommended him to get a lodging. Itwas not right. He might have gone to it himself, but he had me with him. He lost his desk, you know. "

"I heard that he did, " replied Lionel. 

"And I suppose that frightened him. Everything was in the desk--moneyand letters of credit. He had a few bank-notes, only, left in hispocket-book. It never was recovered. I owe my passage-money home, and Ibelieve Captain Cannonby supplied him with some funds--which of courseought to be repaid. He took to drinking brandy, " she continued. 

"I am much surprised to hear it. "

"Some fever came on. I don't know whether he caught it, or whether itcame to him naturally. It was a sort of intermittent fever. At times hewas very low with it, and then it was that he would drink the brandy. Only fancy what my position was!" she added, her face and voice alikefull of pain. "He, not always himself; and I, out there in that wretchedplace, alone. I went down on my knees to him one day, and begged him tosend me back to England. "

"Sibylla!"

He was unconscious that he called her by the familiar name. He waswishing he could have shielded her from all this. Painful as theretrospect might be to her, the recital was far more painful to him. 

"After that, we met Captain Cannonby. I did not much like him, but hewas kind to us. He got us to change to an hotel--made them find room forus--and then introduced me to the Eyres. Afterwards, he and Fred startedfrom Melbourne, and I went to stay at the Eyres. "

Lionel did not interrupt her. She had made a pause, her eyes fixed onthe fire. 

"A day or two, and Captain Cannonby came back, and said that my husbandwas dead. I was not very much surprised. I thought he would not livewhen he left me: he had death written in his face. And so I am alone inthe world. "

She raised her large blue eyes, swimming in tears, to Lionel. Itcompletely disarmed him. He forgot all his prudence, all his caution; heforgot things that it was incumbent upon him to remember; and, as manyanother has done before him, older and wiser than Lionel Verner, hesuffered a moment's impassioned impulse to fix the destiny of a life. 

"Not alone from henceforth, Sibylla, " he murmured, bending towards herin agitation, his lips apart, his breath coming fast and loud, hischeeks scarlet. "Let me be your protector. I love you more fondly than Ihave ever done. "

She was entirely unprepared for the avowal. It may be that she did notknow what to make of it--how to understand it. She stepped back, hereyes strained on him inquiringly, her face turning to pallor. Lionelthrew his arms around her, drew her to him, and sheltered her on hisbreast, as if he would ward off ill from her for ever. 

"Be my wife, " he fondly cried, his voice trembling with its owntenderness. "My darling, let this home be yours! Nothing shall part usmore. "

She burst into tears, raised herself, and looked at him. "You cannotmean it! After behaving to you as I did, can you love me still?"

"I love you far better than ever, " he answered, his voice becominghoarse with emotion. "I have been striving to forget you ever since thatcruel time; and not until to-night did I know how utterly futile hasbeen the strife. You will let me love you! you will help me to blot outits remembrance!"

She drew a long, deep sigh, like one who is relieved from some wearingpain, and laid her head down again as he had placed it. "I can love youbetter than I loved him, " she breathed, in a low whisper. 

"Sibylla, why did you leave me? Why did you marry him?"

"Oh, Lionel, don't reproach me!--don't reproach me!" she answered, bursting into tears. "Papa made me. He did, indeed. "

"_He_ made you! Dr. West?"

"I liked Frederick a little. Yes, I did; I will not deny it. And oh, howhe loved me! All the while, Lionel, that you hovered near me--neverspeaking, never saying that you loved--he told me of it incessantly. "

"Stay, Sibylla. You could not have mistaken me. "

"True. Yours was silent love; his was urgent. When it came to thedecision, and he asked me to marry him, and to go out to Australia, thenpapa interfered. He suspected that I cared for you--that you cared forme; and he--he--"

Sibylla stopped and hesitated. 

"Must I tell you all?" she asked. "Will you never, never repeat it topapa, or reproach him? Will you let it remain a secret between us?"

"I will, Sibylla. I will never speak upon the point to Dr. West. "

"Papa said that I must choose Frederick Massingbird. He told me thatVerner's Pride was left to Frederick, and he ordered me to marry him. Hedid not say how he knew, it--how he heard it; he only said that it wasso. He affirmed that you were cut off with nothing, or next to nothing;that you would not be able to take a wife for years--perhaps never. AndI weakly yielded. "

A strangely stern expression had darkened Lionel's face. Sibylla saw it, and wrung her hands. 

"Oh, don't blame me!--don't blame me more than you can help! I know howweak, how wrong it was; but you cannot tell how entirely obedient wehave always been to papa. "

"Dr. West became accidentally acquainted with the fact that the propertywas left away from me, " returned Lionel, in a tone of scorn he could notentirely suppress. "He made good use, it seems, of his knowledge. "

"Do not blame _me!_" she reiterated. "It was not my fault. "

"I do not blame you, my dearest. "

"I have been rightly served, " she said, the tears streaming down. "Imarried him, pressed to it by my father, that I might share in Verner'sPride; and, before the news came out that Verner's Pride was ours, hewas dead. It had lapsed to you, whom I rejected! Lionel, I neversupposed that you would cast another thought to me; but, many a timehave I felt that I should like to kneel and ask your forgiveness. "

He bent his head, fondly kissing her. "We will forget it together, Sibylla. "

A sudden thought appeared to strike her, called forth, no doubt, by thisnew state of things, and her face turned crimson as she looked atLionel. 

"Ought I to remain here now?"

"You cannot well do anything else, as it is so late, " he answered. "Allow Verner's Pride to afford you an asylum for the present, until youcan make arrangements to remove to some temporary home. Mrs. Tynn willmake you comfortable. I shall be, during the time, my mother's guest. "

"What is the time now?" asked Sibylla. 

"Nearly ten; and I dare say you are tired. I will not be selfish enoughto keep you up, " he added, preparing to depart. "Good-night, mydearest. "

She burst into fresh tears, and clung to his hand. "I shall be thinkingit must be a dream as soon as you leave me. You will be sure to comeback and see me to-morrow?"

"Come back--ay!" he said, with a smile; "Verner's Pride never containedthe magnet for me that it contains now. "

He gave a few brief orders to Mrs. Tynn and to his own servant, andquitted the house. Neither afraid of ghosts nor thieves, he took thefield way, the road which led by the Willow Pond. It was a fine, coldnight, his mind was unsettled, his blood was heated, and the lonelyroute appeared to him preferable to the one through the village. 

As he passed the Willow Pond with a quick step, he caught a glimpse ofsome figure bending over it, as if it were looking for something in thewater, or else about to take a leap in. Remembering the fate of Rachel, and not wishing to have a second catastrophe of the same nature happenon his estate, Lionel strode towards the figure and caught it by thearm. The head was flung upwards at the touch, and Lionel recognisedRobin Frost. 

[Illustration: "He caught a glimpse of a figure bending over it. "]

"Robin! what do you do here?" he questioned, his tone somewhat severe inspite of its kindness. 

"No harm, " answered the man. "There be times, Mr. Lionel, when I amforced to come. If I am in my bed, and the thought comes over me that Imay see her if I only stay long enough upon the brink of this herewater, which was her ending, I'm obliged to get up and come here. Therebe nights, sir, when I have stood here from sunset to sunrise. "

"But you never have seen her, Robin?" returned Lionel, humouring hisgrief. 

"No; never. But it's no reason why I never may. Folks say there be someof the dead that comes again, sir--not all. "

"And if you did see her, what end would it answer?"

"She'd tell me who the wicked one was that put her into it, " returnedRobin, in a low whisper; and there was something so wild in the man'stone as to make Lionel doubt his perfect sanity. "Many a time do I hearher voice a-calling to me. It comes at all hours, abroad and at home; inthe full sunshine, and in the dark night. 'Robin!' it says, 'Robin!' Butit never says nothing more. "

Lionel laid his hand on the man's shoulder, and drew him with him. "I amgoing your way, Robin; let us walk together. "

Robin made no resistance; he went along with his head down. 

"I heard a word said to-night, sir, as Miss Sibylla had come back, " heresumed, more calmly; "Mrs. Massingbird, that is. Somebody said they sawher at the station. Have you seen her, sir?"

"Yes; I have, " replied Lionel. 

"Does she say anything about John Massingbird?" continued the man, withfeverish eagerness. "Is he dead? or is he alive?"

"He is dead, Robin. There has never been a doubt upon the point sincethe news first came. He died by violence. "

"Then he got his deserts, " returned Robin, lifting his hand in the air, as he had done once before when speaking upon the same subject. "AndLuke Roy, sir? Is he coming? I'm a-waiting for him. "

"Of Luke, Mrs. Massingbird knows nothing. For myself, I think he is sureto come home, sooner or later. "

"Heaven send him!" aspirated Robin. 

Lionel saw the man turn to his home, and very soon afterwards he was athis mother's. Lady Verner had retired for the night. Decima and Lucywere about retiring. They had risen from their seats, and Decima--whowas too cautious to trust it to servants--was taking the fire off thegrate. They looked inexpressibly surprised at the entrance of Lionel. 

"I have come an a visit, Decima, " began he, speaking in a gay tone. "Canyou take me in?"

She did not understand him, and Lionel saw by the questioning expressionof her face that Lady Verner had not made public the contents of hisnote to her; he saw that they were ignorant of the return of Sibylla. The fact that they were so seemed to rush over his spirit as arefreshing dew. Why it should do so, he did not seek to analyse; and hewas all too self-conscious that he dared not. 

"A friend has come unexpectedly on a visit, and taken possession ofVerner's Pride, " he pursued. "I have lent it for a time. "

"Lent it all?" exclaimed the wondering Decima. 

"Lent it all. You will make room for me, won't you?"

"To be sure, " said Decima, puzzled more than she could express. "But wasthere no room left for you?"

"No, " answered Lionel. 

"What very unconscionable people they must be, to invade you in suchnumbers as that! You can have your old chamber, Lionel. But I will justgo and speak to Catherine. "

She hastened from the room. Lionel stood before the fire, positivelyturning his back upon Lucy Tempest. Was his conscience already smitinghim? Lucy, who had stood by the table, her bed candle in her hand, stepped forward and held out the other hand to Lionel. 

"May I wish you good-night?" she said. 

"Good-night, " he answered, shaking her hand. "How is your cold?"

"Oh! it is so much better!" she replied, with animation. "All thethreatened soreness of the chest is gone. I shall be well by to-morrow. Lady Verner said I ought to have gone to bed early, but I felt too well. I knew Jan's advice would be good. "

She left him, and Lionel leaned his elbow on the mantel-piece, his browcontracting as does that of one in unpleasant thought. Was he recallingthe mode in which he had taken leave of Lucy earlier in the day?

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

NEWS FOR LADY VERNER: AND FOR LUCY. 

If he did not recall it then, he recalled it later, when he was upon hisbed, turning and tossing from side to side. His conscience was smitinghim--smiting him from more points than one. Carried away by the impulseof the moment, he had spoken words that night, in his hot passion, whichmight not be redeemed; and now that the leisure for reflection was come, he could not conceal from himself that he had been too hasty. LionelVerner was one who possessed excessive conscientiousness; even as a boy, had impetuosity led him into a fault--as it often did--his silent, inward repentance would be always keenly real, more so than the casedeserved. It was so now. He loved Sibylla--there had been no mistakethere; but it is certain that the unexpected delight of meeting her, herpresence palpably before him in all its beauty, her manifested sorrowand grief, her lonely, unprotected position, had all worked their effectupon his heart and mind, had imparted to his love a false intensity. However the agitation of the moment may have caused him to fancy it, hedid _not_ love Sibylla as he had loved her of old; else why should theimage of Lucy Tempest present itself to him surrounded by a halo ofregret? The point is as unpleasant for us to touch upon, as it was toLionel to think of: but the fact was all too palpable, and cannot besuppressed. He did love Sibylla: nevertheless there obtruded theunwelcome reflection that, in asking her to be his wife, he had beenhasty; that it had been better had he taken time for consideration. Healmost doubted whether Lucy would not have been more acceptable to him;not loved _yet_ so much as Sibylla, but better suited to him in allother ways; worse than this, he doubted whether he had not in honourbound himself tacitly to Lucy that very day. 

The fit of repentance was upon him, and he tossed and turned from sideto side upon his uneasy bed. But, toss and turn as he would, he couldnot undo his night's work. There remained nothing for him but to carryit out, and make the best of it; and he strove to deceive his consciencewith the hope that Lucy Tempest, in her girlish innocence, had notunderstood his hinted allusions to her becoming his wife; that she hadlooked upon his snatched caresses as but trifling pastime, such as hemight offer to a child. Most unjustifiable he now felt those hints, those acts to have been, and his brow grew red with shame at theirrecollection. One thing he did hope, hope sincerely--that Lucy did notcare for him. That she liked him very much, and had been on mostconfidential terms with him, he knew; but he did hope her liking went nodeeper. Strange sophistry! how it will deceive the human heart! howprone we are to admit it! Lionel was honest enough in his hope now: but, not many hours before, he had been hugging his heart with the delusionthat Lucy did love him. 

Towards morning he dropped into an uneasy sleep. He awoke later than hisusual hour from a dream of Frederick Massingbird. Dreams play us strangefantasies. Lionel's had taken him to that past evening, prior toFrederick Massingbird's marriage, when he had sought him in his chamber, to offer a word of warning against the union. He seemed to be living theinterview over again, and the first words when he awoke, rushing overhis brain with minute and unpleasant reality, were those he had himselfspoken in reference to Sibylla:--"Were she free as air this moment, wereshe to come to my feet, and say 'Let me be your wife, ' I should tell herthat the whole world was before her to choose from, save myself. She cannever again be anything to me. "

Brave words: fully believed in when they were spoken: but what didLionel think of them now?

He went down to breakfast. He was rather late, and found they hadassembled. Lady Verner, who had just heard for the first time ofLionel's presence in the house, made no secret now of Lionel's note toher. Therefore Decima and Lucy knew that the "invasion" of Verner'sPride had been caused by Mrs. Massingbird. 

She--Lady Verner--scarcely gave herself time to greet Lionel before shecommenced upon it. She did not conceal, or seek to conceal, hersentiments--either of Sibylla herself, or of the step she had taken. AndLionel had the pleasure of hearing his intended bride alluded to in amanner that was not altogether complimentary. 

He could not stop it. He could not take upon himself the defence ofSibylla, and say, "Do you know that you are speaking of my future wife?"No, for Lucy Tempest was there. Not in her presence had he the courageto bring home to himself his own dishonour: to avow that, after wooingher (it was very like it), he had turned round and asked another tomarry him. The morning sun shone into the room upon the snowy cloth, upon the silver breakfast service, upon the exquisite cups of paintedporcelain, upon those seated round the table. Decima sat opposite toLady Verner, Lionel and Lucy were face to face on either side. The wallsexhibited a few choice paintings; the room and its appurtenances were inexcellent taste. Lady Verner liked things that pleased the eye. Thatsilver service had been a recent present of Lionel's, who had delightedin showering elegancies and comforts upon his mother since hisaccession. 

"What could have induced her ever to think of taking up her residence atVerner's Pride on her return?" reiterated Lady Verner to Lionel. 

"She believed she was coming to her aunt. It was only at the station, here, that she learned Mrs. Verner was dead. "

"She did learn it there?"

"Yes. She learned it there. "

"And she could come to Verner's Pride _after_ that? knowing that you, and you alone, were its master?"

Lionel toyed with his coffee-cup. He wished his mother would spare herremarks. 

"She was so fatigued, so low-spirited, that I believed she was scarcelyconscious where she drove, " he returned. "I am certain that the idea ofthere being any impropriety in it never once crossed her mind. "

Lady Verner drew her shawl around her with a peculiar movement. If everaction expressed scorn, that one did--scorn of Sibylla, scorn of herconduct, scorn of Lionel's credulity in believing in her. Lionel read itall. Happening to glance across the table, he caught the eyes of LucyTempest fixed upon him with an open expression of wonder. Wonder atwhat? At his believing in Sibylla? It might be. With all Lucy'sstraightforward plainness, she would have been one of the last to stormLionel's abode, and take refuge in it. A retort, defending Sibylla, hadbeen upon Lionel's tongue, but that gaze stopped it. 

"How long does she purpose honouring Verner's Pride with her presence, and keeping you out of it?" resumed Lady Verner. 

"I do not know what her plans for the present may be, " he answered, hischeeks burning at the thought of the avowal he had to make--that herfuture plans would be contingent upon his. Not the least painful of theresults which Lionel's haste had brought in its train, was the knowledgeof the shock it would prove to his mother, whom he so loved andreverenced. Why had he not thought of it at the time?

Breakfast over, Lionel went out, a very coward. A coward, in so far asthat he had shrunk from making yet the confession. He was aware that itought to be done. The presence of Decima and Lucy Tempest had been hismental excuse for putting off the unwelcome task. 

But a better frame of mind came over him ere he had gone many paces fromthe door; better, at any rate, as regarded the cowardice. 

"A Verner never shrank yet from his duty, " was his comment, as he benthis steps back again. "Am I turning renegade?"

He went straight up to Lady Verner, and asked her, in a low tone, togrant him a minute's private interview. They had breakfasted in the roomwhich made the ante-room to the drawing-room; it was their usualmorning-room. Lady Verner answered her son by stepping into thedrawing-room. 

He followed her and closed the door. The fire was but just lighted, scarcely giving out any heat. She slightly shivered, and requested himto stir it. He did so mechanically--wholly absorbed by the revelation hehad to impart. He remembered how she had once fainted at nearly the samerevelation. 

"Mother, I have a communication to make to you, " he began with desperateenergy, "and I don't know how to do it. It will pain you greatly. Nothing that I can think of, or imagine, would cause you so much pain. "

Lady Verner seated herself in her low violet-velvet chair, and lookedcomposedly at Lionel. She did not dread the communication very much. Hewas secure in Verner's Pride; what could there be that she need fear?She no more cast a glance to the possibility of his marrying the widowof Frederick Massingbird, than she would have done to his marrying thatgentleman's wife. Buried in this semi-security, the shock must be allthe greater. 

"I am about to marry, " said Lionel, plunging into the news headlong. "And I fear that you will not approve my choice. Nay, I know you willnot. "

A foreshadowing of the truth came across her then. She grew deadly pale, and put up her hands, as if to ward off the blow. "Oh, Lionel! don't sayit! don't say it!" she implored. "I never can receive her. "

"Yes, you will, mother, " he whispered, his own face pale too, his toneone of painful entreaty. "You will receive her for my sake. "

"Is it--_she_?"

The aversion with which the name was avoided was unmistakable. Lionelonly nodded a grave affirmative. 

"Have you engaged yourself to her?"

"I have. Last night. "

"Were you mad?" she asked in a whisper. 

"Stay, mother. When you were speaking against Sibylla at breakfast, Irefrained from interference, for you did not then know that defence ofher was my duty. Will you forgive me for reminding you that I cannotpermit it to be continued, even by you?"

"But do you forget that it is not a respectable alliance for you?"resumed Lady Verner. "No, not a respectable--"

"I cannot listen to this; I pray you cease!" he broke forth, a blaze ofanger lighting his face. "Have you forgotten of whom you are speaking, mother? Not respectable!"

"I say that it is not a respectable alliance for you--Lionel Verner, "she persisted. "An obscure surgeon's daughter, he of not too goodrepute, who has been out to the end of the world, and found her way backalone, a widow, is _not_ a desirable alliance for a Verner. It would notbe desirable for Jan; it is terrible for you?"

"We shall not agree upon this, " said Lionel, preparing to take hisdeparture. "I have acquainted you, mother, and I have no more to say, except to urge--if I may do so--that you will learn to speak of Sibyllawith courtesy, remembering that she will shortly be my wife. "

Lady Verner caught his hand as he was retreating. 

"Lionel, my son, tell me how you came to do it, " she wailed. "You cannot_love_ her! the wife, the widow of another man! It must have been thework of a moment of folly. Perhaps she drew you into it!"

The suggestion, "the work of a moment of folly, " was so very close arepresentation of what it had been, of what Lionel was beginning to seeit to have been now, that the rest of the speech was lost to him in theecho of that one sentence. Somehow, he did not care to refute it. 

"She will be my wife, respected and honoured, " was all he answered, ashe quitted the room. 

Lady Verner followed him. He went straight out, and she saw him walkhastily across the courtyard, putting on his hat as he traversed it. Shewrung her hands, and broke into a storm of wailing despair, ignoring thepresence of Decima and Lucy Tempest. 

"I had far rather that she had stabbed him!"

The words excited their amazement. They turned to Lady Verner, and werestruck with the marks of agitation on her countenance. 

"Mamma, what are you speaking of?" asked Decima. 

Lady Verner pointed to Lionel, who was then passing through the frontgates. "I speak _of him_, " she answered: "my darling; my pride; mymuch-loved son. That woman has worked his ruin. "

Decima verily thought her mother must be wandering in her intellect. Lucy could only gaze at Lady Verner in consternation. 

"What woman?" repeated Decima. 

"_She_. She who has been Lionel's bane. She who came and thrust herselfinto his home last night in her unseemly conduct. What passed betweenthem Heaven knows; but she has contrived to cajole him out of a promiseto marry her. "

Decima's pale cheek turned to a burning red. She was afraid to askquestions. 

"Oh, mamma! it cannot be!" was all she uttered. 

"It _is_, Decima. I told Lionel that he could not love _her_, who hadbeen the wife of another man; and he did not refute it. I told him shemust have drawn him into it; and that he left unanswered. He repliedthat she would be his wife, and must be honoured as such. Drawn in tomarry her! one who is so utterly unworthy of him! whom he does not evenlove! Oh, Lionel, my son, my son!"

In their own grievous sorrow they noticed not the face of Lucy Tempest, or what they might have read there. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE MISSES WEST EN PAPILLOTES. 

Lionel went direct to the house of Dr. West. It was early; and theMisses West, fatigued with their night's pleasure, had risen in ascuffle, barely getting down at the breakfast hour. Jan was in thecountry attending on a patient, and, not anticipating the advent ofvisitors, they had honoured Master Cheese with hair _en papillotes_. Master Cheese had divided his breakfast hour between eating and staring. The meal had been some time over, and the young gentleman had retired, but the ladies sat over the fire in unusual idleness, discussing thedissipation they had participated in. A scream from the two arose uponthe entrance of Lionel, and Miss Amilly flung her pocket-handkerchiefover her head. 

"Never mind, " said Lionel, laughing good-naturedly; "I have seencurl-papers before, in my life. Your sitting here quietly, tells me thatyou do not know what has occurred. "

"What _has_ occurred?" interrupted Deborah, before he could continue. "It--it"--her voice grew suddenly timid--"is nothing bad about papa?"

"No, no. Your sister has arrived from Australia. In this place ofgossip, I wonder the news has not travelled to Jan or to Cheese. "

They had started up, poor things, their faces flushed, their eyelashesglistening, forgetting the little episode of the mortified vanity, eagerto embrace Sibylla. 

"Come back from Australia!" uttered Deborah in wild astonishment. "Thenwhere is she, that she is not here, in her own home?"

"She came to mine, " replied Lionel. "She supposed Mrs. Verner to be itsmistress still. I made my way here last night to ask you to come up, andfound you were gone to Heartburg. "

"But--she--is not remaining at it?" exclaimed Deborah, speaking withhesitation, in her doubt, the flush on her face deepening. 

"I placed it at her disposal until other arrangements could be made, "replied Lionel. "I am at present the guest of Lady Verner. You will goto Sibylla, will you not?"

Go to her? Ay! They tore the curl-papers out of their hair, and flung onbonnets and shawls, and hastened to Verner's Pride. 

"Say that I will call upon her in the course of the morning, and see howshe is after her journey, " said Lionel. 

In hurrying out, they encountered Jan. Deborah stopped to say a wordabout his breakfast: it was ready, she said, and she thought he mustwant it. 

"I do, " responded Jan. "I shall have to get an assistant, after all, Miss Deb. I find it doesn't answer to go quite without meals and sleep;and that's what I have done lately. "

"So you have, Mr. Jan. I say every day to Amilly that it can't go on, for you to be walked off your legs in this way. Have you heard thecheering news, Mr. Jan? Sibylla's come home. We are going to her now, atVerner's Pride?"

"I have heard it, " responded Jan. "What took her to Verner's Pride?"

"We have yet to learn all that. You know, Mr. Jan, she never was givento consider a step much, before she took it. "

They tripped away, and Jan, in turning from them, met his brother. Janwas one utterly incapable of finesse: if he wanted to say a thing, hesaid it out plainly. What havoc Jan would have made, enrolled in thecorps of diplomatists!

"I say, Lionel, " began he, "is it true that you are going to marrySibylla West?"

Lionel did not like the plain question, so abruptly put. He answeredcurtly--

"I am going to marry Sibylla Massingbird. "

"The old name comes the readiest, " said Jan. "How did it come about, Lionel?"

"May I ask whence you derived your information, Jan?" returned Lionel, who was marvelling where Jan could have heard this. 

"At Deerham Court. I have been calling in, as I passed it, to see MissLucy. The mother is going wild, I think. Lionel, if it is as she says, that Sibylla drew you into it against your will, don't you carry it out. _I_'d not. Nobody should hook me into anything. "

"My mother said that, did she? Be so kind as not to repeat it, Jan. Iam marrying Sibylla because I love her; I am marrying her of my own freewill. If anybody--save my mother--has aught of objection to make to it, let them make it to me. "

"Oh! that's it, is it?" returned Jan. "You need not be up, Lionel, it isno business of mine. I'm sure you are free to marry her for me. I'll begroomsman, if you like. "

"Lady Verner has always been prejudiced against Sibylla, " observedLionel. "You might have remembered that, Jan. "

"So I did, " said Jan; "though I assumed that what she said was sure tobe true. You see, I have been on the wrong scent lately. I thought youwere getting fond of Lucy Tempest. It has looked like it. "

Lionel murmured some unintelligible answer, and turned away, a hot flushdyeing his brow. 

Meanwhile Sibylla was already up, but not down. Breakfast she would havecarried up to her room, she told Mrs. Tynn. She stood at the window, looking forth; not so much at the extensive prospect that swept thehorizon in the distance, as at the fair lands immediately around. "Allhis, " she murmured, "and I shall be his wife at last!"

She turned languidly round at the opening of the door, expecting to seeher breakfast. Instead of which, two frantic little bodies burst in andseized upon her. Sibylla shrieked--

"Don't, Deb! don't, Amilly! Are you going to hug me to death?"

Their kisses of welcome over, they went round about her, fondlysurveying her from all points with their tearful eyes. She was thinner;but she was more lovely. Amilly expressed an opinion that the bloom onher delicate wax face was even brighter than of yore. 

"Of course it is, at the present moment, " answered Sibylla, "when youhave been kissing me into a fever. "

"She is not tanned a bit with her voyage, that I see, " cried Deborah, with undisguised admiration. "But Sibylla's skin never did tan. Child, "she added, bending towards her, and allowing her voice to become grave, "how could you think of coming to Verner's Pride? It was not right. Youshould have come home. "

"I thought Mrs. Verner was living still. "

"And if she had been?--This is Mr. Lionel's house now; not hers. Youought to have come home, my dear. You will come home with us now, willyou not?"

"I suppose you'll allow me to have some breakfast first, " was Sibylla'sanswer. Secure in her future position, she was willing to go home tothem temporarily now. "Why is papa gone away, Deborah?"

"He will be coming back some time, dear, " was Deborah's evasive answer, spoken soothingly. "But tell us a little about yourself, Sibylla. Whenpoor Frederick--"

"Not this morning, Deborah, " she interrupted, putting up her hand. "Iwill tell you all another time. It was an unlucky voyage. "

"Have you realised John's money that he left? That he lost, I shouldrather say. "

"I have realised nothing, " replied Sibylla--"nothing but ill luck. Wenever got tidings of John in any way, beyond the details of his death;we never saw a particle of the gold belonging to him, or could hear ofit. And my husband lost his desk the day we landed--as I sent you word;and I had no money out there, and I have only a few shillings in mypocket. "

This catalogue of ills nearly stunned Deborah and Amilly West. They hadnone too much of life's great need, gold, for themselves; and the burdenof keeping Sibylla would be sensibly felt. A tolerably good table it wasindispensable to maintain, on account of Jan, and that choice eater, Master Cheese; but how they had to pinch in the matter of dress, theyalone knew. Sibylla also knew, and she read arightly the drooping oftheir faces. 

"Never mind, Deborah; cheer up, Amilly. It is only for a time. Ere verylong I shall be leaving you again. "

"Surely not for Australia!" returned Deborah, the hint startling her. 

"Australia? Well, I am not sure that it will be _quite_ so far, "answered Sibylla, in a little spirit of mischief. And, in the brightprospect of the future, she forgot past and present grievances, turnedher laughing blue eyes upon her sisters, and, to their great scandal, began to waltz round and round the room. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

BROTHER JARRUM. 

By the light of a single tallow candle which flared aloft on a shelf inPeckaby's shop, consecrated in more prosperous days to wares, but barenow, a large collected assemblage was regarding each other with looks ofeager interest. There could not have been less than thirty present, allcrammed together in that little space of a few feet square. The firstcomers had taken their seats on the counters; the others stood as theycould. Two or three men, just returned from their day's labour, werethere; but the crowd was chiefly composed of the weaker sex. 

The attention of these people was concentrated on a little man who facedthem, leaning against the wall at the back of the shop, and holdingforth in a loud, persuasive tone. If you object to the term "holdingforth, " you must blame Mrs. Duff; it is borrowed from her. She informedus, you may remember, that the stranger who met, and appeared to avoid, Lionel Verner, was no other than a "missionary from Jerusalem, " takenwith an anxiety for the souls of Deerham, and about to do what he couldto convert them--"Brother Jarrum. "

Brother Jarrum had entered upon his work, conjointly with his entry uponPeckaby's spare bedroom. He held nightly meetings in Peckaby's shop, andthe news of his fame was spreading. Women of all ages flocked in to hearhim--you know how impressionable they have the character of being. Asprinkling of men followed out of curiosity, of idleness, or frompropensity to ridicule. Had Brother Jarrum proved to be a realmissionary from Jerusalem--though, so far as my knowledge goes, suchmessengers from that city are not common--genuinely desirous ofconverting them from wrath to grace, I fear his audience would, afterthe first night or two, have fallen off considerably. _This_ missionary, however, contrived both to keep his audience and to increase it; hispromises partaking more of the mundane nature than do such promises ingeneral. In point of fact, Brother Jarrum was an Elder from a place thathe was pleased to term "New Jerusalem"; in other words, from the SaltLake city. 

It has been the fate of certain spots of England, more so than of mostother parts of the European world, to be favoured by periodical visitsfrom these gentry. Deerham was now suffering under the infliction, andBrother Jarrum was doing all that lay in his power to convert half itsfemale population into Mormon proselytes. His peculiar doctrines it isof no consequence to transcribe; but some of his promises were so richthat it is a pity you should lose the treat of hearing them. Theycommenced with--husbands to all. Old or young, married or single, eachwas safe to be made the wife of one of these favoured prophets theinstant she set foot in the new city. This, of course, was a very grandthing for the women--as you may know if you have any experience ofthem--especially for those who were getting on the shady side of forty, and had not changed their name. They, the women, gathered together andpressed into Peckaby's shop, and stared at Brother Jarrum with eagereyes, and listened with strained ears, only looking off him to castadmiring glances one to another. 

"Stars and snakes!" said Brother Jarrum, whose style of oratory was morepeculiar than elegant, "what flounders me is, that the whole lot of youBritishers don't migrate of yourselves to the desired city--the promisedland--the Zion on the mountains. You stop here to pinch and toil andcare, and quarrel one of another, and starve your children throughhaving nothing to give 'em, when you might go out there to ease, tolove, to peace, to plenty. It's a charming city; what else should it becalled the City of the Saints for? The houses have shady veranders round'em, with sweet shrubs a-creeping up, and white posts and pillows tolean against. The bigger a household is, the more rooms it have got; nota lady there, if there was a hundred of 'em in family, but what's gother own parlour and bedroom to herself, which no stranger thinks ofgoing in at without knocking for leaf. All round and about these housesis productive gardens, trees and flowers for ornament, and fruits andgreen stuff to eat. There's trees that they call cotton wood, and firs, and locusts, and balsams, and poplars, and pines, and acacias, some of'em in blossom. A family may live for nothing upon the produce of theirown ground. Vegetables is to be had for the cutting; their own cowsgives the milk--such milk and butter as this poor place, Deerham, neversaw--but the rich flavour's imparted to 'em from the fine quality of thegrass; and fruit you might feed upon till you got a surfeit. Grapes andpeaches is all a-hanging in clusters to the hand, only waiting to beplucked! Stars! my mouth's watering now at the thoughts of 'em! I--"

"Please, sir, what did you say the name of the place was again?"interrupted a female voice. 

"New Jerusalem, " replied Brother Jarrum. "It's in the territory of Utah. On the maps and on the roads, and for them that have not awoke to thenew light, it's called the Great Salt Lake City; but for us favouredsaints, it's New Jerusalem. It's Zion--it's Paradise--it's anythingbeautiful you may like to call it. There's a ballroom in it. "

This abrupt wind-up rather took some of the audience aback. "Aballroom!"

"A ballroom, " gravely repeated Brother Jarrum. "A public ballroom notfar from a hundred feet long; and we have got a theatre for the actingof plays; and we go for rides in winter in sleighs. Ah! did you think itwas with us, out there, as it is with you in the old country?--one'sdays to be made up of labour, labour, labour; no interlude to it butstarvation and the crying of children as can't get nursed or fed! Welike amusement; and we have it; dancing in particular. Our great prophethimself dances; and all the apostles and bishops dance. They dancethemselves down. "

The assemblage sat with open eyes. New wonders were revealed to themevery moment. Some of the younger legs grew restless at the mentalvision conjured up. 

"It's part of our faith to dance, " continued Brother Jarrum. "Whyshouldn't we? Didn't David dance? Didn't Jephthah dance? Didn't theprodigal son dance? You'll all dance on to the last if you come to us. Such a thing as old legs is hardly known among us. As the favouredclimate makes the women's faces beautiful, so it keeps the limbs fromgrowing old. The ballroom is hung with green branches and flags; youmight think it was a scene of trees lit with lamps; and you'd never tireof listening to the music, or of looking at the supper-table. If youcould only see the suppers given, in a picture to-night, it 'ud spoilyour sleep, and you'd not rest till you had started to partake of 'em. Ducks and turkeys, and oysters, and fowls, and fish, and meats, andcustards, and pies, and potatoes, and greens, and jellies, and coffee, and tea, and cake, and drinks, and so many more things that you'd betired only of hearing me say the names. There's abundance for all. "

Some commotion amid Brother Jarrum's hearers, and a sound as of lickingof lips. That supper account was a great temptation. Had Brother Jarrumstarted then, straight off for the Salt Lake, the probability is thatthree-parts of the room would have formed a tail after him. 

"What's the drinks?" inquired Jim Clark, the supper items imparting tohis inside a curious feeling of emptiness. 

"There's no lack of drinks in the City of the Saints, " returned BrotherJarrum. "Whisky's plentiful. Have you heard of mint julep? That _is_delicious. Mint is one of the few productions not common out there, andwe are learning to make the julep with sage instead. You should see theplains of sage! It grows wild. "

"And there's ducks, you say?" observed Susan Peckaby. "It's convenientto have sage in plenty where there's ducks, " added she to the assemblyin general. "What a land it must be!"

"A land that's not to be ekalled! A land flowing with milk and honey!"rapturously echoed Brother Jarrum. "Ducks is in plenty, and sage growsas thick as nettles do here; you can't go out to the open country butyou put your foot upon it. Nature's generally in accordance withherself. What should she give all them bushes of wild sage for, unlessshe gave ducks to match?"

A problem that appeared indisputable to the minds of Brother Jarrum'slisteners. They sincerely wished themselves in New Jerusalem. 

"Through the streets runs a stream of sparkling water, clear ascrystal, " continued Brother Jarrum. "You have only got to stoop downwith a can on a hot summer's day, and take a drink of it. It runs onboth sides the streets for convenience; folks step out of their houses, and draw it up with no trouble. You have not got to toil half a mile toa spring of fresh water there! You'd never forget the silver lake at thebase of Antelope Island, once you set eyes on it. "

Several haggard eyes were lifted at this. "Do silver grow there, likethe sage?"

"I spoke metaphorical, " explained Brother Jarrum. "Would I deceive you?No. It's the Great Salt Lake, that shines out like burnished silver, andbursts on the sight of the new pilgrims when they arrive in bands atthe holy city--the emigrants from this land. "

"Some do arrive then, sir?" timidly questioned Dinah Roy. 

"Some!" indignantly responded Brother Jarrum. "They are arrivingcontinual. The very evening before I left, a numerous company arrived. It was just upon sunset. The clouds was all of rose colour, tipped withpurple and gold, and there lay the holy city at their feet, in thelovely valley I told you of last night, with the lake of glitteringsilver in the distance. It is a sight for 'em, I can tell you! Theregular-built houses, inclosed in their gardens and buildings, like farmhomesteads, and the inhabitants turning out with fiddles, to meet andwelcome the travellers. Some of the pilgrims fainted with joy; someshouted; lots danced; and sobs and tears of delight burst from all. Ifthe journey had been a little fatiguing--what of that, with thatglorious scene at the end of it?"

"And you see this?" cried a man, Davies, in a somewhat doubtful tone. 

"I see it with my two eyes, " answered Brother Jarrum. "I often see it. We had had news in the city that a train of new-comers was approaching, mostly English, and we went out to meet 'em. Not one of us saints, hardly, but was expecting some friend by it--a sister, or a father, or asweetheart, maybe; and away we hurried outside the city. Presently thetrain came in sight. "

"They have railroads there, then?" spoke a man, who was listening witheager interest. It was decent, civil Grind. 

"Not yet; we shall have 'em shortly, " said Brother Jarrum. "The trainconsisted of carts, carriages, vehicles of all sorts; and some rodemules, and some were walking on their legs. They were all habitednicely, and singing hymns. A short way afore they arrive at the holycity, it's the custom for the emigrants to make a halt, and wash anddress themselves, so as to enter proper. Such a meeting! the kissing andthe greeting drownding the noise of the music, and the old men and thelittle children dancing. The prophet himself came out, and shook handswith 'em all, his brass band blowing in front of him, and he standing upin his carriage. Where else would you travel to, I'd like to know, andfind such a welcome at the end of your journey? Houses, and friends, and plenty, all got ready aforehand; and gentlemen waiting to marry theladies that may wish to enter the holy state!"

"There _is_ a plenty?" questioned again that unbelieving man, Davies. 

"There's such a plenty that the new arrivals are advised to eat, for aweek or two, only half their fill, " returned Brother Jarrum--"of fruitsin partic'lar. Some, that have gone right in at the good things withoutmercy, have been laid up through it, and had to fine themselves downupon physic for a week after. No; it's best to be a little sparing atthe beginning. "

"What did he say just now about all the Mormons being beautiful?"questioned a pretty-looking girl of her neighbours. And Brother Jarrumcaught the words, although they were spoken in an undertone. 

"And so they are, " said he. "The climate's of a nature that softens thefaces, keeps folks in health, and stops 'em from growing old. If you seetwo females in the street, one a saint's wife, the t'other a newarrival, you can always tell which is which. The wife's got a slenderwaist, like a lady, with a delicate colour in her face, and silky hair;the new-comer's tanned, and fat, and freckled, and clumsy. If you don'tbelieve me, you can ask them as have been there. There's something inthe dress they wear, too, that sets 'em off. No female goes out withouta veil, which hangs down behind. They don't want to hide their prettyfaces, not they. "

Mary Green, a damsel of twenty, she who had previously spoken, reallydid possess a pretty face; and a rapturous vision came over her at thisjuncture, of beholding it shaded and set off by a white lace veil, asshe had often seen Miss Decima Verner's. 

"Now, I can't explain to you why it is that the women in the city shouldbe fair to the eye, or why the men don't seem to grow old, " resumedBrother Jarrum. "It is so, and that's enough. People, learned in suchthings, might tell the cause; but I'm not learned in 'em. Some says it'sthe effect of the New Jerusalem climate; some thinks it's the fruits ofthe happy and plentiful life we lead: my opinion is, it's a mixture ofboth. A man of sixty hardly looks forty, out there. It's a greatfavour!"

One of the ill-doing Dawsons, who had pushed his way in at the shop doorin time to hear part of the lavished praise on New Jerusalem, interrupted at this juncture. 

"I say, master, if this is as you're a-telling us, how is it that folkstalk so again' the Mormons? I met a man in Heartburg once, who had beenout there, and he couldn't say bad enough of 'em. "

"Snakes! but that's a natural question of yours, and I'm glad to answerit, " replied Brother Jarrum, with a taking air of candour. "Those evilreports come from our enemies. There's another tribe living in the GreatSalt Lake City besides ours; and that's the Gentiles. Gentiles is ourname for 'em. It's this set that spreads about uncredible reports, andwe'd like to sew their mouths up--"

Brother Jarrum probably intended to say "unaccredited. " He continued, somewhat vehemently--

"To sew their mouths up with a needle and thread, and let 'em be sewedup for ever. They are jealous of us; that's what it is. Some of theirwives, too, have left 'em to espouse our saints, at which they naggargreatly. The outrageousest things that enemies' tongues can be laid to, they say. Don't you ever believe 'em; it flounders me to think asanybody can. Whoever wants to see my credentials, they are at their beckand call. Call to-morrow morning--in my room upstairs--call any othermorning, and my certificates is open to be looked at, with spectacles orwithout 'em, signed in full, at the Great Salt Lake City, territory ofUtah, by our prophet, Mr. Brigham Young, and two of his councillors, testifying that I am Elder Silas Jarrum, and that my mission over hereis to preach the light to them as are at present asleep in darkness, andbring 'em to the community of the Latter Day Saints. _I'm_ no impostor, I'm not; and I tell you that the false reports come from themunbelieving Gentiles. Instead of minding their own affairs, they passtheir days nagging at the saints. "

"Why don't they turn saints theirselves?" cried a voice sensibly. 

"Because Satan stops 'em. You have heard of him, you know. He's busyeverywhere, as you've been taught by your parsons. I put my head insideof your church door, last Sunday night, while the sermon was going on, and I heard your parson tell you as Satan was the foundation of all theill that was in you. He was right there; though I'm no friend to parsonsin general. Satan is the head and tail of bad things, and he fills upthe Gentiles with proud notions, and blinds their eyes against us. Nowonder! If every soul in the world turned Latter Day Saint, and comeover to us at New Jerusalem, where 'ud Satan's work be? We are strivingto get you out of the clutches of Satan, my friends, and you must strivefor yourselves also. Where's the use of us elders coming among you topreach and convert, unless you meet us half-way? Where's the good ofkeeping up that 'Perpetual Emigration Fund Company, ' if you don't reapits benefit and make a start to emigrate? These things is being done foryou, not for us. The Latter Day Saints have got nothing mean nor selfishabout 'em. They are the richest people in the world--in generosity andgood works. "

"Is servants allowed to dress in veils, out there?" demanded Mary Green, during a pause of Brother Jarrum's, afforded to the audience that theymight sufficiently revolve the disinterested generosity of the LatterDay Saint community. 

"Veils! Veils, and feathers, too, if they are so minded, " was BrotherJarrum's answer; and it fell like a soothing sound on Mary Green's vainear. "It's not many servants, though, that you'd find in New Jerusalem. "

"Ain't servants let go out to New Jerusalem?" quickly returned MaryGreen. She was a servant herself, just now out of place, given to spendall her wages upon finery, and coming to grief perpetually with hermistresses upon the score. 

"Many of 'em goes out, " was the satisfactory reply of Brother Jarrum. "But servants here are not servants there. Who'd be a servant if shecould be a missis? Wouldn't a handsome young female prefer to be hermaster's wife than to be his servant?"

Mary Green giggled; the question had been pointedly put to her. 

"If a female servant _chooses_ to remain a servant, in course she can, "Brother Jarrum resumed, "and precious long wages she'd get; eighty pounda year--good. "

A movement of intense surprise amid the audience. Brother Jarrum wenton--

"I can't say I have knowed many as have stopped servants, even at thathigh rate of pay. My memory won't charge me with one. They have marriedand settled, and so have secured for themselves paradise. "

This might be taken as a delicate hint that the married state, generally, deserved that happy title. Some of the experiences of thosepresent, however, rather tended to accord it a less satisfactory one, and there arose some murmuring. Brother Jarrum explained--

"Women is not married with us for time, but for eternity--as I tried tobeat into you last night. Once the wife of a saint, their entrance intoparadise is safe and certain. We have not got a old maid among us--not asingle old maid!"

The sensation that this information caused, I'll leave you to judge;considering that Deerham was famous for old maids, and that several werepresent. 

"No old maids, and no widders, " continued Brother Jarrum, wiping hisforehead, which was becoming moist with the heat of argument. "We haverespect to our women, we have, and like to make 'em comfortable. "

"But if their husbands die off?" suggested a puzzled listener. 

"The husband's successor marries his widders, " explained Brother Jarrum. "Look at our late head and prophet, Mr. Joe Smith--him that appeared ina vision to our present prophet, and pointed out the spot for the newtemple. He died a martyr, Mr. Joe Smith did--a prey to wicked murderers. Were his widders left to grieve and die out after him? No. Mr. BrighamYoung, he succeeded to his honours, and he married the widders. "

This was received somewhat dubiously; the assemblage not clear whetherto approve it or to cavil at it. 

"Not so much to be his wives, you know, as to be a kind of rulingmatrons in his household, " went on Brother Jarrum. "To have their ownplaces apart, their own rooms in the house, and to be as happy as theday's long. They don't--"

"How they must quarrel, a lot of wives together!" interrupted adiscontented voice. 

Brother Jarrum set himself energetically to disprove this supposition. He succeeded. Belief is easy to willing minds. 

"Which is best?" asked he. --"To be one of the wives of a rich saint, where all the wives is happy, and honoured, and well dressed; or to toiland starve, and go next door to naked, as a poor man's solitary wifedoes here? I know which I should choose if the two chances was offeredme. A woman can't put her foot inside the heavenly kingdom, I tell you, unless she has got a husband to lay hold of her hand and draw her in. The wives of a saint are safe; paradise is in store for 'em; and that'swhy the Gentiles' wives--them folks that's for ever riling at us--leavetheir husbands to marry the saints. "

"Does the saints' wives ever leave 'em to marry them others--theGentiles?" asked that troublesome Davies. 

"Such cases have been heered of, " responded Brother Jarrum, shaking hishead with a grave solemnity of manner. "They have braved the punishmentand done it. But the act has been rare. "

"What is the punishment?" inquired somebody's wife. 

"When a female belonging to the Latter Day Saints--whether she's marriedor single--falls off from grace and goes over to them Gentiles, andmarries one of 'em, she's condemned to be buffeted by Satan for athousand years. "

A pause of consternation. 

"Who condemns her?" a voice, more venturesome than the rest, was heardto ask. 

"There's mysteries in our faith which can't be disclosed even to you, "was the reply of Brother Jarrum. "Them apostate women are condemned toit; and that's enough. It's not everybody as can see the truth. Ninety-nine may see it, and the hundredth mayn't. "

"Very true, very true, " was murmured around. 

"I think I see the waggins and the other vehicles arriving now!"rapturously exclaimed Brother Jarrum, turning his eyes right up into hishead, the better to take in the mental vision. "The travellers, tiredwith their journey, washed and shaved, and dressed, and the women's hairanointed, all flagrant with oil and frantic with joy--shouting, singing, and dancing to the tune of the advancing fiddles! I think I see thegreat prophet himself, with his brass-band in front and his body-guardaround him, meeting the travellers and shaking their hands individ'ally!I think I see the joy of the women, and the nice young girls, when theyare led to the hyminial halter in our temple by the saints that havefixed on 'em, to be inducted into the safety of paradise! Happy thosethat the prophet chooses for himself! While them other poor mistakenbacksliders shall be undergoing their thousand years of buffetings, they'll reign triumphant, the saved saints of the Mil--"

How long Brother Jarrum's harangue might have rung on the wide ears ofhis delighted listeners, it is not easy to say. But an interruptionoccurred, to the proceeding's. It was caused by the entrance ofPeckaby; and the meeting was terminated somewhat abruptly. While SusanPeckaby sat at the feet of the saint, a willing disciple of hisdoctrine, her lord and master, however disheartening it may be to recordit, could not, by any means, be induced to open his heart and receivethe grace. He remained obdurate. Passively obdurate during the day; butrather demonstratively obdurate towards night. Peckaby, a quiet, civilman enough when sober, was just the contrary when _ivre_; and since hehad joined the blacksmith's shop, his evening visits to a notedpublic-house--the Plough and Harrow--had become frequent. On his returnhome from these visits, his mind had once or twice been spoken outpretty freely as to the Latter Day Saint doctrine: once he had gone thelength of clearing the shop of guests, and marshalling the saint himselfto the retirement of his own apartment. However contrite he may haveshown himself for this the next morning, nobody desired to have thescene repeated. Consequently, when Peckaby now entered, defiance in hisface and unsteadiness in his legs, the guests filed out of their ownaccord; and Brother Jarrum, taking the flaring candle from the shelf, disappeared with it up the stairs. 

This has been a very fair specimen of Brother Jarrum's representationsand eloquence. It was only one meeting out of a great many. As I saidbefore, the precise tenets of his religious faith need not be enlargedupon: it is enough to say that they were quite equal to his temporalpromises. You will, therefore, scarcely wonder that he made disciples. But the mischief, as yet, had only begun to brew. 

CHAPTER XL. 

A VISIT OF CEREMONY. 

Whatever may have been Lionel Verner's private sentiments, with regardto his choice of a wife--whether he repented his hasty bargain orwhether he did not, no shade of dissatisfaction escaped him. Sibyllatook up her abode with her sisters, and Lionel visited her, just asother men visit the young ladies they may be going to marry. Theservants at Verner's Pride were informed that a mistress for them was incontemplation, and preparations for the marriage were begun. Not untilsummer would it take place, when twelve months should have elapsed fromthe demise of Frederick Massingbird. 

Deerham was, of course, free in its comments, differing in no wise onthat score from other places. Lionel Verner was pitied, and Sibyllaabused. The heir of Verner's Pride, with his good looks, his manifoldattractions, his somewhat cold impassibility as to the tempting snareslaid out for him in the way of matrimony, had been a beacon for many ayoung lady to steer towards. Had he married Lucy Tempest, had he marriedLady Mary Elmsley, had he married a royal princess, he and she wouldboth have been equally cavilled at. He, for placing himself beyond thepale of competition; she, for securing the prize. It always was so, andit always will be. 

His choice of Mrs. Massingbird, however, really did afford some groundsfor grumbling. She was not worthy of Lionel Verner. So Deerham thought;so Deerham said. He was throwing himself away; he would live to repentit; she must have been the most crafty of women, so to have secured him!Free words enough, and harshly spoken; but they were as water by theside of those uttered by Lady Verner. 

In the first bitter hour of disappointment, Lady Verner gave free speechto harsh things. It was in her love for Lionel that she so grieved. Setting aside the facts that Sibylla had been the wife of another man, that she was, in position, beneath Lionel--which facts, however, LadyVerner could not set aside, for they were ever present to her--her greatobjection lay in the conviction that Sibylla would prove entirelyunsuited to him; that it would turn out an unhappy union. Short andsharp was the storm with Lady Verner; but in a week or two she subsidedinto quietness, buried her grief and resentment within her, and made nofurther outward demonstration. 

"Mother, you will call upon Sibylla?" Lionel said to her one day that hehad gone to Deerham Court. He spoke in a low, deprecating tone, and hisface flushed; he anticipated he knew not what torrent of objection. 

Lady Verner met the request differently. 

"I suppose it will be expected of me, that I should do so, " she replied, strangely calm. "How I dislike this artificial state of things! Wherethe customs of society must be bowed to, by those who live in it; theiractions, good or bad, commented upon and judged! You have beenexpecting that I should call before this, I suppose, Lionel?"

"I have been hoping, from day to day, that you would call. "

"I will call--for your sake. Lionel, " she passionately added, turning tohim, and seizing his hands between hers, "what I do now, I do for yoursake. It has been a cruel blow to me; but I will try to make the best ofit, for you, my best-loved son. "

He bent down to his mother, and kissed her tenderly. It was his mode ofshowing her his thanks. 

"Do not mistake me, Lionel. I will go just so far in this matter as maybe necessary to avoid open disapproval. If I appear to approve it, thatthe world may not cavil and you complain, it will be little more than anappearance. I will call upon your intended wife, but the call will beone of etiquette, of formal ceremony: you must not expect me to get intothe habit of repeating it. I shall never become intimate with her. "

"You do not know what the future may bring forth, " returned Lionel, looking at his mother with a smile. "I trust the time will come when youshall have learned to love Sibylla. "

"I do not think that time will ever arrive, " was the frigid reply ofLady Verner. "Oh, Lionel!" she added, in an impulse of sorrow, "what abarrier this has raised between us--what a severing for the future!"

"The barrier exists in your own mind only, mother, " was his answer, spoken sadly. "Sibylla would be a loving daughter to you, if you wouldallow her so to be. "

A slight, haughty shake of the head, suppressed at once, was the replyof Lady Verner. "I had looked for a different daughter, " she continued. "I had hoped for Mary Elmsley. "

"Upon this point, at any rate, there need be no misunderstanding, "returned Lionel. "Believe me once for all, mother: I should never havemarried Mary Elmsley. Had I and Sibylla remained apart for life, separated as wide as the two poles, it is not Mary Elmsley whom I shouldhave made my wife. It is more than probable that my choice would havepleased you only in a degree more than it does now. "

The jealous ears of Lady Verner detected an undercurrent of meaning inthe words. 

"You speak just as though you had some one in particular in yourthoughts!" she uttered. 

It recalled Lucy, it recalled the past connected with her, all tooplainly to his mind; and he returned an evasive answer. He neverwillingly recalled her: or it: if they obtruded themselves on hismemory--as they very often did--he drove them away, as he was drivingthem now. 

He quitted the house, and Lady Verner proceeded upstairs to Decima'sroom--that pretty room, with its blue panels and hangings, where Lionelused to be when he was growing convalescent. Decima and Lucy were in itnow. "I wish you to go out with me to make a call, " she said to them. 

"Both of us, mamma?" inquired Decima. 

"Both, " repeated Lady Verner. "It is a call of etiquette, " she added, asound of irony mixing in the tone, "and, therefore, you must both makeit. It is to Lionel's chosen wife. "

A hot flush passed into the face of Lucy Tempest; hot words rose to herlips. Hasty, thoughtless, impulsive words, to the effect that _she_could not pay a visit to the chosen wife of Lionel Verner. 

But she checked them ere they were spoken. She turned to the window, which had been opened to the early spring day, and suffered the cool airto blow on her flushed face, and calmed down her impetuous thoughts. Was_this_ the course of conduct that she had marked out for herself? Shelooked round at Lady Verner and said, in a gentle tone, that she wouldbe ready at any hour named. 

"We will go at once, " replied Lady Verner. "I have ordered the carriage. The sooner we make it--as we have to make it--the better. "

There was no mistake about it. Lucy had grown to love Lionel Verner. _How_ she loved him, esteemed him, venerated him, none, save her ownheart, could tell. Her days had been as one long dream of Eden. The veryaspect of the world had changed. The blue sky, the soft-breathing wind, the scent of the budding flowers, had spoken a language to her, neverbefore learned: "Rejoice in us, for we are lovely!" It was the strangebliss in her own heart that threw its rose hues over the face of nature, the sweet, mysterious rapture arising from love's first dream; which cannever be described by mortal pen; and never, while it lasts, can bespoken of by living tongue. _While it lasts_. It never does last. It isthe one sole ecstatic phase of life, the solitary romance stealing inonce, and but once, amidst the world's hard realities; the "fire filchedfor us from heaven. " Has it to arise yet for you--you, who read this? Donot trust it when it comes, for it will be fleeting as a summer cloud. Enjoy it, revel in it while you hold it; it will lift you out of earth'sclay and earth's evil with its angel wings; but trust not to itsremaining: even while you are saying, "I will make it mine for ever, " itis gone. It had gone for Lucy Tempest. And, oh! better for her, perhaps, that it should go; better, perhaps, for all; for if that sweet glimpseof paradise could take up its abode permanently in the heart, we shouldnever look, or wish, or pray for that better paradise which has to comehereafter. 

But who can see this in the sharp flood tide of despair? Not Lucy. Inlosing Lionel she has lost all; and nothing remained for her but to dobattle with her trouble alone. Passionately and truly as Lionel hadloved Sibylla; so, in her turn, did Lucy love him. 

It is not the fashion now for young ladies to die of broken hearts--asit was in the old days. A little while given to "the grief that kills, "and then Lucy strove to arouse herself to better things. She would goupon her way, burying all feelings within her; she would meet him andothers with a calm exterior and placid smile; none should see that shesuffered; no, though her heart were breaking. 

"I will forget him, " she murmured to herself ten times in the day. "Whata mercy that I did not let him see I loved him! I never should haveloved him, but that I thought he--Psha! why do I recall it? I wasmistaken; I was stupid--and all that's left to me is to make the best ofit. "

So she drove her thoughts away, as Lionel did. She set out on her coursebravely, with the determination to forget him. She schooled her heart, and schooled her face, and believed she was doing great things. ToLionel she cast no blame--and that was unfortunate for the forgettingscheme. She blamed herself; not Lionel. Remarkably simple andhumble-minded, Lucy Tempest was accustomed to think of every one beforeherself. Who was she, that she should have assumed Lionel Verner wasgrowing to love her? Sometimes she would glance at another phase of thepicture: That Lionel _had_ been growing to love her; but that SibyllaMassingbird had, in some weak moment, by some sleight of hand, drawn himto her again, extracted from him a promise that he could not retract. She did not dwell upon this; she drove it from her, as she drove away, or strove to drive away, the other thoughts; although the theory, regarding the night of Sibylla's return, was the favourite theory ofLady Verner. Altogether, I say, circumstances were not very favourabletowards Lucy's plan of forgetting him. 

Lady Verner's carriage--the most fascinating carriage in all Deerham, with its blue and silver appointments, its fine horses, all the presentof Lionel--conveyed them to the house of Dr. West. Lady Verner would nothave gone otherwise than in state, for untold gold. Distance allowingher, for she was not a good walker, she would have gone on foot, withoutattendants, to visit the Countess of Elmsley and Lady Mary; but notSibylla. You can understand the distinction. 

They arrived at an inopportune moment, for Lionel was there. At least, Lionel thought it inopportune. On leaving his mother's house he had goneto Sibylla's. And, however gratified he may have been by the speedycompliance of his mother with his request, he had very much preferrednot to be present himself, if the call comprised, as he saw it didcomprise, Lucy Tempest. 

Sibylla was at home alone; her sisters were out. She had been leaningback in an invalid chair, listening to the words of Lionel, when aservant opened the door and announced Lady Verner. Neither had observedthe stopping of the carriage. Carriages often stopped at the house, andvisitors entered it; but they were most frequently professional visits, concerning nobody but Jan. Lady Verner swept in. For her very life shecould not avoid showing hauteur in that moment. Sibylla sprung from herchair, and stood with a changing face. 

Lionel's countenance, too, was changing. It was the first time he hadmet Lucy face to face in the close proximity necessitated by a room. Hehad studiously striven not to meet her, and had contrived to succeed. Did he call himself a coward for it? But where was the help?

A few moments given to greeting, to the assuming of seats, and they weresettled down. Lady Verner and Decima on a sofa opposite Sibylla; Lucyin a low chair--what she was sure to look out for; Lionel leaningagainst the mantel-piece--as favourite a position of his, as a low seatwas of Lucy's. Sibylla had been startled by their entrance, and herchest was beating. Her brilliant colour went and came, her hand waspressed upon her bosom, as if to still it, and she lay rather back inher chair for support. She had not assumed a widow's cap since herarrival, and her pretty hair fell around her in a shower of gold. Inspite of Lady Verner's prejudices, she could not help thinking her verybeautiful; but she looked suspiciously delicate. 

"It is very kind of you to come to see me, " said Sibylla, speakingtimidly across to Lady Verner. 

Lady Verner slightly bowed. "You do not look strong, " she observed toSibylla, speaking in the moment's impulse. "Are you well?"

"I am pretty well. I am not strong. Since I returned home, a littlething seems to flutter me, as your entrance has done now. Lionel hadjust told me you would call upon me, he thought. I was so glad to hearit! Somehow I had feared you would not. "

Candid, at any rate; and Lady Verner did not disapprove the apparentfeeling that prompted it; but how her heart revolted at hearing thoselips pronounce "Lionel" familiarly, she alone could tell. Again came theoffence. 

"Lionel tells me sometimes I am so changed since I went out, that evenhe would scarcely have known me. I do not think I am so changed as allthat. I had a great deal of vexation and trouble, and I grew thin. But Ishall soon be well again now. "

A pause. 

"You ascertained no certain news of John Massingbird, I hear, " observedLady Verner. 

"Not any. A gentleman there is endeavouring to trace out moreparticulars. I heard--did Lionel mention to you--that I heard, strangeto say, of Luke Roy, from the family I was visiting--the Eyres?Lionel"--turning to him--"did you repeat it to Lady Verner?"

"I believe not, " replied Lionel. He could not say to Sibylla, "My motherwould tolerate no conversation on any topic connected with you. "

Another flagging pause. 

Lionel, to create a divertisement, raised a remarkably, fine specimenof coral from the table, and carried it to his mother. 

"It is beautiful, " he remarked. "Sibylla brought it home with her. "

Lady Verner allowed that it was beautiful. 

"Show it to Lucy, " she said, when she had examined it with interest. "Lucy, my dear, do you remember what I was telling you the otherevening, about the black coral?"

Sibylla rose and approached Lucy with Lionel. 

"I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, " she said warmly. "You onlycame to Deerham a short while before I was leaving it, and I sawscarcely anything of you. Lionel has seen a great deal of you, I fancy, though he will not speak of you. I told him one day it lookedsuspicious; that I should be jealous of you, if he did not mind. "

It was a foolish speech--foolish of Sibylla to give utterance to it; butshe did so in all singleness of heart, meaning nothing. Lucy was bendingover the coral, held by Lionel. She felt her own cheeks flush, and shesaw by chance, not by direct look, that Lionel's face had turned a deepscarlet. Jealous of her! She continued to admire the coral some littletime longer, and then resigned it to him with a smile. 

"Thank you, Mr. Verner. I am fond of these marine curiosities. We had agood many of them at the rectory. Mr. Cust's brother was a sailor. "

Lionel could not remember the time when she had called him "Mr. Verner. "It was right, however, that she should do so; but in his heart he feltthankful for that sweet smile. It seemed to tell him that she, at anyrate, was heart-whole, that she certainly bore him no resentment. Hespoke freely now. 

"You are not looking well, Lucy--as we have been upon the subject oflooks. "

"I? Oh, I have had another cold since the one Jan cured. I did not tryhis remedies in time, and it fastened upon me. I don't know which barkedthe most--I or Growler. "

"Jan says he shall have Growler here, " remarked Sibylla. 

"No, Sibylla, " interposed Lionel; "Jan said he should like to haveGrowler here, if it were convenient to do so, and my mother would sparehim. A medical man's is not the place for a barking dog; he might attackthe night applicants. "

"Is it Jan's dog?" inquired Lucy. 

"Yes, " said Lionel. "I thought you knew it. Why, don't you remember, Lucy, the day I--"

Whatever reminiscence Lionel may have been about to recall, he cut itshort midway, and subsided into silence. What was his motive? Did Lucyknow? She did not ask for the ending, and the rest were then occupied, and had not heard. 

More awkward pauses--as in these visits where the parties do notamalgamate is sure to be the case, and then Lady Verner slightly bowedto Lucy, as she might have done on their retiring from table, and rose. Extending the tips of her delicately-gloved fingers to Sibylla, sheswept out of the room. Decima shook hands with her more cordially, although she had not spoken half a dozen words during the interview, andSibylla turned and put her hand into Lucy's. 

"I hope we shall be intimate friends, " she said. "I hope you will be ourfrequent guest at Verner's Pride. "

"Thank you, " replied Lucy. And perhaps the sudden flush on her facemight have been less vivid had Lionel not been standing there. 

He attended them to the carriage, taking up his hat as he passed throughthe vestibule; for really the confined space that did duty for hall inDr. West's house did not deserve the name. Lady Verner sat on one sidethe carriage, Decima and Lucy on the seat opposite. Lionel stood amoment after handing them in. 

"If you can tear yourself away from the house for half an hour, I wishyou would take a drive with us, " said Lady Verner, her tone of voice nomore pleasant than her words. Try as she would, she could not help herjealous resentment against Sibylla from peeping out. 

Lionel smiled, and took his seat by his mother, opposite to Lucy. He wasresolved to foster no ill-feeling by his own conduct, but to do all thatlay in his power to subdue it in Lady Verner. He had not taken leave ofSibylla; and it may have been this, the proof that he was about toreturn to her, which had excited the ire of my lady. She, his mother, nothing to him; Sibylla all in all. Sibylla stood at the window, andLionel bent forward, nodded his adieu, and raised his hat. 

The footman ascended to his place, and the carriage went on. All insilence for some minutes. A silence which Lady Verner suddenly broke. 

"What have you been doing to your cheeks, Lucy? You look as if you hadcaught a fever. "

Lucy laughed. "Do I, Lady Verner? I hope it is not a third cold comingon, or Jan will grumble that I take them on purpose--as he did the lastlime. "

She caught the eyes of Lionel riveted on her with a strangely perplexedexpression. It did not tend to subdue the excitement of her cheeks. 

Another moment, and Decima's cheeks appeared to have caught theinfection. They had suddenly become one glowing crimson; a strange sighton her delicately pale face. What could have caused it? Surely not thequiet riding up to the carriage of a stately old gentleman who waspassing, wearing a white frilled shirt and hessian boots. He looked asif he had come out of a picture-frame, as he sat there, his hat off andhis white hair flowing, courteously, but not cordially, inquiring afterthe health of my Lady Verner. 

"Pretty well, Sir Rufus. I have had a great deal of vexation to try melately. "

"As we all have, my dear lady. Vexation has formed a large portion of mylife. I have been calling at Verner's Pride, Mr. Verner. "

"Have you, Sir Rufus? I am sorry I was not at home. "

"These fine spring days tempt me out. Miss Tempest, you are lookingremarkably well. Good-morning, Lady Verner. Good-morning. "

A bow to Lady Verner, a sweeping bow to the rest collectively, and SirRufus rode away at a trot, putting on his hat as he went. His groomtrotted after him, touching his hat as he passed the carriage. 

But not a word had he spoken to Decima Verner, not a look had he givenher. The omission was unnoticed by the others; not by Decima. Thecrimson of her cheeks had faded to an ashy paleness, and she silentlylet fall her veil to hide it. 

What secret understanding could there be between herself and Sir RufusHautley?

CHAPTER XLI. 

A SPECIAL VISION TOUCHING MRS. PECKABY. 

Not until summer, when the days were long and the nights short, did themarriage of Lionel Verner take place. Lady Verner declined to be presentat it: Decima and Lucy _were_. It was a grand ceremony, of course; thatis, it would have been grand, but for an ignominious interruption whichoccurred to mar it. At the very moment they were at the altar, Lionelplacing the ring on his bride's finger, and all around wrapt inbreathless silence, in a transport of enthusiasm, the bride's-maidsuncertain whether they must go off in hysterics or not, there tore intothe church Master Dan Duff, in a state of extreme terror and raggedshirt sleeves, fighting his way against those who would have impededhim, and shouting out at the top of his voice: "Mother was took with thecholic, and she'd die right off if Mr. Jan didn't make haste to her. "Upon which Jan, who had positively no more sense of what was due tosociety than Dan Duff himself had, went flying away there and then, muttering something about "those poisonous mushrooms. " And so they weremade man and wife; Lionel, in his heart of hearts, doubting if he didnot best love Lucy Tempest. 

A breakfast at Dr. West's: Miss Deborah and Miss Amilly not in the leastknowing (as they said afterwards) how they comported themselves at it;and then Lionel and his bride departed. He was taking her to Paris, which Sibylla had never seen. 

Leaving them to enjoy its attractions--and Sibylla, at any rate, wouldnot fail to do so--we must give another word to that zealous missionary, Brother Jarrum. 

The seed, scattered broadcast by Brother Jarrum, had had time tofructify. He had left the glowing promises of all that awaited them, didthey decide to voyage out to New Jerusalem, to take root in theimaginations of his listeners, and absented himself for a time fromDeerham. This may have been crafty policy on Brother Jarrum's part; ormay have resulted from necessity. It was hardly likely that so talentedand enlightened an apostle as Brother Jarrum should confine his laboursto the limited sphere of Deerham: in all probability, they had to be putin requisition elsewhere. However it may have been, for several weekstowards the end of spring, Brother Jarrum was away from Deerham. Mr. Bitterworth, and one or two more influential people, of whom Lionel wasone, had very strongly objected to Brother Jarrum's presence in it atall; and, again, this may have been the reason of his quitting it. However it was, he did quit it; though not without establishing a secretunderstanding with the more faithful of his converts. With the exceptionof these converts, Deerham thought he had left it for good; that it was, as they not at all politely expressed it, "shut of him. " In this Deerhamwas mistaken. 

On the very day of Lionel Verner's marriage, Brother Jarrum reappearedin the place. He took up his abode, as before, in Mrs. Peckaby's spareroom. Peckaby, this time, held out against it. However welcome the fourshillings rent, weekly, was from Brother Jarrum, Peckaby assumed alordly indifference to it, and protested he'd rather starve, nor havepison like him in the house. Peckaby, however, possessed a wife, who, onoccasion, wore, metaphorically speaking, his nether garments, and it washer will and pleasure to countenance the expected guest. Brother Jarrum, therefore, was received and welcomed. 

He did not hold forth this time in Peckaby's shop. He did not in publicurge the delights of New Jerusalem, or the expediency of departure forit. He kept himself quiet and retired, receiving visits in the privacyof his chamber. After dark, especially, friends would drop in; admittedwithout noise or bustle by Mrs. Peckaby; parties of ones, of twos, ofthrees, until there would be quite an assembly collected upstairs; whyshould not Brother Jarrum hold his levees as well as his betters?

That something unusual was in the wind, was very evident; some scheme, or project, which it appeared expedient to keep a secret. Had Peckabybeen a little less fond Of the seductions of the Plough and Harrow, hissuspicions must have been aroused. Unfortunately, Peckaby yieldedunremittingly to that renowned inn's temptations, and spent everyevening there, leaving full sway to his wife and Brother Jarrum. 

About a month thus passed on, and Lionel Verner and his wife wereexpected home, when Deerham woke up one morning to a commotion. Aflitting had taken place from it in the night. Brother Jarrum haddeparted, conveying with him a train of followers. 

One of the first to hear of it was Jan Verner; and, curious to say, heheard it from Mrs. Baynton, the lady at Chalk Cottage. Jan, who, let himbe called abroad in the night as he would, was always up with the sun, stood one morning in his surgery, between seven and eight o'clock, whenhe was surprised by the entrance of Mrs. Baynton--a little woman, with ameek, pinched face, and gray hair. Since Dr. West's departure, Jan hadattended the sickly daughter, therefore he knew Mrs. Baynton, but he hadnever seen her abroad in his life. Her bonnet looked ten years old. Herdaughters were named--at least, they were called--Flore and Kitty; Kittybeing the sickly one. To see Mrs. Baynton arrive thus, Jan jumped to theconclusion that Kitty must be dying. 

"Is she ill again?" he hastily asked, with his usual absence ofceremony, giving the lady no time to speak. 

"She's gone, " gasped Mrs. Baynton. 

"Gone--dead?" asked Jan, with wondering eyes. 

"She's gone off with the Mormons. "

Jan stood upright against the counter, and stared at the old lady. Hecould not understand. "Who is gone off with the Mormons?" was hisrejoinder. 

"Kitty is. Oh, Mr. Jan, think of her sufferings! A journey like thatbefore her! All the way to that dreadful place! I have heard that evenstrong women die on the road of the hardships. "

Jan had stood with open mouth. "Is she mad?" he questioned. 

"She has not been much better than mad since--since--But I don't wish togo into family troubles. Can you give me Dr. West's address? She mightcome back for him. "

Now Jan had received positive commands from that wandering physician notto give his address to chance applicants, the inmates of Chalk Cottagehaving come in for a special interdiction. Therefore Jan could onlydecline. 

"He is moving about from one place to another, " said Jan. "To-day inSwitzerland, to-morrow in France; the next day in the moon, for what wecan tell. You can give me a letter, and I'll try and get it conveyed tohim somehow. "

Mrs. Baynton shook her head. 

"It would be too late. I thought if I could telegraph to him, he mighthave got to Liverpool in time to stop Kitty. There's a large migrationof Mormons to take place in a day or two, and they are collecting atLiverpool. "

"Go and stop her yourself, " said Jan sensibly. 

"She'd not come back for me, " replied Mrs. Baynton, in a depressed tone. "What with her delicate health, and what with her wilfulness, I havealways had trouble with her. Dr. West was the only one--But I can'trefer to those matters. Flore is broken-hearted. Poor Flore! she hasnever given me an hour's grief in her life. Kitty has given me littleelse. And now to go off with the Mormons!"

"Who has she gone with?"

"With the rest from Deerham. They have gone off in the night. ThatBrother Jarrum and a company of about five-and-twenty, they say. "

Jan could scarcely keep from exploding into laughter. Part of Deerhamgone off to join the Mormons! "Is it a fact?" cried he. 

"It is a fact that they are gone, " replied Mrs. Baynton. "She has beenout several times in an evening to hear that Brother Jarrum, and hadbecome infected with the Mormon doctrine. In spite of what I or Florecould say, she would go to listen to the man, and she grew to believethe foolish things he uttered. And you can't give me Dr. West'saddress?"

"No, I can't, " replied Jan. "And I see no good that it would be to you, if I could. He could not get to Liverpool in time, from wherever he maybe, if the flight is to take place in a day or two. "

"Perhaps not, " sighed Mrs. Baynton. "I was unwilling to come, but itseemed like a forlorn hope. "

She let down her old crape veil as she went out at the door; and Jan, all curious for particulars, went abroad to pick up anything he couldlearn. 

About fifteen had gone off, exclusive of children. Grind's lot, as itwas called, meaning Grind, his wife, and their young ones; Davies hadgone, Mary Green had gone, Nancy from Verner's Pride had gone, andsundry others whom it is not necessary to enumerate. It was said thatDinah Roy made preparations to go, but her heart failed her at the last. Some accounts ran that she did start, but was summarily brought up bythe appearance of her husband, who went after her. At his sight sheturned without a word, and walked home again, meekly submitting to thecorrection he saw fit to inflict. Jan did not believe this. His privateopinion was, that had Dinah Roy started, her husband would have deemedit a red-letter day, and never have sought to bring her back more. 

Last, but not least, Mrs. Peckaby had _not_ gone. No: for Brother Jarrumhad stolen a march upon her. What his motive in doing this might be wasbest known to himself. Of all the converts, none had been so eager forthe emigration, so fondly anticipative of the promised delights, asSusan Peckaby; and she had made her own private arrangements to stealoff secretly, leaving her unbelieving husband to his solitary fate. Asit turned out, however, she was herself left; the happy company stoleoff, and abandoned her. 

Brother Jarrum so contrived it, that the night fixed for the exodus waskept secret from Mrs. Peckaby. She did not know that he had even goneout of the house, until she got up in the morning and found him absent. Brother Jarrum's personal luggage was not of an extensive character. Itwas contained in a blue bag; and this bag was likewise missing. Not, even then, did a shadow of the cruel treachery played her darken thespirit of Mrs. Peckaby. Her faith in Brother Jarrum was of unlimitedextent; she would as soon have thought of deceiving her own self, asthat he could deceive. The rumour that the migration had taken place, the company off, awoke her from her happy security to a state of ravingtorture. Peckaby dodged out of her way, afraid. There is no knowing butPeckaby himself may have been the stumbling-block in the mind of BrotherJarrum. A man so dead against the Latter Day Saints as Peckaby had shownhimself, would be a difficult customer to deal with. He might be capableof following them and upsetting the minds of all the Deerham converts, did his wife start with them for New Jerusalem. 

All this information was gathered by Jan. Jan had heard nothing for manya day that so tickled his fancy. He bent his steps to Peckaby's, andwent in. Jan, you know, was troubled neither with pride nor ceremony;nobody less so in all Deerham. Where inclination took him, there wentJan. 

Peckaby, all black, with a bar of iron in his hand, a leather apron on, and a broad grin upon his countenance, was coming out of the door as Janentered. The affair seemed to tickle Peckaby's fancy as much as ittickled Jan's. He touched his hair. "Please, sir, couldn't you give hera dose of jalap, or something comforting o' that sort, to bring her to?"asked he, pointing with his thumb indoors, as he stamped across the roadto the forge. 

Mrs. Peckaby had calmed down from the rampant state to one ofprostration. She sat in her kitchen behind the shop, nursing her knees, and moaning. Mrs. Duff, who, by Jan's help, had survived the threateneddeath fro "cholic, " and was herself again, stood near the sufferer, incompany with one or two more cronies. All the particulars, SusanPeckaby's contemplated journey, with the deceitful trick played her, hadgot wind; and the Deerham ladies were in consequence flocking in. 

"You didn't mean going, did you?" began Jan. 

"Not mean going!" sobbed Susan Peckaby, rocking herself to and fro. "Idid mean going, sir, and I'm not ashamed to own to it. If folks is inthe luck to be offered a chance of paradise, I dun know many as ud saythey wouldn't catch at it. "

"Paradise, was it?" said Jan. "What was it chiefly to consist of?"

"Of everything, " moaned Susan Peckaby. "There isn't a thing you couldwish for under the sun, but what's to be had in plenty at New Jerusalem. Dinners and teas, and your own cows, and big houses and parlours, andgardens loaded with fruit, and garden stuff as decays for want o'cutting, and veils when you go out, and evening dances, like the grandfolks here has, and new caps perpetual! And I have lost it! They be goneand have left me!--oh, o-o-o-h!"

"And husbands, besides; one for everybody!" spoke up a girl. "You forgetthat, Mrs. Peckaby. "

"Husbands besides, " acquiesced Susan Peckaby, aroused from her moaning. "Every woman's sure to be chose by a saint as soon as she gets out. There's not such a thing as a old maid there, and there needn't be nowidders. "

Mrs. Duff turned up bar nose, and turned it wrathfully on the girl whohad spoken. 

"If they call husbands their paradise, keep me away from 'em, say I. Yougirls be like young bears--all your troubles have got to come. You justtry a husband, Bess Dawson; whether he's a saint, or whether he's asinner, let him be of a cranky temper, thwarting you at every trick andturn, and you'll see what sort of a paradise marriage is! Don't youthink I'm right, sir?"

Jan's mouth was extended from ear to ear, laughing. 

"I never tried it, " said he. "Were you to have been espoused by BrotherJarrum?" he asked, of Susan Peckaby. 

"No, sir, I was not, " she answered, in much anger. "I did not favourBrother Jarrum. I'd prefer to pick and choose when I got there. But Ihad a great amount of respect for Brother Jarrum, sir, which I'm proudto speak to. And I don't believe that he has served me this shamefultrick of his own knowledge, " she added, with emphasis. "I believe therehas been some unfortinate mistake, and that when he finds I'm not amongthe company, he'll come back for me. I'd go after them, only thatPeckaby's on the watch. I never see such a altered man as Peckaby; ithad used to be as I could just turn him round my little finger, but hewon't be turned now. "

She finished up with a storm of sobs. Jan, in an Ecstasy of mirth yet, offered to send her some cordials from the surgery, by way ofconsolation; not, however, the precise one suggested by Peckaby. Butcordials had no charm in that unhappy moment for Mrs. Peckaby's ear. 

Jan departed. In quitting the door he encountered a stranger, whoinquired if that was Peckaby's shop. Jan fancied the man lookedsomething the cut of Brother Jarrum, and sent him in. His coat and bootswere white with dust. Looking round on the assembled women when hereached the kitchen, the stranger asked which was Mrs. Peckaby. Mrs. Peckaby looked up, and signified that she was. 

"I have a message from the saint and elder, Brother Jarrum, " hemysteriously whispered in her ear. "It must be give to you in private. "

Mrs. Peckaby, in a tremble of delight, led the stranger to a small shedin the yard, which she used for washing purposes, and called the back'us. It was the most private place she could think of, in her fluster. The stranger, propping himself against a broken tub, proceeded, withsome circumlocution and not remarkable perspicuity of speech, to deliverthe message with which he was charged. It was to the effect that avision had revealed to Brother Jarrum the startling fact, that SusanPeckaby was _not_ to go out with the crowd at present on the wing. Ahigher destiny awaited her. She would be sent for in a differentmanner--in a more important form; sent for special, on a quadruped. Thatis to say, on a white donkey. [A]

 [Footnote A: A fact. ]

"On a white donkey?" echoed the trembling and joyful woman. 

"On a white donkey, " gravely repeated the brother--for that he wasanother brother of the community, there could be little doubt. "What thespecial honour intended for you may be, me and Brother Jarrum don'tpertend to guess at. It's above us. May be you are fated to be chose byour great prophet hisself. Any how, it's something at the top of thetree. "

"When shall I be sent for, sir?" eagerly asked Mrs. Peckaby. 

"That ain't revealed neither. It may be next week--it mayn't be for ayear; you must always be on the look-out. One of these days or nights, you'll see a white donkey a-standing at your door. It'll be themessenger for you from New Jerusalem. You mount him without a minute'sloss of time, and come off. "

But that Mrs. Peckaby's senses were exalted at that moment far above thelevel of ordinary mortals', it might have occurred to her to inquirewhether the donkey would be endowed with the miraculous power of bearingher over the sea. No such common question presented itself. She askedanother. 

"Why couldn't Brother Jarrum have told me this hisself, sir? I have beena'most mad this morning, ever since I found as they had gone. "

The brother--this brother--turned up the whites of his eyes. "Whenunknown things is revealed to us, and mysterious orders give, they nevercome to us a minute afore the time, " he replied. "Not till BrotherJarrum was fixing the night of departure, did the vision come to him. Itwas commanded him that it should be kept from you till the rest wereoff, and then he were to send back a messenger to tell you--and many amile I've come! Brother Jarrum and me has no doubt that it is meant as atrial of your faith. "

Nothing could be more satisfactory to the mind of Mrs. Peckaby than thisexplanation. Had any mysterious vision appeared to herself, showing herthat it was false, commanding her to disbelieve it, it could not haveshaken her faith. If the white donkey arrived at her door that verynight, she would be sure to mount him. 

"Do you think it'll be very long, sir, that I shall have to wait?" sheresumed, feverishly listening for the answer. 

"My impression is that it'll be very short, " was the reply. "And it'sBrother Jarrum's also. Any way, you be on the look-out--always prepared. Have a best robe at hand continual, ready to clap on the instant thequadruped appears, and come right away to New Jerusalem. "

In the openness of her heart, Mrs. Peckaby offered refreshment to thebrother. The best her house afforded: which was not much. Peckaby shouldbe condemned to go foodless for a week, rather than that _he_ shoulddepart fasting. The brother, however, declined: he appeared to be in ahurry to leave Deerham behind him. 

"I'd not disclose this to anybody if I was you, " was his partingsalutation. "Leastways, not for a day or two. Let the ruck of 'em embarkfirst at Liverpool. If it gets wind, some of them may be for turningcrusty, because they are not favoured with special animals, too. "

Had the brother recommended Susan Peckaby to fill the tub with water, and stand head downwards in it for a day or two, she was in the mood toobey him. Accordingly, when questioned by Mrs. Duff, and the othercurious ones, what had been the business of the stranger, she made agreat mystery over it, and declined to answer. 

"It's good news, by the signs of your face, " remarked Mrs. Duff. 

"Good news!" rapturously repeated Susan Peckaby, "it's heaven. I say, Mother Duff, I want a new gownd: something of the very best. I'll payfor it by degrees. There ain't no time to be lost, neither; so I'll comedown at once and choose it. "

"What _has_ happened?" was the wondering rejoinder of Mother Duff. 

"Never you mind, just yet. I'll tell you about it afore the week's out. "

And, accordingly, before the week was out, all Deerham was regaled withthe news; full particulars. And Susan Peckaby, a robe of purple, of thestuff called lustre, laid up in state, to be donned when the occasioncame, passed her time, night and day, at her door and windows, lookingout for the white donkey that was to bear her in triumph to NewJerusalem. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

A SURPRISE FOR MRS. TYNN. 

In the commodious dressing-room at Verner's Pride, appropriated to itsnew mistress, Mrs. Verner, stood the housekeeper, Tynn, lifting herhands and her eyes. You once saw the chamber of John Massingbird, inthis same house, in a tolerable litter: but that was as nothing comparedwith the litter in this dressing-room, piles and piles of it, one heapby the side of another. Mary Tynn stood screwed against the wainscotingof the wall: she had got in, but to get out was another matter: therewas not a free place where she could put her foot. Strictly speaking, perhaps, it could not be called litter, and Mrs. Verner and her Frenchmaid would have been alike indignant at hearing it so classed. Robes ofrich and rare texture; silks standing on end with magnificence; dinnerattire, than which nothing could be more exquisite; ball dresses in allsorts of gossamer fabrics; under-skirts, glistening with their softlustre; morning costumes, pure and costly; shawls of Cashmere and other_recherché_ stuffs, enough to stock a shop; mantles of every known make;bonnets that would send an English milliner crazy; veils charming tolook upon; laces that might rival Lady Verner's embroideries, theirprice fabulous; handkerchiefs that surely never were made for use;dozens of delicately-tinted gloves, cased in ornamental boxes, costingas much as they did; every description of expensive _chaussure_; andtrinkets, the drawn cheques for which must have caused Lionel Verner'ssober bankers to stare. Tynn might well heave her hands and eyes indismay. On the chairs, on the tables, on the drawers, on the floor, onevery conceivable place and space they lay; a goodly mass of vanity, just unpacked from their cases. 

Flitting about amidst them was a damsel of coquettish appearance, with afair skin, light hair, and her nose a turn-up. Her gray gown wasflounced to the waist, her small cap of lace, its pink strings flying, was lodged on the back of her head. It was Mademoiselle Benoite, Mrs. Verner's French maid, one she had picked up in Paris. Whatever otherqualities the damsel might lack, she had enough of confidence. Not manyhours yet in the house, and she was assuming more authority in it thanher mistress did. 

Mr. And Mrs. Verner had returned the night before, Mademoiselle Benoiteand her packages making part of their train. A whole _fourgon_ could nothave been sufficient to convey these packages from the French capital tothe frontier. Phoeby, the simple country maid whom Sibylla had takento Paris with her, found her place a sinecure since the engagement ofMademoiselle Benoite. She stood now on the opposite side of the room toTynn, humbly waiting Mademoiselle Benoite's imperious commands. 

"Where on earth will you stow 'em away?" cried Tynn, in her wonder. "You'll want a length of rooms to do it in. "

"Where I stow 'em away!" retorted Mademoiselle Benoite, in her fluentspeech, but broken English. "I stow 'em where I please. Note you that, Madame Teen. Par example! The château is grand enough. "

"What has its grandeur got to do with it?" was Mary Tynn's answer. Sheknew but little of French phrases. 

"Now, then, what for you stand there, with your eyes staring and yourhands idle?" demanded Mademoiselle Benoite sharply, turning her attackon Phoeby. 

"If you'll tell me what to do, I'll do it, " replied the girl. "I couldhelp to put the things up, if you'd show me where to begin. "

"I like to see you dare to put a finger on one of these things!"returned Mademoiselle Benoite. "You can confine your services to sewing, and to waiting upon me; but not you dare to interfere with my lady'stoilette. Tiens, I am capable, I hope! I'd give up the best serviceto-morrow where I had not sole power! Go you down to the office, andorder me a cup of chocolate, and wait you and bring it up to me. Thatmaudite drogue, that coffee, this morning, has made me as thirsty as apanthère. "

Phoeby, glancing across at Mrs. Tynn, turned somewhat hesitatingly topick her way out of the room. The housekeeper, though not halfunderstanding, contrived to make out that the morning coffee was notapproved of. The French mademoiselle had breakfasted with her, and, inMrs. Tynn's opinion, the coffee had been perfect, fit for the table ofher betters. 

"Is it the coffee that you are abusing?" asked she. "What was the matterwith it?"

"Ciel! You ask what the matter with it!" returned Mademoiselle Benoite, in her rapid tongue. "It was everything the matter with it. It was allbad. It was drogue, I say; medicine. There!"

"Well, I'm sure!" resentfully returned the housekeeper. "Now, I happenedto make that coffee myself this morning--Tynn, he's particular in hiscoffee, he is--and I put in--"

"I not care if you put in the whole canastre, " vehemently interruptedMademoiselle Benoite. "You English know not to make coffee. All the twoyears I lived in London with Madame la Duchesse, I never got one cup ofcoffee that was not enough to choke me. And they used pounds of it inthe house, where they might have used ounces. Bah! You can make tea, Inot say no; but you cannot make coffee. Now, then! I want a great numbersheets of silk-paper. "

"Silk-paper?" repeated Tynn, whom the item puzzled. "What's that?"

"You know not what silk-paper is!" angrily returned MademoiselleBenoite. "_Quelle ignorance!_" she apostrophised, not caring whether shewas understood or not. "_Ellé ne connait pas ce que c'est, papier-de-soie!_ I must have it, and a great deal of it, do you hear? Itis as common as anything--silk-paper. "

"Things common in France mayn't be common with us, " retorted Mrs. Tynn. "What is it for?"

"It is for some of these articles. If I put them by without thepaper-silk round them in the cartons, they'll not keep their colour. "

"Perhaps you mean silver-paper, " said Mary Tynn. "Tissue-paper, I haveheard my Lady Verner call it. There's none in the house, MadmiselBennot. "

"Madmisel Bennot" stamped her foot. "A house without silk-paper in it!When you knew my lady was coming home!"

"I didn't know she'd bring--a host of things with her that she hasbrought, " was the answering shaft lanced by Mrs. Tynn. 

"Don't you see that I am waiting? Will you send out for some?"

"It's not to be had in Deerham, " said Mrs. Tynn. "If it must be had, oneof the men must go to Heartburg. Why won't the paper do that was over 'embefore?"

"There not enough of that. And I choose to have fresh, I do. "

"Well, you had better give your own orders about it, " said Mary Tynn. "And then, if there's any mistake, it'll be nobody's fault, you know. "

Mademoiselle Benoite did not on the instant reply. She had her handsfull just then. In reaching over for a particular bonnet, she managed toturn a dozen or two on to the floor. Tynn watched the picking upprocess, and listened to the various ejaculations that accompanied it, in much grimness. 

"What a sight of money those things must have cost!" cried she. 

"What that matter?" returned the lady's-maid. "The purse of a milorAnglais can stand anything. "

"What did she buy them for?" went on Tynn. "For what purpose?"

"_Bon!_" ejaculated Mademoiselle. "She buy them to wear. What else yousuppose she buy them for?"

"Why! she would never wear out the half of them in all her whole life!"uttered Tynn, speaking the true sentiments of her heart. "She couldnot. "

"Much you know of things, Madame Teen!" was the answer, delivered inundisguised contempt for Tynn's primitive ignorance. "They'll not lasther six months. "

"Six months!" shrieked Tynn. "She couldn't come to an end of themdresses in six months, if she wore three a day, and never put on a dressa second time!"

"She want to wear more than three different a day sometimes. And it notthe mode now to put on a robe more than once, " returned MademoiselleBenoite carelessly. 

Tynn could only open her mouth. "If they are to be put on but once, whatbecomes of 'em afterwards?" questioned she, when she could find breathto speak. 

"Oh, they good for jupons--petticoats, you call it. Some may be worn asecond time; they can be changed by other trimmings to look like new. And the rest will be good for me: Madame la Duchesse gave me a greatdeal. '_Tenez, ma fille_, ' she would say, '_regardez dans ma garde-robe, et prenez autant que vous voudrez. _' She always spoke to me in French. "

Tynn wished there had been no French invented, so far as hercomprehension was concerned. While she stood, undecided what reply tomake, wishing very much to express her decided opinion upon theextravagance she saw around her, yet deterred from it by rememberingthat Mrs. Verner was now her mistress, Phoeby entered with thechocolate. The girl put it down on the mantel-piece--there was no otherplace--and then made a sign to Mrs. Tynn that she wished to speak withher. They both left the room. 

"Am I to be at the beck and call of that French madmizel?" sheresentfully asked. "I was not engaged for that, Mrs. Tynn. "

"It seems we are all to be at her beck and call, to hear her go on, " wasMrs. Tynn's wrathful rejoinder. "Of course it can't be tolerated. Weshall see in a day or two. Phoeby, girl, what could possess Mrs. Verner to buy all them cart-loads of finery? She must have spent themoney like water. "

"So she did, " acquiesced Phoeby. "She did nothing all day long butdrive about from one place to another and choose pretty things. Youshould see the china that's coming over!"

"I wonder Mr. Lionel let her, " was the thoughtlessly-spoken remark ofTynn. And she tried, when too late, to cough it down. 

"He helped her, I think, " answered Phoeby. "I know he bought some ofthat beautiful jewellery for her himself, and brought it home. I saw himkiss her, through the doorway, as he clasped that pink necklace on herneck. "

"Oh, well, I don't want to hear about that rubbish, " tartly rejoinedTynn. "If you take to peep through doorways, girl, you won't suitVerner's Pride. "

Phoeby did not like the rebuff. She turned one way, and Mrs. Tynn wentoff another. 

In the breakfast-room below, in her charming French morning costume, tasty and elegant, sat Sibylla Verner. With French dresses, she seemedto be acquiring French habits. Late as the hour was, the breakfastremained on the table. Sibylla might have sent the things away an hourago; but she kept a little chocolate in her cup, and toyed with it. Shehad never tasted chocolate for breakfast in all her life, previous tothis visit to Paris: now she protested she could take nothing else. Possibly she may have caught the taste for it from Mademoiselle Benoite. Her husband sat opposite to her, his chair drawn from the table, andturned to face the room. A perfectly satisfied, happy expressionpervaded his face; he appeared to be fully contented with his lot andwith his bride. Just now he was laughing immoderately. 

Perched upon the arm of a sofa, having there come to an anchor, his legshanging down and swaying about in their favourite fashion, was JanVerner. Jan had come in to pay them a visit and congratulate them ontheir return. That is speaking somewhat figuratively, however, for Janpossessed no notion of congratulating anybody. As Lady Verner sometimesresentfully said, Jan had no more social politeness in him than a bear. Upon entering, Sibylla asked him to take some breakfast. Breakfast!echoed Jan, did she call that breakfast? He thought it was theirlunch--it was getting on for his dinner-time. Jan was giving Lionel ahistory of the moonlight flitting, and of Susan Peckaby's expectedexpedition to New Jerusalem on a white donkey. 

"It ought to have been stopped, " said Lionel, when his laughter hadsubsided. "They are going out to misery, and to nothing else, poordeluded creatures!"

"Who was to stop it?" asked Jan. 

"Some one might have told them the truth. If this Brother Jarrumrepresented things in rose-coloured hues, could nobody open to theirview the other side of the picture? I should have endeavoured to do it, had I been here. If they chose to risk the venture after that, it wouldhave been their own fault. "

"You'd have done no good, " said Jan. "Once let 'em get the Mormon feverupon 'em, and it must run its course. It's like the gold fever; nothingwill convince folks they are mistaken as to that, except the going outto Australia to the diggings. That will. "

A faint tinge of brighter colour rose to Sibylla's cheeks at thisallusion, and Lionel knit his brow. He would have avoided for ever anychain of thought that led his memory to Frederick Massingbird: he couldnot bear to think that his young bride had been another's before she washis. Jan, happily ignorant, continued. 

"There's Susan Peckaby. She has got it in her head that she's goingstraight off to Paradise, once she is in the Salt Lake City. Well, now, Lionel, if you, and all the world to help you, set yourselves on toconvince her that she's mistaken, you couldn't do it. They must go outand find the level of things for themselves--there's no help for it. "

"Jan, it is not likely that Susan Peckaby really expects a white donkeyto be sent for her!" cried Sibylla. 

"She as fully expects the white donkey, as I expect that I shall go fromhere presently, and drop in on Poynton, on my way home, " earnestly saidJan. "He has had a kick from a horse on his shin, and a nasty place itis, " added Jan in a parenthesis. "Nothing on earth would convince SusanPeckaby that the donkey's a myth, or will be a myth; and she wastes allher time looking out for it. If you were opposite their place now, you'dsee her head somewhere; poked out at the door, or peeping from theupstairs window. "

"I wish I could get them all back again--those who have gone from here!"warmly spoke Lionel. 

"I wish sometimes I had got four legs, that I might get over doubleground, when patients are wanting me on all sides, " returned Jan. "Theone wish is just as possible as the other, Lionel. The lot sailed fromLiverpool yesterday, in the ship _American Star_. And I'll be bound, what with the sea-sickness, and the other discomforts, they are wishingthemselves out of it already! I say, Sibylla, what did you think ofParis?"

"Oh, Jan, it's enchanting! And I have brought the most charming thingshome. You can come upstairs and see them, if you like. Benoite isunpacking them. "

"Well, I don't know, " mused Jan. "I don't suppose they are what I shouldcare to see. What are the things?"

"Dresses, and bonnets, and mantles, and lace, and coiffures, " returnedSibylla. "I can't tell you half the beautiful things. One of my_cache-peignes_ is of filigrane silver-work, with drops falling from it, real diamonds. "

"What d'ye call a _cache-peigne?_" asked Jan. 

"Don't you know? An ornament for the hair, that you put on to hide thecomb behind. Combs are coming into fashion. Will you come up and see thethings, Jan?"

"Not I! What do I care for lace and bonnets?" ungallantly answered Jan. "I didn't know but Lionel might have brought me some anatomical studiesover. They'd be in my line. "

Sibylla shrieked--a pretty little shriek of affectation. "Lionel, why doyou let him say such things to me? He means amputated arms and legs. "

"I'm sure I didn't, " said Jan. "I meant models. They'd not let theother things pass the customs. Have you brought a dress a-piece for Deband Amilly?"

"No, " said Sibylla, looking up in some consternation. "I never thoughtabout it. "

"Won't they be disappointed, then! They have counted upon it, I can tellyou. They can't afford to buy themselves much, you know; the doctorkeeps them so short, " added Jan. 

"I _would_ have brought them something, if I had thought of it; I would, indeed!" exclaimed Sibylla, in an accent of contrition. "Is it not apity, Lionel?"

"I wish you had, " replied Lionel. "Can you give them nothing of what youhave brought?"

"Well--I--must--consider, " hesitated Sibylla, who was essentiallyselfish. "The things are so beautiful, so expensive; they are scarcelysuited to Deborah and Amilly. "

"Why not?" questioned Jan. 

"You have not a bit of sense, Jan, " grumbled Sibylla. "Things chosen tosuit me, won't suit them. "

"Why not?" repeated Jan obstinately. 

"There never was any one like you, Jan, for stupidity, " was Sibylla'sretort. "I am young and pretty, and a bride; and they are two faded oldmaids. "

"Dress 'em up young, and they'll look young, " answered Jan, withcomposure. "Give 'em a bit of pleasure for once, Sibylla. "

"I'll see, " impatiently answered Sibylla. "Jan, how came Nancy to go offwith the Mormons? Tynn says she packed up her things in secret, andstarted. "

"How came the rest to go?" was Jan's answer. "She caught the fever too, I suppose. "

"What Nancy are you talking of?" demanded Lionel. "Not Nancy from here!"

"Oh, Lionel, yes! I forgot to tell you, " said Sibylla. "She is goneindeed. Mrs. Tynn is so indignant. She says the girl must be a fool!"

"Little short of it, " returned Lionel. "To give up a good home here forthe Salt Lake! She will repent it. "

"Let 'em all alone for _that_, " nodded Jan, "I'd like to pay an hour'svisit to 'em, when they have been a month in the place--if they ever getto it. "

"Tynn says she remembers, when that Brother Jarrum was here in thespring, that Nancy made frequent excuses for going to Deerham in theevening, " resumed Sibylla. 

"She thinks it must have been to frequent those meetings in Peckaby'sshop. "

"I thought the man, Jarrum, had gone off, leaving the mischief to dieaway, " observed Lionel. 

"So did everybody else, " said Jan. "He came back the day that you weremarried. Nancy's betters got lured into Peckaby's, as well as Nancy, " headded. "That sickly daughter at Chalk Cottage, she's gone. "

Lionel looked very much astonished. 

"No!" he uttered. 

"Fact!" said Jan. "The mother came to me the morning after the flitting, and said she had been seduced away. She wanted to telegraph to Dr. West--"

Jan stopped dead, remembering that Sibylla was present, as well asLionel. He leaped off the sofa. 

"Ah, we shall see them all back some day, if they can only contrive toelude the vigilance of the Mormons. I'm off, Lionel; old Poynton willthink I am not coming to-day. Good-bye, Sibylla. "

Jan hastened from the room. Lionel stood at the window, and watched himaway. Sibylla glided up to her husband, nestling against him. 

"Lionel, tell me. Jan never would, though I nearly teased his life out;and Deborah and Amilly persisted that they knew nothing. _You_ tell me. "

"Tell you what, my dearest?"

"After I came home in the winter, there were strange whispers about papaand that Chalk Cottage. People were mysterious over it, and I nevercould get a word of explanation. Jan was the worst; he was coollytantalising, and it used to put me in a passion. What was the taletold?"

An involuntary darkening of Lionel's brow. He cleared it instantly, andlooked down on his wife with a smile. 

"I know of no tale worth telling you, Sibylla. "

"But there _was_ a tale told?"

"Jan--who, being in closer proximity to Dr. West than any one, may besupposed to know best of his private affairs--tells a tale of Dr. West'shaving set a chimney on fire at Chalk Cottage, thereby arousing the ireof its inmates. "

"Don't you repeat such nonsense to me, Lionel; you are not Jan, " shereturned, in a half peevish tone. "I fear papa may have borrowed moneyfrom the ladies, and did not repay them, " she added, her voice sinkingto a whisper. "But I would not say it to any one but you. What do youthink?"

"If my wife will allow me to tell her what I think, I should say that itis her duty--and mine now--not to seek to penetrate into any affairsbelonging to Dr. West which he may wish to keep to himself. Is it notso, Sibylla mine?"

Sibylla smiled, and held up her face to be kissed. "Yes, you are right, Lionel. "

Swayed by impulse, more than by anything else, she thought of hertreasures upstairs, in the process of dis-interment from their cases byBenoite, and ran from him to inspect them. Lionel put on his hat, andstrolled out of doors. 

A thought came over him that he would go and pay a visit to his mother. He knew how exacting of attention from him she was, how jealous, so tospeak, of Sibylla's having taken him from her. Lionel hoped by degreesto reduce the breach. Nothing should be wanting on his part to effectit; he trusted that nothing would be wanting on Sibylla's. He reallywished to see his mother after his month's absence; and he knew shewould be pleased at his going there on this, the first morning of hisreturn. As he turned into the high road, he met the vicar of Deerham, the Reverend James Bourne. 

They shook hands, and the conversation turned, not unnaturally, on theMormon flight. As they were talking of it, Roy, the ex-bailiff, wasobserved crossing the opposite field. 

"My brother tells me the report runs that Mrs. Roy contemplated being ofthe company, but was overtaken by her husband and brought back, "remarked Lionel. 

"How it may have been, about his bringing her back, or whether sheactually started, I don't know, " replied Mr. Bourne, who was a man witha large pale face and iron-gray hair. "That she intended to go, I havereason to believe. "

He spoke the last words significantly, lowering his voice. Lionel lookedat him. 

"She paid me a mysterious visit at the vicarage the night before thestart, " continued the clergyman. "A very mysterious visit, indeed, takenin conjunction with her words. I was in my study, reading bycandle-light, when somebody came tapping at the glass door, and stolein. It was Mrs. Roy. She was in a state of tremor, as I have heard itsaid she appeared the night the inquiry was held at Verner's Pride, touching the death of Rachel Frost. She spoke to me in ambiguous termsof a journey she was about to take--that she should probably be away forher whole life--and then she proceeded to speak of that night. "

"The night of the inquiry?" echoed Lionel. 

"The night of the inquiry--that is, the night of the accident, " returnedMr. Bourne. "She said she wished to confide a secret to me, which shehad not liked to touch upon before, but which she could not leave theplace without confiding to some one responsible, who might use it incase of need. The secret she proceeded to tell me was--that it wasFrederick Massingbird who had been quarrelling with Rachel that night bythe Willow Pool. She could swear it to me, she said, if necessary. "

"But--if that were true--why did she not proclaim it at the time?" askedLionel, after a pause. 

"It was all she said. And she would not be questioned. 'In case o' need, sir, in case anybody else should ever be brought up for it, tell 'emthat Dinah Roy asserted to you with her last breath in Deerham, that Mr. Fred Massingbird was the one that was with Rachel. ' Those were the wordsshe used to me; I dotted them down after she left. As I tell you, shewould not be questioned, and glided out again almost immediately. "

"Was she wandering in her mind?"

"I think not. She spoke with an air of truth. When I heard of the flightof the converts the next morning, I could only conclude that Mrs. Royhad intended to be amongst them. But now, understand me, Mr. Verner, although I have told you this, I have not mentioned it to another livingsoul. Neither do I intend to do so. It can do no good to reap up the sadtale; whether Frederick Massingbird was or was not with Rachel thatnight; whether he was in any way guilty, or was purely innocent, itboots not to inquire now. "

"It does not, " warmly replied Lionel. "You have done well. Let us buryMrs. Roy's story between us, and forget it, so far as we can. "

They parted. Lionel took his way to Deerham Court, absorbed in thought. His own strong impression had been, that Mr. Fred Massingbird was theblack sheep with regard to Rachel. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

LIONEL'S PRAYER FOR FORGIVENESS. 

Lady Verner, like many more of us, found that misfortunes do not comesingly. Coeval almost with that great misfortune, Lionel's marriage--atany rate, coeval with his return to Verner's Pride with hisbride--another vexation befell Lady Verner. Had Lady Verner found realmisfortunes to contend with, it is hard to say how she would have bornethem. Perhaps Lionel's marriage to Sibylla was a real misfortune; butthis second vexation assuredly was not--at any rate to Lady Verner. 

Some women--and Lady Verner was one--are fond of scheming and planning. Whether it be the laying out of a flower-bed, or the laying out of amarriage, they must plan and project. Disappointment with regard to herown daughter--for Decima most unqualifyingly disclaimed any match-makingon her own score--Lady Verner had turned her hopes in this respect onLucy Tempest. She deemed that she should be ill-fulfilling theresponsibilities of her guardianship, unless when Colonel Tempestreturned to England, she could present Lucy to him a wife, or, at least, engaged to be one. Many a time now did she unavailingly wish that Lionelhad chosen Lucy, instead of her whom he had chosen. Although--and markhow we estimate things by comparison--when, in the old days, Lady Vernerhad fancied Lionel was growing to like Lucy, she had told himemphatically it "would not do. " Why would it not do? Because, in theestimation of Lady Verner, Lucy Tempest was less desirable in a socialpoint of view than the Earl of Elmsley's daughter, and upon the latterlady had been fixed her hopes for Lionel. 

All that was past and gone. Lady Verner had seen the fallacy ofsublunary hopes and projects. Lady Mary Elmsley was rejected--Lionel hadmarried in direct defiance of everybody's advice--and Lucy was open tooffers. Open to offers, as Lady Verner supposed; but she was destined tofind herself unpleasantly disappointed. 

One came forward with an offer to her. And that was no other than theEarl of Elmsley's son, Viscount Garle. A pleasant man, ofeight-and-twenty years; and he was often at Lady Verner's. He had beenintimate there a long while, going in and out as unceremoniously as didLionel or Jan. Lady Verner and Decima could tell a tale that no one elsesuspected. How, in the years gone by--some four or five years agonow--he had grown to love Decima with his whole heart; and Decima hadrejected him. In spite of his sincere love; of the advantages of thematch; of the angry indignation of Lady Verner; Decima had steadfastlyrejected him. For some time Lord Garle would not take the rejection; butone day, when my lady was out, Decima spoke with him privately for fiveminutes, and from that hour Lord Garle had known there was no hope; hadbeen content to begin there and then, and strive to love her only as asister. The little episode was never known; Decima and Lady Verner hadkept counsel, and Lord Garle had not told tales of himself. Next toLionel, Lady Verner liked Lord Garle better than any one--ten timesbetter than she liked unvarnished Jan; and he was allowed the run of thehouse as though he had been its son. The first year of Lucy'sarrival--the year of Lionel's illness, Lord Garle had been away from theneighbourhood; but somewhere about the time of Sibylla's return, he hadcome back to it. Seeing a great deal of Lucy, as he necessarily did, being so much at Lady Verner's, he grew to esteem and love her. Not withthe same love he had borne for Decima--a love, such as that, never comestwice in a lifetime--but with a love sufficiently warm, notwithstanding. And he asked her to become his wife. 

_There_ was triumph for Lady Verner! Next to Decima--and all hope ofthat was dead for ever--she would like Lord Garle to marry Lucy. A realtriumph, the presenting her to Colonel Tempest on his return, my LadyViscountess Garle! In the delight of her heart she betrayed something ofthis to Lucy. 

"But I am not going to marry him, Lady Verner, " objected Lucy. 

"You are not going to marry him, Lucy? He confided to me the fact of hisintention this morning before he spoke to you. He _has_ spoken to you, has he not?"

"Yes, " replied Lucy; "but I cannot accept him. "

"You--cannot! What are you talking of?" cried Lady Verner. 

"Please not to be angry, Lady Verner! I could not marry Lord Garle. "

Lady Verner's lips grew pale. "And pray why can you not?" she demanded. 

"I--don't like him, " stammered Lucy. 

"Not like him!" repeated Lady Verner. "Why, what can there be about LordGarle that you young ladies do not like?" she wondered; her thoughtscast back to the former rejection by Decima. "He is good-looking, he issensible; there's not so attractive a man in all the county, LionelVerner excepted. "

Lucy's face turned to a fiery glow. "Had I known he was going to ask me, I would have requested him not to do so beforehand, as my refusal hasdispleased you, " she simply said. "I am sorry you should be vexed withme, Lady Verner. "

"It appears to me that nothing but vexation is to be the portion of mylife!" uttered Lady Verner. "Thwarted--thwarted always!--on all sides. First the one, then the other--nothing but crosses and vexations! Whatdid you say to Lord Garle?"

"I told Lord Garle that I could not marry him; that I should never likehim well enough--for he said, if I did not care for him now, I mightlater. But I told him no; it was impossible. I like him very well as afriend, but that is all. "

"_Why_ don't you like him?" repeated Lady Verner. 

"I don't know, " whispered Lucy, standing before Lady Verner like aculprit, her eyes cast down, and her eyelashes resting on her hotcrimsoned face. 

"Do you _both_ mean to make yourselves into old maids, you and Decima?"reiterated the angry Lady Verner. "A pretty pair of you I shall have onmy hands! I never was so annoyed in all my life. "

Lucy burst into tears. "I wish I could go to papa in India!" she said. 

"Do you know what you have rejected?" asked Lady Verner. "You would havebeen a peeress of England. His father will not live for ever. "

"But I should not care to be a peeress, " sobbed Lucy. "And I don't likehim. "

"Mamma, please do not say any more, " pleaded Decima. "Lucy is not toblame. If she does not like Lord Garle she could not accept him. "

"Of course she is not to blame--according to you, Miss Verner! You werenot to blame, were you, when you rejected--some one we knew of? Not theleast doubt that you will take her part! Young Bitterworth wished tohave proposed to you; you sent him away--as you send all--and refuse totell me your motive! Very dutiful you are, Decima!"

Decima turned away her pale face. She began to think Lucy would dobetter without her advocacy than with it. 

"I cannot allow it to end thus, " resumed Lady Verner to Lucy. "You mustreconsider your determination and recall Lord Garle. "

The words frightened Lucy. 

"I never can--I never can, Lady Verner!" she cried. "Please not to pressit; it is of no use. "

"I must press it, " replied Lady Verner. "I cannot allow you to throwaway your future prospects in this childish manner. How should I answerfor it to Colonel Tempest?"

She swept out of the room as she concluded, and Lucy, in anuncontrollable fit of emotion, threw herself on the bosom of Decima, andsobbed there. Decima hushed her to her soothingly, stroking her hairfrom her forehead with a fond gesture. 

"What is it that has grieved you lately, Lucy?" she gently asked. "I amsure you have been grieving. I have watched you. Gay as you appear tohave been, it is a false gaiety, seen only by fits and starts. "

Lucy moved her face from the view of Decima. "Oh, Decima! if I could butgo back to papa!" was all she murmured. "If I could but go away, and bewith papa!"

This little episode had taken place the day that Lionel Verner and hiswife returned. On the following morning Lady Verner renewed the contestwith Lucy. And they were deep in it--at least my lady was, for Lucy'schief part was only a deprecatory silence, when Lionel arrived atDeerham Court, to pay that visit to his mother which you have heard of. 

"I insist upon it, Lucy, that you recall your unqualified denial, " LadyVerner was saying. "If you will not accept Lord Garle immediately, atany rate take time for consideration. I will inform Lord Garle that youdo it by my wish. "

"I cannot, " replied Lucy in a firm, almost a vehement tone. "I--you mustnot be angry with me, Lady Verner--indeed, I beg your pardon for sayingit--but I will not. "

"How dare you, Lucy--"

Her ladyship stopped at the sudden opening of the door, turning angrilyto see what caused the interruption. Her servant appeared. 

"Mr. Verner, my lady. "

How handsome he looked as he came forward! Tall, noble, commanding. Never more so; never so much so in Lucy's sight. Poor Lucy's heart wasin her mouth, as the saying runs, and her pulses quickened to a pang. She did not know of his return. 

He bent to kiss his mother. He turned and shook hands with Lucy. Helooked gay, animated, happy. A joyous bridegroom, beyond doubt. 

"So you have reached home, Lionel?" said Lady Verner. 

"At ten last night. How well you are looking, mother mine!"

"I am flushed just now, " was the reply of Lady Verner, her accent asomewhat sharp one from the remembrance of the vexation which had givenher the flush. "How is Paris looking? Have you enjoyed yourself?"

"Paris is looking hot and dusty, and we have enjoyed ourselves much, "replied Lionel. He answered in the plural, you observe; my lady had putthe question in the singular. Where is Decima?"

"Decima is sure to be at some work or other for Jan, " was the answer, the asperity of Lady Verner's tone not decreasing. "He turns the housenearly upside down with his wants. Now a pan of broth must be made forsome wretched old creature; now a jug of beef tea; now a bran poulticemust be got; now some linen cut up for bandages. Jan's excuse is that hecan't get anything done at Dr. West's. If he is doctor to the parish, heneed not be purveyor; but you may just as well speak to a post as speakto Jan. What do you suppose he did the other day? Those improvidentKellys had their one roomful of things taken from them by theirlandlord. Jan went there--the woman's ill with a bad breast, orsomething--and found her lying on the bare boards; nothing to cover her, not a saucepan left to boil a drop of water. Off he comes here at thepace of a steam engine, got an old blanket and pillow from Catherine, and a tea-kettle from the kitchen. Now, Lionel, would you believe what Iam going to tell you? No! No one would. He made the pillow and blanketinto a bundle, and walked off with it under his arm; the kettle--neverso much as a piece of paper wrapped round it--in his other hand! I feltready to faint with shame when I saw him crossing the road opposite, that spectacle, to get to Clay Lane, the kettle held out a yard beforehim to keep the black off his clothes. He never could have been meant tobe your brother and my son!"

Lucy laughed at the recollection. She had had the pleasure of beholdingthe spectacle. Lionel laughed now at the description. Their mirth didnot please Lady Verner. She was serious in her complaint. 

"Lionel, you would not have liked it yourself. Fancy his turning out ofVerner's Pride in that guise, and encountering visitors! I don't knowhow it is, but there's some deficiency in Jan; something wanting. Youknow he generally chooses to come here by the back door: this day, because he had got the black kettle in his hand like a travellingtinker, he must go out by the front. He did! It saved him a few steps, and he went out without a blush. Out of my house, Lionel! Nobody everlived, I am certain, who possessed so little innate notion of thedecencies of life as Jan. Had he met a carriage full of visitors in thecourtyard, he would have swung the kettle back on his arm, and gone upto shake hands with them. I had the nightmare that night, Lionel. Idreamt a tall giant was pursuing me, seeking to throw some great machineat me, made of tea-kettles. "

"Jan is an odd fellow, " assented Lionel. 

"The worst is, you can't bring him to see, himself, what is proper orimproper, " resumed Lady Verner. "He has no sense of the fitness ofthings. He would go as unblushingly through the village with that blackkettle held out before him, as he would if it were her Majesty's crown, borne on a velvet cushion. "

"I am not sure but the crown would embarrass Jan more than the kettle, "said Lionel, laughing still. 

"Oh, I dare say; it would be just like him. Have you heard of thedisgraceful flitting away of some of the inhabitants here to go afterthe Mormons?" added my lady. 

"Jan has been telling me of it. What with one thing and another, Deerhamwill rise into notoriety. Nancy has gone from Verner's Pride. "

"Poor deluded woman!" ejaculated Lady Verner. 

"There's a story told in the village about that Peckaby's wife--Decimacan tell it best, though. I wonder where she is?"

Lucy rose. "I will go and find her, Lady Verner. "

No sooner had she quitted the room, than Lady Verner turned to Lionel, her manner changing. She began to speak rapidly, with some emotion. 

"You observed that I looked well, Lionel. I told you I was flushed. Theflush was caused by vexation, by anger. Not a week passes but somethingor other occurs to annoy me. I shall be worried into my grave. "

"What has happened?" inquired Lionel. 

"It is about Lucy Tempest. Here she is, upon my hands, and of course Iam responsible. She has no mother, and I am responsible to ColonelTempest and to my own conscience for her welfare. She will soon betwenty years of age--though I am sure nobody would believe it, to lookat her--and it is time that her settlement in life should, at allevents, be thought of. But now, look how things turn out! LordGarle--than whom a better _parti_ could not be wished--has fallen inlove with her. He made her an offer yesterday, and she won't have him. "

"Indeed!" replied Lionel, constrained to say something, but wishing LadyVerner would entertain him with any other topic. 

"We had quite a scene here yesterday. Indeed, it has been renewed thismorning, and your coming in interrupted it. I tell her that she musthave him: at any rate, must take time to consider the advantages of theoffer. She obstinately protests that she will not. I cannot think whatcan be her motive for rejection; almost any girl in the county wouldjump at Lord Garle. "

"I suppose so, " returned Lionel, pulling at a hole in his glove. 

"I must get you to speak to her, Lionel. Ask her why she declines. Showher--"

"I speak to her!" interrupted Lionel in a startled tone. "I cannot speakto her about it, mother. It is no business of mine. "

"Good heavens, Lionel! are _you_ going to turn disobedient?--And in sotrifling-a matter as this!--trifling so far as you are concerned. Wereit of vital importance to you, you might run counter to me; it is onlywhat I should expect. "

This was a stab at his marriage. Lionel replied by disclaiming anyinfluence over Miss Tempest. "Where your arguments have failed, minewould not be likely to succeed. "

"Then you are mistaken, Lionel. I am certain that you hold a very greatinfluence over Lucy. I observed it first when you were ill, when she andDecima were so much with you. She has betrayed it in a hundred littleways; her opinions are formed upon yours; your tastes unconsciously biashers. It is only natural. She has no brother, and no doubt has learnedto regard you as one. "

Lionel hoped in his inmost heart that she did regard him only as abrother. Lady Verner continued--

"A word from you may have great effect upon her; and I desire, Lionel, that you will, in your duty to me, undertake that word. Point out to herthe advantages of the match; tell her that you speak to her as herfather; urge her to accept Lord Garle; or, as I say, not to summarilyreject him without consideration, upon the childish plea that she 'doesnot like him. ' She was terribly agitated last night; nearly went intohysterics, Decima tells me, after I left her; all her burden being thatshe wished she could go away to India. "

"Mother--you know how pleased I should be to obey any wish of yours; butthis is really not a proper business for me to interfere with, " urgedLionel, a red spot upon his cheek. 

"Why is it not?" pointedly asked Lady Verner, looking hard at him andwaiting for an answer. 

"I do not deem it to be so. Neither would Lucy consider my interferencejustifiable. "

"But, Lionel, you take up wrong notions! I wish you to speak in myplace, just as if you were her father; in short, acting for her father. As to what Lucy may consider or not consider in the matter, that is ofvery little consequence. Lucy is so perfectly unsophisticated, so simplein her ideas, that were I to desire my maid Thérèse to give her alecture, she would receive it as something proper. "

"I should be most unwilling to----"

"Hold your tongue, Lionel. You must do it. Here she is. "

"I could not find Decima, Lady Verner, " said Lucy, entering. "When Ihad been all over the house for her, Catherine told me Miss Decima hadgone out. She has gone to Clay Lane on some errand for Jan. "

"Oh, of course for Jan!" resentfully spoke Lady Verner. "Nothing else, Ishould think, would take her to Clay Lane. You see, Lionel!"

"There's nothing in Clay Lane that will hurt Decima, mother. "

Lady Verner made no reply. She walked to the door, and stood with thehandle in her hand, turning round to speak. 

"Lucy, I have been acquainting Lionel with this affair between you andLord Garle. I have requested him to speak to you upon the point; toascertain your precise grounds of objection, and--so far as he can--todo away with them. Try your best, Lionel. "

She quitted the room, leaving them standing opposite each other. Standing like two statues. Lionel's heart smote him. She looked soinnocent, so good, in her delicate morning dress, with its gray ribbonsand its white lace on the sleeves, open to the small fair arms! Simpleas the dress was, it looked, in its exquisite taste, worth ten ofSibylla's elaborate French costumes. Her cheeks were glowing, her handswere trembling, as she stood there in her self-consciousness. 

Terribly self-conscious was Lionel. He strove to say something, but inhis embarrassment could not get out a single word. The conviction of thegrievous fact, that she loved him, went right to his heart in thatmoment, and seated itself there. Another grievous fact came home to him;that she was more to him than the whole world. However he had pushed thesuspicion away from his mind, refused to dwell on it, kept it down, itwas all too plain to him now. He had made Sibylla his wife. He stoodthere, feeling that he loved Lucy above all created things. 

He crossed over to her, and laid his hand fondly and gently on her head, as he moved to the door. "May God forgive me, Lucy!" broke from hiswhite and trembling lips. "My own punishment is heavier than yours. "

There was no need of further explanation on either side. Each knew thatthe love of the other was theirs, the punishment keenly bitter, assurely as if a hundred words had told it. Lucy sat down as the doorclosed behind him, and wondered how she should get through the longdreary life before her. 

And Lionel? Lionel went out by Jan's favourite way, the back, andplunged into a dark lane where neither ear nor eye was on him. Heuncovered his head, he threw back his coat, he lifted his breath tocatch only a gasp of air. The sense of dishonour was stifling him. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

FARMER BLOW'S WHITE-TAILED PONY. 

Lionel Verner was just in that frame of mind which struggles to becarried out of itself. No matter whether by pleasure or pain, so that itbe not that particular pain from which it would fain escape, the mindseeks yearningly to forget itself, to be lifted out anywhere, or by anymeans, from its trouble. Conscience was doing heavy work with Lionel. Hehad destroyed his own happiness--that was nothing; he could battle itout, and nobody be the wiser or the worse, save himself; but he hadblighted Lucy's. _There_ was the sting that tortured him. A man ofsensitively refined organisation, keenly alive to the feelings ofothers--full of repentant consciousness when wrong was worked throughhim, he would have given his whole future life and all its benefits, toundo the work of the last few months. Either that he had never met Lucy, or that he had not married Sibylla. _Which_ of those two events he wouldhave preferred to recall, he did not trust himself to think; whatevermay have been his faults, he had, until now, believed himself to be aman of honour. It was too late. Give what he would, strive as he would, repent as he would, the ill could neither be undone nor mitigated; itwas one of those unhappy things for which there is no redress; they mustbe borne, as they best can, in patience and silence. 

With these thoughts and feelings full upon him, little wonder was therethat Lionel Verner, some two hours after quitting Lucy, should turn intoPeckaby's shop. Mrs. Peckaby was seated back from the open door, crying, and moaning, and swaying herself about, apparently in terrible pain, physical or mental. Lionel remembered the story of the white donkey, andhe stepped in to question her; anything for a minute's divertisement;anything to drown the care that was racking him. There was a subject onwhich he wished to speak to Roy, and that took him down Clay Lane. 

"What's the matter, Mrs. Peckaby?"

Mrs. Peckaby rose from her chair, curtseyed, and sat down again. But forthe state of tribulation she was in, she would have remained standing. 

"Oh, sir, I have had a upset, " she sobbed. "I see the white tail of apony a-going by, and I thought it might be some'at else. It did give mea turn!"

"What did you think it might be?"

"I thought it might be the tail of a different sort of animal. I bea-going a far journey, sir, and I thought it was, may be, the quadruplecome to fetch me. I'm a-going to New Jerusalem on a white donkey. "

"So I hear, " said Lionel, suppressing a smile, in spite of his heavyheart. "Do you go all the way on the white donkey, Mrs. Peckaby?"

"Sir, that's a matter that's hid from me, " answered Mrs. Peckaby. "Thegentleman that was sent back to me by Brother Jarrum, hadn't hadparticulars revealed to him. There's difficulties in the way of a animalon four legs which can't swim, doing it all, that I don't pretend toexplain away. I'm content, when the hour comes, sir, to start, andtrust. Peckaby, he's awful sinful, sir. Only last evening, when I wassaying the quadruple might have mirac'lous parts give to it, likeBalum's had in the Bible, Peckaby he jeered, and said he'd like to seeBalum's or any other quadruple, set off to swim to America--that he'dfind the bottom afore he found the land. I wonder the kitchen ceilingdon't drop down upon his head! For myself, sir, I'm rejoiced to trust, as I says; and as soon as the white donkey do come, I shall mount himwithout fear. "

"What do you expect to find at New Jerusalem?" asked Lionel. 

"I could sooner tell you, sir, what I don't expect; it 'ud take up lesstime. There's a'most everything good at New Jerusalem that the worldcontains--Verner's Pride's a poor place to it, sir--saving your presencefor saying so. I could have sat and listened to Brother Jarrum in thishere shop for ever, sir, if it hadn't been that the longing was upon meto get there. In this part o' the world we women be poor, cast down, half-famished, miserable slaves; but in New Jerusalem we are the wivesof saints, well cared for, and clothed and fed, happy as the day's long, and our own parlours to ourselves, and nobody to interrupt us. Yes, Peckaby, I'm a-telling his honour, Mr. Verner, what's a-waiting for meat New Jerusalem! And the sooner I'm on my road to it, the better. "

The conclusion was addressed to Peckaby himself. Peckaby had just comein from the forge, grimed and dirty. He touched his hair to Lionel, anamused expression playing on his face. In point of fact, this NewJerusalem vision was affording the utmost merriment to Peckaby and a fewmore husbands. Peckaby had come home to his tea, which meal it was thecustom of Deerham to enjoy about three o'clock. He saw no signs of itsbeing in readiness; and, but for the presence of Mr. Verner, mightprobably have expressed his opinion demonstratively upon the point. Peckaby, of late, appeared to have changed his nature and disposition. From being a timid man, living under wife-thraldom, he had come toexercise thraldom over her. How far Mrs. Peckaby's state of low spirits, into which she was generally sunk, may have explained this, nobody knew. 

"I have had a turn, Peckaby. I caught sight of a white tail a-going by, and I thought it might be the quadruple a-coming for me. I was shook, Ican tell you. 'Twas more nor an hour ago, and I've been able to donothing since, but sit here and weep; I couldn't redd up after that. "

"Warn't it the quadrepid?" asked Peckaby in a mocking tone. 

"No, it weren't, " she moaned. "It were nothing but that white pony ofFarmer Blow's. "

"Him, was it, " said Peckaby, with affected scorn. "He is in the forgenow, he is; a-having his shoes changed, and his tail trimmed. "

"I'd give a shilling to anybody as 'ud cut his tail off;" angrilyrejoined Mrs. Peckaby. "A-deceiving of me, and turning my inside all ofa quake! Oh, I wish it 'ud come! The white donkey as is to bear me toNew Jerusalem!"

"Don't you wish her joy of her journey, sir?" cried the manrespectfully, a twinkle in his eye, while she rocked herself too andfro. "She have got a bran new gownd laid up in a old apron upstairs, ready for the start. She, and a lot more to help her, set on and made itin a afternoon, for fear the white donkey should arrive immediate. Iasks her, sir, how much back the gownd'll have left in him, by the timeshe have rode from here to New Jerusalem. "

"Peckaby, you are a mocker!" interposed his lady, greatly exasperated. "Remember the forty-two as was eat up by bears when they mocked atElisher!"

"Mrs. Peckaby, " said Lionel, keeping his countenance, "don't you thinkyou would have made more sure of the benefits of the New Jerusalem, hadyou started with the rest, instead of depending upon the arrival of thewhite donkey?"

"They started without her, sir, " cried the man, laughing from ear toear. "They give her the slip, while she were a-bed and asleep. "

"It were revealed to Brother Jarrum so to do, sir, " she cried eagerly. "Don't listen to _him_. Brother Jarrum as much meant me to go, sir, andI as much thought to go, as I mean to go to my bed this night--alwayssupposing the white donkey don't come, " she broke off in a differentvoice. 

"Why did you not go, then?" demanded Lionel. 

"I'll tell you about it, sir. Me and Brother Jarrum was on the best ofterms--which it's a real gentleman he was, and never said a word norgave a look as could offend me. I didn't know the night fixed for thestart; and Brother Jarrum didn't know it; in spite of Peckaby'sinsinuations. On that last night, which it was Tuesday, not a soul camenear the place but that pale lady where Dr. West attended. She stopped aminute or two, and then Brother Jarrum goes out, and says he might beaway all the evening. Well, he was; but he came in again; I can be on myoath he did; and I give him his candle and wished him a good-night. After that, sir, I never heard nothing till I got up in the morning. Thefirst thing I see was his door wide open, and the bed not slept in. Andthe next thing I heard was, that the start had took place; theya-walking to Heartburg, and taking the train there. You might just haveknocked me down with a puff of wind. "

"Such a howling and screeching followed on, sir, " put in Peckaby. "Iwere at the forge, and it reached all the way to our ears, over there. Chuff, he thought as the place had took fire and the missis wasa-burning. "

"But it didn't last; it didn't last, " repeated Mrs. Peckaby. "Thanksbe offered up for it, it didn't last, or I should ha' been in mycoffin afore the day were out! A gentleman came to me: a Brotherhe were, sent express by Brother Jarrum; and had walked afoot allthe way from Heartburg. It had been revealed to Brother Jarrum, hesaid, that they were to start that partic'lar night, and that I wasto be left behind special. A higher mission was--What was the word?resigned?--no--reserved--reserved for me, and I was to be conveyedspecial on a quadruple, which was a white donkey. I be to keep myselfin readiness, sir, always a-looking out for the quadruple's coming andstopping afore the door. "

Lionel leaned against the counter, and went into a burst of laughter. The woman told it so quaintly, with such perfect good faith in theadvent of the white donkey! She did not much like the mirth. As to thatinfidel Peckaby, he indulged in sundry mocking doubts, which were, tosay the least of them, very mortifying to a believer. 

"What's your opinion, sir?" she suddenly asked of Lionel. 

"Well, " said Lionel, "my opinion--as you wish for it--Would incline tothe suspicion that your friend, Brother Jarrum, deceived you. That heinvented the fable of the white donkey to keep you quiet while he andthe rest got clear off. "

Mrs. Peckaby Went into a storm of shrieking sobs. "It couldn't be! itcouldn't be! Oh, sir, you be as cruel as the rest! Why should BrotherJarrum take the others, and not take me?"

"That is Brother Jarrum's affair, " replied Lionel. "I only say it lookslike it. "

"I telled Brother Jarrum, the very day afore the start took place, thatif he took off _my_ wife, I'd follor him on and beat every bone to smashas he'd got in his body, " interposed Peckaby, glancing at Lionel with aknowing smile. "I did, sir. Her was out"--jerking his black thumb at hiswife--"and I caught Brother Jarrum in his own room and shut the door onus both, and there I telled him. He knew I meant it, too, and he didn'tlike the look of a iron bar I happened to have in my hand. I saw that. Other wives' husbands might do as they liked; but I warn't a-going tohave mine deluded off by them Latter Day Saints. Were I wrong, sir?"

"I do not think you were, " answered Lionel. 

"I'd Latter Day 'em! and saint 'em too, if I had my will!" continuedwrathful Peckaby. "Arch-deceiving villuns!"

"Well, good-day, Mrs. Peckaby, " said Lionel, moving to the door. "Iwould not spend too much time were I you, looking out for the whitedonkey. "

"It'll come! it'll come!" retorted Mrs. Peckaby, in an ecstasy of joy, removing her hands from her ears, where she had clapped them duringPeckaby's heretical speech. "I am proud, sir, to know as it'll come, inspite of opinions contrairey and Peckaby's wickedness; and I'm proud tobe always a-looking out for it. "

"This is never it, is it, drawing up to the door now?" cried Lionel, with gravity. 

Something undoubtedly was curveting and prancing before the door;something with a white flowing tail. Mrs. Peckaby caught one glimpse, and bounded from her seat, her chest panting, her nostrils working. Thesigns betrayed how implicit was the woman's belief; how entirely it hadtaken hold of her. 

Alas! for Mrs. Peckaby. Alas! for her disappointment. It was nothing butthat deceiving animal again, Farmer Blow's white pony. Apparently thepony had been so comfortable in the forge, that he did not care to leaveit. He was dodging about and backing, wholly refusing to go forward, andsetting at defiance a boy who was striving to lead him onwards. Mrs. Peckaby sat down and burst into tears. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

STIFLED WITH DISHONOUR. 

"Now, then, " began Peckaby, as Lionel departed, "what's the reason mytea ain't ready for me. "

"Be you a man to ask?" demanded she. "Could I redd up and put onkettles, and, see to ord'nary work, with my inside turning?"

Peckaby paused for a minute. "I've a good mind to wallop you!"

"Try it, " she aggravatingly answered. "You have not kep' your hands offme yet to be let begin now. Anybody but a brute 'ud comfort a poor womanin her distress. You'll be sorry for it when I'm gone off to NewJerusalem. "

"Now, look here, Suke, " said he, attempting to reason with her. "It'squite time as you left off this folly; we've had enough on't. What doyou suppose you'd do at Salt Lake? What sort of a life 'ud you lead?"

"A joyful life!" she responded, turning her glance sky-ward. "BrotherJarrum thinks as the head saint, the prophet hisself, has a favour tome! Wives is as happy there as the day's long. "

Peckaby grinned; the reply amused him much. "You poor ignorant creatur, "cried he, "you have got your head up in a mad-house; and that's aboutit. You know Mary Green?"

"Well?" answered she, looking surprised at this _divertissement_. 

"And you know Nancy from Verner's Pride as is gone off, " he continued, "and you know half a dozen more nice young girls about here, which youcan just set on and think of. How 'ud you like to see me marry the wholeof 'em, and bring 'em home here? Would the house hold the tantrums you'dgo into, d'ye think?"

"You hold your senseless tongue, Peckaby! A man 'ud better try and bringhome more nor one wife here! The law 'ud be on to him. "

"In course it would, " returned Peckaby! "And the law knowed what it wasabout when it made itself into the law. A place with more nor one wifein it 'ud be compairable to nothing but that blazing place you've heerdon as is under our feet, or the Salt Lake City. "

"For shame, you wicked man!"

"There ain't no shame, in saying that; it's truth, " composedly answeredPeckaby. "Brother Jarrum said, didn't he, as the wives had a parloura-piece. Why do they? 'Cause they be obleeged to be kep' apart, for fearo' damaging each other, a-tearing and biting and scratching, anda-pulling of eyes out. A nice figure you'd cut among 'em! You'd bea-wishing yourself home again afore you'd tried it for a day. Don't yoube a fool, Susan Peckaby. "

"Don't you!" retorted she. "I wonder you ain't afraid o' some judgmentfalling on you. Lies is sure to come home to people. "

"Just take your thoughts back to the time as we had the shop here, andplenty o' custom in it. One day you saw me just a-kissing of a girl inthat there corner--leastways you fancied as you saw me, " correctedPeckaby, coughing down his slip. "Well, d'ye recollect the scrimmage?Didn't you go a'most mad, never keeping' your tongue quiet for a week, and the place hardly holding of ye? How 'ud you like to have eight orten more of 'em, my married wives, like you be, brought in here?"

"You _are_ a fool, Peckaby. The cases is different. "

"Where's the difference?" asked Peckaby. "The men be men, out there; andthe women be women. I might pertend as I'd had visions and revelationssent to me, and dress myself up in a black coat and a whiteneck-an-kecher, and suchlike paycock's plumes--I might tar and feathermyself if I pleased, if it come to that--and give out as I was a prophitand a Latter Day Saint; but where 'ud be the difference, I want to know?I should just be as good and as bad a man as I be now, only a bit moreof a hypocrite. Saints and prophits, indeed! You just come to yoursenses, Susan Peckaby. "

"I haven't lost 'em yet, " answered she, looking inclined to beat him. 

"You have lost 'em; to suppose as a life, out with them reptiles, couldbe anything but just what I telled you--a hell. It can't be otherways. It's again human female natur. If you went angry mad with jealousy, justat fancying you see a innocent kiss give upon a girl's face, how 'ud youdo, I ask, when it come to wives? Tales runs as them 'saints' have gotany number a-piece, from four or five, up to seventy. If you don't cometo your senses, Mrs. Peckaby, you'll get a walloping, to bring you to'em; and that's about it. You be the laughing-stock o' the place as itis. "

He swung out at the door, and took his way towards the nearestpublic-house, intending to solace himself with a pint of ale, in lieu oftea, of which he saw no chance. Mrs. Peckaby burst into a flood oftears, and apostrophised the expected white donkey in moving terms: thathe would forthwith appear and bear her off from Peckaby and trouble, tothe triumphs and delights of New Jerusalem. 

Lionel, meanwhile, went to Roy's dwelling. Roy, he found, was not in it. Mrs. Roy was; and, by the appearance of the laid-out tea-table, she wasprobably expecting Roy to enter. Mrs. Roy sat doing nothing, her armshung listlessly down, her head also; sunk apparently in that sad stateof mind--whatever may have been its cause--which was now habitual toher. By the start with which she sprang from her chair, as Lionel Vernerappeared at the open door, it may be inferred that she took him for herhusband. Surely nobody else could have put her in such tremor. 

"Roy's not in, sir, " she said, dropping a curtsey, in answer to Lionel'sinquiry. "May be, he'll not be long. It's his time for coming home, butthere's no dependence on him. "

Lionel glanced round. He saw that the woman was alone, and he deemed ita good opportunity to ask her about what had been mentioned to him, twoor three hours previously, by the Vicar of Deerham. Closing the door, and advancing towards her, he began. 

"I want to say a word to you, Mrs. Roy. What were your grounds forstating to Mr. Bourne that Mr. Frederick Massingbird was with RachelFrost at the Willow Pool the evening of her death?"

Mrs. Roy gave a low shriek of terror, and flung her apron over her face. Lionel ungallantly drew it down again. Her countenance was turning lividas death. 

"You will have the goodness to answer me, Mrs. Roy. "

"It were just a dream sir, " she said, the words issuing in unequal jerksfrom her trembling lips, "I have been pretty nigh crazed lately. Whatwith them Mormons, and the uncertainty of fixing what to do--whether tobelieve 'em or not--and Roy's crabbed temper, which grows upon him, andother fears and troubles, I've been a-nigh crazed. It were just a dreamas I had, and nothing more; and I be vexed to my heart that I shouldhave made such a fool of myself, as to go and say what I did to Mr. Bourne. "

One word above all others, caught the attention of Lionel in the answer. It was "fears. " He bent towards her, lowering his voice. 

"What are these fears that seem to pursue you? You appear to me to havebeen perpetually under the influence of fear since that night. Terrifiedyou were then; terrified you remain. What is the cause?"

The woman trembled excessively. 

"Roy keeps me in fear, sir. He's for ever a-threatening. He'll shake me, or he'll pinch me, or he'll do for me, he says. I'm in fear of himalways. "

"That is an evasive answer, " remarked Lionel. "Why should you fear toconfide in me? You have never known me to take an advantage to anybody'sinjury. The past is past. That unfortunate night's work appears now tobelong wholly to the past. Nevertheless, if you can throw any lightupon it, it is your duty to do so. I will keep the secret. "

"I didn't know a thing, sir, about the night's work. I didn't, " shesobbed. 

"Hush!" said Lionel. "I felt sure at the time that you did knowsomething, had you chosen to speak. I feel more sure of it now. "

"No, I don't, sir; not if you pulled me in pieces for it. I had a horriddream, and I went straight off, like a fool, to Mr. Bourne and told it, and--and--that was all, sir. "

She was flinging her apron up again to hide her countenance, when, witha faint cry, she let it fall, sprung from her seat, and stood beforeLionel. 

"For the love of heaven, sir, say nothing to _him_!" she uttered, anddisappeared within an inner door. The sight of Roy, entering, explainedthe enigma; she must have seen him from the window. Roy took off his capby way of salute. 

"I hope I see you well, sir, after your journey. "

"Quite well. Roy, some papers have been left at Verner's Pride for myinspection, regarding the dispute in Farmer Hartright's lease. I do notunderstand them. They bear your signature, not Mrs. Verner's. How isthat?"

Roy stopped a while--to collect his thoughts, possibly. "I suppose Isigned it for her, sir. "

"Then you did what you had no authority to do. You never received powerto sign from Mrs. Verner. "

"Mrs. Verner must have give me power, sir, if I _have_ signed. I don'trecollect signing anything. Sometimes, when she was ill, or unwilling tobe disturbed, she'd say, 'Roy, do this, ' or, 'Roy, do the other. ' She--"

"Mrs. Verner never gave you authority to sign, " impressively repeatedLionel. "She is gone, and therefore cannot be referred to; but you knowas well as I do, that she never did give you such authority. Come toVerner's Pride to-morrow morning at ten, and see these papers. "

Roy signified his obedience, and Lionel departed. He bent his stepstowards home, taking the field way; all the bitter experiences of theday rising up within his mind. Ah! try as he would, he could not deceivehimself; he could not banish or drown the one ever-present thought. Thesingular information imparted by Mr. Bourne; the serio-comic tribulationof Mrs. Peckaby, waiting for her white donkey; the mysterious behaviourof Dinah Roy, in which there was undoubtedly more than met the ear; allthese could not cover for a moment the one burning fact--Lucy's love, and his own dishonour. In vain Lionel flung off his hat, heedless of anysecond sun-stroke, and pushed his hair from his heated brow. It was ofno use; as he had felt when he went out from the presence of Lucy, so hefelt now--_stifled_ with dishonour. 

Sibylla was at a table, writing notes, when he reached home. Severalwere on it, already written, and in their envelopes. She looked up athim. 

"Oh, Lionel, what a while you have been out! I thought you were nevercoming home. "

He leaned down and kissed her. Although his conscience had revealed tohim, that day, that he loved another better, _she_ should never feel thedifference. Nay, the very knowledge that it was so would render him allthe more careful to give her marks of love. 

"I have been to my mother's, and to one or two more places. What are youso busy over, dear?"

"I am writing invitations, " said Sibylla. 

"Invitations! Before people have called upon you?"

"They can call all the same. I have been asking Mary Tynn how many bedsshe can, by dint of screwing, afford. I am going to fill them all. Ishall ask them for a month. How grave you look, Lionel!"

"In this first early sojourn together in our own house, Sibylla, I thinkwe shall be happier alone. "

"Oh, no, we should not. I love visitors. We shall be together all thesame, Lionel. "

"My little wife, " he said, "if you cared for me as I care for you, youwould not feel the want of visitors just now. "

And there was no sophistry in this speech. He had come to the convictionthat Lucy ought to have been his wife, but he did care for Sibylla verymuch. The prospect of a house full of guests at the present moment, appeared most displeasing to him, if only as a matter of taste. 

"Put it off for a few weeks, Sibylla. "

Sibylla pouted. "It is of no use preaching, Lionel. If you are to be apreaching husband, I shall be sorry I married you. Fred was never that. "

Lionel's face turned blood-red. Sibylla put up her hand, and drew itcarelessly down. 

"You must let me have my own way for this once, " she coaxingly said. "What's the use of my bringing all those loves of things from Paris, ifwe are to live in a dungeon, and nobody's to see them? I must invitethem, Lionel. "

"Very well, " he answered, yielding the point. Yielding it the morereadily from the consciousness above spoken of. 

"There's my dear Lionel! I knew you would never turn tyrant. And now Iwant something else. "

"What's that?" asked Lionel. 

"A cheque. "

"A cheque? I gave you one this morning, Sibylla. "

"Oh! but the one you gave me is for housekeeping--for Mary Tynn, and allthat. I want one for myself. I am not going to have my expenses come outof the housekeeping. "

Lionel sat down to write one, a good-natured smile on his face. "I'msure I don't know what you will find to spend it in, after all thefinery you bought in Paris, " he said, in a joking tone. "How much shallI fill it in for?"

"As much as you will, " replied Sibylla, too eagerly. "Couldn't you giveit me in blank, and let me fill it in?"

He made no answer. He drew it for £100, and gave it her. 

"Will that do, my dear?"

She drew his face down again caressingly. But, in spite of the kissesleft upon his lips, Lionel had awoke to the conviction, firm andundoubted, that his wife did not love him. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

SHADOWED-FORTH EMBARRASSMENT. 

The September afternoon sun streamed into the study at Verner's Pride, playing with the bright hair of Lionel Verner. His head was bendinglistlessly over certain letters and papers on his table, and there was awearied look upon his face. Was it called up by the fatigue of the day?He had been out with some friends in the morning; it was the first dayof partridge shooting, and they had bagged well. Now Lionel was homeagain, had changed his attire, and was sitting down in his study--theold study of Mr. Verner. Or, was the wearied look, were the indentedupright lines between the eyes, called forth by inward care?

Those lines were not so conspicuous when you last saw him. Twelve orfourteen months have elapsed since then. A portion of that time only hadbeen spent at Verner's Pride. Mrs. Verner was restless; ever wishing tobe on the wing; living but in gaiety. Her extravagance was somethingfrightful, and Lionel did not know how to check it. There were nochildren; there had been no signs of any; and Mrs. Verner positivelymade the lack into a sort of reproach, a continual cause forquerulousness. 

She had filled Verner's Pride with guests after their marriage--as shehad coveted to do. From that period until early spring she had kept itfilled, one succession of guests, one relay of visitors arriving afterthe other. Pretty, capricious, fascinating, youthful, Mrs. Verner was ofexcessive popularity in the country, and a sojourn at Verner's Pridegrew to be eagerly sought. The women liked the attractive master; themen bowed to the attractive mistress; and Verner's Pride was never free. On the contrary, it was generally unpleasantly crammed; and Mrs. Tynn, who was a staid, old-fashioned housekeeper, accustomed to nothing beyondthe regular, quiet household maintained by the late Mr. Verner, wasdriven to the verge of desperation. 

"It would be far pleasanter if we had only half the number of guests, "Lionel had said to his wife in the winter. He no longer remonstratedagainst _any_: he had given that up as hopeless. "Pleasanter for them, pleasanter for us, pleasanter for the servants. "

"The servants!" slightingly returned Sibylla. "I never knew before thatthe pleasure of servants was a thing to be studied. "

"But their comfort is. At least, I have always considered so, and I hopeI always shall. They complain much, Sibylla. "

"Do they complain to you?"

"They do. Tynn and his wife say they are nearly worked to death. Theyhint at leaving. Mrs. Tynn is continually subjected also to what shecalls insults from your French maid. That of course I know nothing of;but it might be as well for you to listen to her on the subject. "

"I cannot have Benoite crossed. I don't interfere in the householdmyself, and she does it for me. "

"But, my dear, if you would interfere a little more, just so far as toascertain whether these complaints have grounds, you might apply aremedy. "

"Lionel, you are most unreasonable! As if I could be worried withlooking into things! What are servants for? You must be a regular oldbachelor to think of my doing it. "

"Well--to go to our first point, " he rejoined. "Let us try half thenumber of guests, and see how it works. If you do not find it better, more agreeable in all ways, I will say no more about it. "

He need not have said anything, then. Sibylla would not listen to it. Atany rate, would not act upon it. She conceded so far as to promise thatshe would not invite so many next time. But, when that next time came, and the new sojourners arrived, they turned out to be more. Beds had tobe improvised in all sorts of impossible places; the old servants wereturned out of their chambers and huddled into corners; nothing butconfusion and extravagance reigned. Against some of the latter, Mrs. Tynn ventured to remonstrate to her mistress. Fruits and vegetables outof season; luxuries in the shape of rare dishes, many of which Verner'sPride had never heard of, and did not know how to cook, and all of themost costly nature, were daily sent down from London purveyors. Againstthis expense Mary Tynn spoke. Mrs. Verner laughed good-naturedly at her, and told her it was not her pocket that would be troubled to pay thebills. Additional servants were obliged to be had; and, in short, to usean expression that was much in vogue at Deerham about that time, Verner's Pride was going the pace. 

This continued until early spring. In February Sibylla fixed her heartupon a visit to London. "Of course, " she told Lionel, "he would treather to a season in town. " She had never been to London in her life tostay. For Sibylla to fix her heart upon a thing, was to have it; Lionelwas an indulgent husband. 

To London they proceeded in February. And there the cost was great. Sibylla was not one to go to work sparingly in any way; neither, inpoint of fact, was Lionel. Lionel would never have been undulyextravagant; but, on the other hand, he was not accustomed to spare. Afurnished house in a good position was taken; servants were imported toit from Verner's Pride; and there Sibylla launched into all the folliesof the day. At Easter she "set her heart" upon a visit to Paris, andLionel acquiesced. They remained there three weeks; Sibylla laying in asecond stock of _toilettes_ for Mademoiselle Benoite to rule over; andthen they went back to London. 

The season was prolonged that year. The House sat until August, and itwas not until the latter end of that month that Mr. And Mrs. Vernerreturned to Verner's Pride. Though scarcely home a week yet, the housewas filled again--filled to overflowing; Lionel can hear sounds oftalking and laughter from the various rooms, as he bends over his table. He was opening his letters, three or four of which lay in a stack. Hehad gone out in the morning before the post was in. 

Tynn knocked at the door and entered, bringing a note. 

"Where's this from?" asked Lionel, taking it from the salver. Anothermoment, and he had recognised the handwriting of his mother. 

"From Deerham Court, sir. My lady's footman brought it. He asks whetherthere is any answer. "

Lionel opened the note, and read as follows:--

 "MY DEAR LIONEL, --I am obliged to be a beggar again. My expenses seem to outrun my means in a most extraordinary sort of way. Sometimes I think it must be Decima's fault, and tell her she does not properly look after the household. In spite of my own income, your ample allowance, and the handsome remuneration received for Lucy, I cannot make both ends meet. Will you let me have two or three hundred pounds?

 "Ever your affectionate mother, "LOUISA VERNER. "

"I will call on Lady Verner this afternoon, Tynn. "

Tynn withdrew with the answer. Lionel leaned his brow upon his hand; theweary expression terribly plain just then. 

"My mother shall have it at once--no matter what my own calls may be, "was his soliloquy. "Let me never forget that Verner's Pride might havebeen hers all these years. Looking at it from our own point of view, myfather's branch in contradistinction of my uncle's, it ought to havebeen hers. It might have been her jointure-house now, had my fatherlived, and so willed it. I am _glad_ to help my mother, " he continued, an earnest glow lighting his face. "If I get embarrassed, why, I mustget embarrassed; but she shall not suffer. "

That embarrassment would inevitably come, if he went on at his presentrate of living, he had the satisfaction of knowing beyond all doubt. That was not the worst point upon his conscience. Of the plans andprojects that Lionel had so eagerly formed when he came into the estate, some were set afloat, some were not. Those that were most wanted--thatwere calculated to do the most real good--lay in abeyance; others, thatmight have waited, were in full work. Costly alterations were making inthe stables at Verner's Pride, and the working man's institute atDeerham--reading-room, club, whatever it was to be--was progressingswimmingly. But the draining of the land near the poor dwellings was notbegun, and the families, many of them, still herded in consort--fatherand mother, sons and daughters, sleeping in one room--compelled to it bythe wretched accommodation of the tenements. It was on this last scorethat Lionel was feeling a pricking of conscience. And how to find themoney to make these improvements now, he knew not. Between the buildingin progress and Sibylla, he was drained. 

A circumstance had occurred that day to bring the latter neglectforcibly to his mind. Alice Hook--Hook the labourer's eldestdaughter--had, as the Deerham phrase ran, got herself into trouble. Apretty child she had grown up amongst them--she was little more than achild now--good-tempered, gay-hearted. Lionel had heard the ill news theprevious week on his return from London. When he was out shooting thatmorning he saw the girl at a distance, and made some observation to hisgamekeeper, Broom, to the effect that it had vexed him. 

"Ay, sir, it's a sad pity, " was Broom's answer; "but what else can beexpected of poor folks that's brought up to live as they do--like pigsin a sty?"

Broom had intended no reproach to his master; such an impertinence wouldnot have crossed his mind; but the words carried a sting to Lionel. Heknew how many, besides Alice Hook, had had their good conduct underminedthrough the living "like pigs in a sty. " Lionel had, as you know, alively conscience; and his brow reddened with self-reproach as he satand thought these things over. He could not help comparing the contrast:Verner's Pride, with its spacious bedrooms, one of which was not deemedsufficient for the purposes of retirement, where two people slepttogether, but a dressing-closet must be attached; and those poor Hooks, with their growing-up sons and daughters, and but one room, save thekitchen, in their whole dwelling!

"I will put things on a better footing, " impulsively exclaimed Lionel. "I care not what the cost may be, or how it may fall upon my comforts, do it I will. I declare, I feel as if the girl's blight lay at my owndoor!"

Again he and his reflections were interrupted by Tynn. 

"Roy has come up, sir, and is asking to see you. "

"Roy! Let him come in, " replied Lionel. "I want to see him. "

It frequently happened, when agreements, leases, and other deeds wereexamined, that Roy had to be referred to. Things would turn out to havebeen drawn up, agreements made, in precisely the opposite manner to thatexpected by Lionel. For some of these Roy might have received sanction;but, for many, Lionel felt sure Roy had acted on his own responsibility. This chiefly applied to the short period of the management of Mrs. Verner; a little, very little, to the latter year of her husband's life. Matiss was Lionel's agent during his absences; when at home, he took allmanagement into his own hands. 

Roy came in. The same ill-favoured, hard-looking man as ever. Theostensible business which had brought him up to Verner's Pride, provedto be of a very trivial nature, and was soon settled. It is well to say"ostensible, " because a conviction arose in Lionel's mind afterwardsthat it was but an excuse: that Roy made it a pretext for the purpose ofobtaining an interview. Though why, or wherefore, or what he gained byit, Lionel could not imagine. Roy merely wanted to know if he might beallowed to put a fresh paper on the walls of one of his two upper rooms. He'd get the paper at his own cost, and hang it at his own leisure, ifMr. Verner had no objection. 

"Of course I can have no objection to it, " replied Lionel. "You need nothave lost an afternoon's work, Roy, to come here to inquire that. Youmight have asked me when I saw you by the brick-field this morning. Infact, there was no necessity to mention it at all. "

"So I might, sir. But it didn't come into my mind at the moment to doso. It's poor Luke's room, and the missis, she goes on continual aboutthe state it's in, if he should come home. The paper's all hanging offit in patches, sir, as big as my two hands. It have got damp through notbeing used. "

"If it is in that state, and you like to find the time to hang thepaper, you may purchase it at my cost, " said Lionel, who was of too justa nature to be a hard landlord. 

"Thank ye, sir, " replied Roy, ducking his head. "It's well for us, as Ioften says, that you be our master at last, instead of the Mr. Massingbirds. "

"There was a time when you did not think so, Roy, if my memory serves merightly, " was the rebuke of Lionel. 

"Ah, sir, there's a old saying, 'Live and learn. ' That was in the dayswhen I thought you'd be a over strict master; we have got to know betternow, taught from experience. It was a lucky day for the Verner Prideestate when that lost codicil was brought to light! The Mr. Massingbirdsbe dead, it's true, but there's no knowing what might have happened; thelaw's full of quips and turns. With the codicil found, you can hold yourown again' the world. "

"Who told you anything about the codicil being found?" demanded Lionel. 

"Why, sir, it was the talk of the place just about the time we heard ofMr. Fred Massingbird's death. Folks said, whether he had died, orwhether he had not, you'd have come in all the same. T'other day, too, Iwas talking of it to Lawyer Matiss, and he said what a good thing itwas, that that there codicil was found. "

Lionel knew that a report of the turning up of the codicil had travelledto Deerham. It had never been contradicted. But he wondered to hear Roysay that Matiss had spoken of it. Matiss, himself, Tynn, and Mrs. Tynn, were the only persons who could have testified that the supposed codicilwas nothing but a glove. From the finding of that, the story hadoriginally got wind. 

"I don't know why Matiss should have spoken to you on the subject of thecodicil, " he remarked to Roy. 

"It's not much that Matiss talks, sir, " was the man's answer. "All hesaid was as he had got the codicil in safe keeping under lock and key. Just put to Matiss the simplest question, and he'll turn round and askwhat business it is of yours. "

"Quite right of him, too, " said Lionel. "Have you any news of your sonyet, Roy?"

Roy shook his head. "No, sir. I'm a-beginning to wonder now whetherthere ever will be news of him. "

After the man had departed, Lionel looked at his watch. There was justtime for a ride to Deerham Court before dinner. He ordered his horse, and mounted it, a cheque for three hundred pounds in his pocket. 

He rode quickly, musing upon what Matiss had said about the codicil--asstated by Roy. Could the deed have been found?--and Matiss forgotten toacquaint him with it. He turned his horse down the Belvedere Road, telling his groom to wait at the corner, and stopped before the lawyer'sdoor. The latter came out. 

"Matiss, is that codicil found?" demanded Lionel, bending down his headto speak. 

"What codicil, Mr. Verner?" returned Matiss, looking surprised. 

"_The_ codicil. The one that gave me the estate. Roy was with me justnow, and he said you stated to him that the codicil was found--that itwas safe under lock and key. "

The lawyer's countenance lighted up with a smile. "What a meddler thefellow is! To tell you the truth, sir, it rather pleases me to misleadRoy, and put him on the wrong scent. He comes here, pumping, trying toget what he can out of me: asking this, asking that, fishing outanything there is to fish. I recollect, he did say something about thecodicil, and I replied, 'Ay, it was a good thing it was found, and safeunder lock and key. ' He tries at the wrong handle when he pumps at me. "

"What is his motive for pumping at all?" returned Lionel. 

"There's no difficulty in guessing at that, sir. Roy would give his twoears to get into place again; he'd like to fill the same post to youthat he did to the late Mr. Verner. He thinks if he can hang about hereand pick up any little bit of information that may be let drop, andcarry it to you, that it might tell in his favour. He would like you todiscover how useful he could be. That is the construction I put uponit. "

"Then he wastes his time, " remarked Lionel, as he turned his horse. "Iwould not put power of any sort into Roy's hands, if he paid me indiamonds to do it. You can tell him so, if you like, Matiss. "

Arrived at Deerham Court, Lionel left his horse with his groom, andentered. The first person to greet his sight in the hall was LucyTempest. She was in white silk; a low dress, somewhat richly trimmedwith lace, and pearls in her hair. It was the first time that Lionel hadseen her since his return from London. He had been at his mother's onceor twice, but Lucy did not appear. They met face to face. Lucy's turnedcrimson, in spite of herself. 

"Are you quite well?" asked Lionel, shaking hands, his own pulsesbeating. "You are going out this evening, I see?"

He made the remark as a question, noticing her dress; and Lucy, gathering her senses about her, and relapsing into her calm composure, looked somewhat surprised. 

"We are going to dinner to Verner's Pride; I and Decima. Did you notexpect us?"

"I--did not know it, " he was obliged to answer. "Mrs. Verner mentionedthat some friends would dine with us this evening, but I was not awarethat you and Decima were part of them. I am glad to hear it. "

Lucy continued her way, wondering what sort of a household it could bewhere the husband remained in ignorance of his wife's expected guests. Lionel passed on to the drawing-room. 

Lady Verner sat in it. Her white gloves on her delicate hands as usual, her essence bottle and laced handkerchief beside her, Lionel offered herhis customary fond greeting, and placed the cheque in her hands. 

"Will that do, mother mine?"

"Admirably, Lionel. I am so much obliged to you. Things get behind-handin the most unaccountable manner, and then Decima comes to me with along face, and says here's this debt and that debt. It is quite a marvelto me how the money goes. Decima would like to put her accounts into myhands that I may look over them. The idea of my taking upon myself toexamine accounts! But how it is she gets into such debt, I cannotthink. "

Poor Decima knew only too well. Lionel knew it also; though, in his fondreverence, he would not hint at such a thing to his mother. LadyVerner's style of living was too expensive, and that was the cause. 

"I met Lucy in the hall, dressed. She and Decima are coming to dine atVerner's Pride, she tells me. "

"Did you not know it?"

"No. I have been out shooting all day. If Sibylla mentioned it to me, Iforgot it. "

Sibylla had not mentioned it. But Lionel would rather take any blame tohimself than suffer a shade of it to rest upon her. 

"Mrs. Verner called yesterday, and invited us. I declined for myself. Ishould have declined for Decima, but I did not think it right to depriveLucy of the pleasure, and she could not go alone. Ungrateful child!"apostrophised Lady Verner. "When I told her this morning I had acceptedan invitation for her to Verner's Pride, she turned the colour ofscarlet, and said she would rather remain at home. I never saw sounsociable a girl; she does not care to go out, as it seems to me. Iinsisted upon it for this evening. "

"Mother, why don't _you_ come?"

Lady Verner half turned from him. 

"Lionel, you must not forget our compact. If I visit your wife now andthen, just to keep gossiping tongues quiet, from saying that Lady Vernerand her son are estranged, I cannot do it often. "

"Were there any cause why you should show this disfavour to Sibylla--"

"Our compact, our compact, my son! You are not to urge me upon thispoint, do you remember? I rarely break my resolutions, Lionel. "

"Or your prejudices either, mother. "

"Very true, " was the equable answer of Lady Verner. 

Little more was said. Lionel found the time drawing on, and left. LadyVerner's carriage was already at the door, waiting to convey Decima andLucy Tempest to the dinner at Verner's Pride. As he was about to mounthis horse, Peckaby passed by, rolling a wheel before him. He touched hiscap. 

"Well, " said Lionel, "has the white donkey arrived yet?"

A contraction of anger, not, however, unmixed with mirth, crossed theman's face. 

"I wish it would come, sir, and bear her off on't!" was his heartyresponse. "She's more a fool nor ever over it, a-whining and a-piningall day long, 'cause she ain't at New Jerusalem. She wants to be inBedlam, sir; that's what she do! it 'ud do her more good nor t'other. "

Lionel laughed, and Peckaby struck his wheel with such impetus that itwent off at a tangent, and he had to follow it on the run. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

THE YEW-TREE ON THE LAWN. 

The rooms were lighted at Verner's Pride; the blaze from the chandeliersfell on gay faces and graceful forms. The dinner was over, its scene "abanquet hall deserted"; and the guests were filling the drawing-rooms. 

The centre of an admiring group, its chief attraction, sat Sibylla, herdress some shining material that glimmered in the light, and her hairconfined with a band of diamonds. Inexpressibly beautiful by this lightshe undoubtedly was, but she would have been more charming had she lesslaid herself out for attraction. Lionel, Lord Garle, Decima, and youngBitterworth--he was generally called young Bitterworth, incontradistinction to his father, who was "old Bitterworth"--formedanother 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 wasalone. She sat within the embrasure of the window, and was looking onthe calm scene outside. How different from the garish scene within! Seethe pure moonlight, side by side with the most brilliant light weearthly inventors can produce, and contrast them! Pure and fair as themoonlight looked Lucy, her white robes falling softly round her, and hergirlish face wearing a thoughtful expression. It was a remarkably lightnight; the terrace, the green slopes beyond it, and the clustering treesfar away, all standing out clear and distinct in the moon's rays. Suddenly her eye rested on a particular spot. She possessed a very clearsight, and it appeared to detect something dark there; which darksomething had not been there a few moments before. 

Lucy strained her eyes, and shaded them, and gazed again. Presently sheturned her head, and glanced at Lionel. An expression in her eyes seemedto call him, and he advanced. 

"What is it, Lucy? We must have a set of gallant men here to-night, toleave you alone like this!"

The compliment fell unheeded on her ear. Compliments from _him_! Lionelonly 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 looksremarkably 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 thisroom. "

Lionel could not see it. His eyes had not been watching so long asLucy's, consequently objects were less distinct. "I think you must bemistaken, Lucy, " he said. "No one would be at the trouble of standingthere to watch the room. It is too far off to see much, whatever may betheir 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 hidinghimself. His head is pushed out on this side, certainly, as though hewere watching these windows. I have seen the head move twice. "

Lionel placed his hands in the same position, and took a long gaze. "Ido think you are right, Lucy!" he suddenly exclaimed. "I saw somethingmove then. What business has any one to plant himself there?"

He stepped impulsively out as he spoke--the windows opened to theground--crossed the terrace, descended the steps, and turned on thelawn, to the left hand. A minute, and he was up at the tree. 

But he gained no satisfaction. The spreading tree, with its imposingtrunk--which trunk was nearly as thick as a man's body--stood allsolitary 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 treeswere thick, all stood cold and still in the white moonlight. But ofhuman disturber there was none. 

Lionel went back again, plucking a white geranium blossom and a sprigof 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 thetree. "

"It was not a false alarm, " she answered. "I saw him move away as youwent on to the lawn. He drew back towards the thicket. "

"Are you sure?" questioned Lionel, his tone betraying that he doubtedwhether she was not mistaken. 

"Oh, yes, I am sure, " said Lucy. "Do you know what my old nurse used totell me when I was a child?" she asked, lifting her face to his. "Shesaid I had the Indian sight, because I could see so far and sodistinctly. Some of the Indians have the gift greatly, you know. I amquite certain that I saw the object--and it looked like the figure of aman--go swiftly away from the tree across the grass. I could not see himto the end of the lawn, but he must have gone into the plantation. Idare say he saw you coming towards him. "

Lionel smiled. "I wish I had caught the spy. He should have answered tome for being there. Do you like verbena, Lucy?"

He laid the verbena and geranium on her lap, and she took them upmechanically. 

"I do not like spies, " she said, in a dreamy tone. "In India they havebeen known to watch the inmates of a house in the evening, and tobow-string one of those they were watching before the morning. You arelaughing! Indeed, my nurse used to tell me tales of it. "

"We have no spies in England--in that sense, Lucy. When I used the wordspy, it was with no meaning attached to it. It is not impossible but itmay be a sweetheart of one of the maid-servants, come up from Deerhamfor 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 thoughtstruck him. "You would prefer not to remain at the window, perhaps. Letme take you to a more sheltered seat. "

"Oh, no, thank you, " she answered impulsively. "I like being at thewindow. It is not of myself that I am thinking. " And Lionel moved away. 

"Is it not true that the fountains at Versailles played expressly forme?" eagerly asked Sibylla, as he approached her. "Sir Rufus won'tbelieve 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 neverplay for private individuals, Mr. Verner. At least, if they do, thingshave changed. "

"My wife thought they did, " returned Lionel, with a smile. "It was allthe same. "

"They did, Lionel, you know they did, " vehemently asserted Sibylla. "DeCoigny told me so; and he held authority in the Government. "

"I know that De Coigny told you so, and that you believed him, " answeredLionel, still smiling. "I did not believe him. "

Sibylla turned her head away petulantly from her husband. "You aresaying it to annoy me. I'll never appeal to you again. Sir Rufus, theydid play expressly for me. "

"It may be bad taste, but I'd rather see the waterworks at St. Cloudthan at Versailles, " observed a Mr. Gordon, some acquaintance that theyhad picked up in town, and to whom it had been Sibylla's pleasure togive an invitation. "Cannonby wrote me word last week from Paris----"

"Who?" sharply interrupted Sibylla. 

Mr. Gordon looked surprised. Her tone had betrayed something of eageralarm, not to say terror. 

"Captain Cannonby, Mrs. Verner. A friend of mine just returned fromAustralia. Business took him to Paris as soon as he landed. "

"Is he from the Melbourne port? Is his Christian name Lawrence?" shereiterated breathlessly. 

"Yes--to both questions, " replied Mr. Gordon. 

Sibylla shrieked, and lifted her handkerchief to her face. They gatheredround her in consternation. One offering smelling-salts, one running forwater. Lionel gently drew the handkerchief from her face. It was whiteas death. 

"What ails you, my dear?" he whispered. 

She seemed to recover her equanimity as suddenly as she had lost it, andthe 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. Whendid 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 rovingnature. I expect he got tired of the Australian world before fortune hadtime to find him out. "

Sibylla was soon deep in her flirtations again. It is not erroneous tocall them so. But they were innocent flirtations--the result of vanity. Lionel moved away. 

Another commotion. Some great long-legged fellow, without ceremony orwarning, came striding in at the window close to Lucy Tempest. Lucy'sthoughts had been buried--it is hard to say where, and her eyes werestrained to the large yew-tree upon the grass. The sudden entrancestartled her, albeit she was not of a nervous temperament. With Indianbow-strings in the mind, and fancied moonlight spies before the sight, ascream was inevitable. 

Whom should it be but Jan! Jan, of course. What other guest would belikely to enter in that unceremonious fashion? Strictly speaking, Janwas 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 andhave a look at you, " proclaimed unfashionable Jan to the room, butprincipally addressing Lionel and Sibylla. 

And so Jan had come, and stood there without the least shame, in drabtrousers, and a loose, airy coat, shaking hands with Sir Rufus, shakinghands with anybody who would shake hands with him. Sibylla lookeddaggers at Jan, and Lionel cross. Not from the same cause. Sibylla'sdispleasure was directed to Jan's style of evening costume; Lionel feltvexed with him for alarming Lucy. But Lionel never very long retaineddispleasure, and his sweet smile stole over his lips as he spoke. 

"Jan, I shall be endorsing Lady Verner's request--that you come into ahouse 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 youwant 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 hadtaken up his station on the lawn, underneath the yew-tree, " whisperedLionel. "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. "Iam not quite sure, mind, that I did see him; but Lucy is positive uponthe point. I went to the tree, but he had disappeared. It is ratherstrange why he should be watching. "

"He was watching this room attentively, " said Lucy, "and I saw him moveaway when Mr. Verner went on the lawn. I am sure he was a spy of somesort. "

"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 theopposite gate. I don't know where he could have sprung from, except fromthese grounds. That he was neither behind me nor before me as I came upthe road, I can declare. "

"Then it was Roy!" exclaimed Lionel. "He would have had about time toget into the road, from the time we saw him under the tree. That thefellow is prying into my affairs and movements, I was made aware ofto-day; but why he should watch my house I cannot imagine. We shall havean account to settle, Mr. Roy!"

Decima came up, asking what private matter they were discussing, andLionel and Lucy went over the ground again, acquainting her with whathad been seen. They stood together in a group, conversing in anundertone. By and by, Mrs. Verner passed, moving from one part of theroom to another, on the arm of Sir Rufus Hautley. 

"Quite a family conclave, " she exclaimed, with a laugh. "Decima, howevermuch you may wish for attention, it is scarcely fair to monopolise thatof Mr. Verner in his own house. If he forgets that he has guestspresent, you should not help him in the forgetfulness. "

"It would be well if all wished for attention as little as does MissVerner, " exclaimed Lord Garle. His voice rung out to the ends of theroom, and a sudden stillness fell upon it; his words may have been takenas a covert reproof to Mrs. Verner. They were not meant as such. Therewas no living woman of whom Lord Garle thought so highly as he thoughtof Decima Verner; and he had spoken in his mind's impulse. 

Sibylla believed he had purposely flung a shaft at her. And she flungone again--not at him, but at Decima. She was of a terribly jealousnature, and could bear any reproach to herself, better than that anotherwoman should be praised beside her. 

"When young ladies find themselves neglected, their charms wasted on thedesert air, they naturally do covet attention, although it be but abrother's. "

Perhaps the first truly severe glance that Lionel Verner ever gave hiswife he gave her then. Disdaining any defence off his sister, he stood, haughty, impassive, his lips drawn in, his eyes fixed sternly onSibylla. Decima remained quiet under the insult, save that she flushedscarlet. Lord Garle did not. Lord Garle spoke up again, in theimpetuosity of his open, honest nature. 

"I can testify that if Miss Verner is neglected, it is her own faultalone. 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 MissVerner might have been Lady Garle. Sibylla laughed a little laugh ofdisbelief, as she went onwards with Sir Rufus Hautley; and Lionelremained enshrined in his terrible mortification. That his wife shouldso have forgotten herself!

"I must be going off, " cried Jan, good-naturedly interrupting theunpleasant silence. 

"You have not long come, " said Lucy. 

"I didn't leave word where I was coming, and somebody may be going deadwhile 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 LadyVerner's. Lord Garle hastened to Decima, and Lionel took out LucyTempest. 

"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 himout of his place when you succeeded to Verner's Pride, and it is saidthat he cherishes vengeance. He may have been watching to-night for anopportunity to injure you. Take care of him. "

Lionel smiled as he looked at her. Her upturned face looked pale andanxious in the moonlight. Lionel could not receive the fear at all: hewould as soon have thought to dread the most improbable thingimaginable, as to dread this sort of violence, whether from Roy, or fromany one else. 

"There's no fear whatever, Lucy. "

"I know you will not see it for yourself, and that is the reason why Iam presumptive enough to suggest the idea to you. Pray be cautious! praytake care of yourself!"

He shook his head laughingly as he looked down upon her. "Thank youheartily all the same for your consideration, Lucy, " said he, and forthe very life of him he could not help pressing her hand warmer than wasneedful as he placed her in the carriage. 

They drove away. Lord Garle returned to the room; Lionel stood againstone 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 disturbedhim not; but that his wife had shown herself so entirely unlike a ladydid disturb him. In bitter contrast to Lucy did she stand out to hismind that night. He turned away, after some minutes, with an impatientmovement, as if he would fain throw remembrance and vexation from him, Lionel had himself chosen his companion in life, and none knew betterthan he that he must abide by it; none could be more firmly resolved todo his full duty by her in love. Sibylla was standing outside the windowalone. Lionel approached her, and gently laid his hand upon hershoulder. 

"Sibylla, what caused you to show agitation when Cannonby's name wasmentioned?"

"I told you, " answered Sibylla. "It is dreadful to be reminded of thatmiserable time. It was Cannonby, you know, who buried my husband. "

And before Lionel could say more, she had shaken his hand from hershoulder, and was back amidst her guests. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

MR. DAN DUFF IN CONVULSIONS. 

Jan had said somebody might be going dead while the parish was beingscoured for him; and, in point of fact, Jan found, on reaching home, that that undesirable consummation was not unlikely to occur. As youwill find also, if you will make an evening call upon Mrs. Duff. 

Mrs. Duff stood behind her counter, sorting silks. Not rich piece silksthat are made into gowns; Mrs. Duff's shop did not aspire to thatluxurious class of goods; but humble skeins of mixed sewing-silks, thatwere kept tied up in a piece of wash-leather. Mrs. Duff's head and acustomer's head were brought together over the bundle, endeavouring tofix upon a skein of a particular shade, by the help of the onegas-burner which flared away overhead. 

"Drat the silk!" said Mrs. Duff at length. "One can't tell which iswhich, by candle-light. The green looks blue, and the blue looks green. Look at them two skeins, Polly; which _is_ the green?"

Miss Polly Dawson, a showy damsel with black hair and a cherry-colourednet at the back of it--one of the family that Roy was pleased to termthe ill-doing Dawsons, took the two skeins in her hand. 

"Blest if I can tell!" was her answer. "It's for doing up mother's greensilk bonnet, so it won't do to take blue. You be more used to it nor me, Mrs. Duff. "

"My eyes never was good for sorting silks by this light, " responded Mrs. Duff. "I'll tell you what, Polly; you shall take 'em both. Your mothermust take the responsibility of fixing on one herself; or let her keep'em till the morning and choose it then. She should have sent bydaylight. You can bring back the skein you don't use to-morrow; but mindyou keep it clean. "

"Wrap 'em up, " curtly returned Miss Polly Dawson. 

Mrs. Duff was proceeding to do so, when some tall thin form, bearing alarge bundle, entered the shop in a fluster. It was Mrs. Peckaby. Shesat herself down on the only stool the shop contained, and let thebundle slip to the floor. 

"Give a body leave to rest a bit, Mother Duff! I be turned a'most insideout. "

"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Duff, while Polly Dawson surveyed herwith a stare. 

"There's a white cow in the pound. I can't tell ye the turn it give me, coming sudden upon it. I thought nothing less, at first glance, but itwas the white quadruple. "

"What! hasn't that there white donkey come yet?" demanded Polly Dawson;who, in conjunction with sundry others of her age and sex in thevillage, was not sparing of her free remarks to Mrs. Peckaby on thesubject, thereby aggravating that lady considerably. 

"You hold your tongue, Polly Dawson, and don't be brazen, if you canhelp it, " rebuked Mrs. Peckaby. "I was so took aback for the minute, that I couldn't neither stir nor speak, " she resumed to Mrs. Duff. "Butwhen I found it was nothing but a old strayed wretch of a pounded cow, Ia'most dropped with the disappointment. So I thought I'd come back hereand take a rest. Where's Dan?"

"Dan's out, " answered Mrs. Duff. 

"Is he? I thought he might have took this parcel down to Sykes's, andsaved me the sight o' that pound again and the deceiver in it. It's justmy luck!"

"Dan's gone up to Verner's Pride, " continued Mrs. Duff. "That fineFrench madmizel, as rules there, come down for some trifles thisevening, and took him home with her to carry the parcel. It's time hewas back, though, and more nor time. 'Twasn't bigger, neither, nor afarthing bun, but 'twas too big for _her_. Isn't it a-getting the seasonfor you to think of a new gownd, Mrs. Peckaby?" resumed Mother Duff, returning to business. "I have got some beautiful winter stuffs in. "

"I hope the only new gownd as I shall want till I gets to New Jerusalem, is the purple one I've got prepared for it, " replied Mrs. Peckaby. "Idon't think the journey's far off. I had a dream last night as I saw agreat crowd o' people dressed in white, a-coming out to meet me. I lookupon it as it's a token that I shall soon be there. "

"I wouldn't go out to that there New Jerusalem if ten white donkeyscome to fetch me!" cried Polly Dawson, tossing her head with scorn. "It_is_ a nice place, by all that I have heard! Them saints--"

A most appalling interruption. Snorting, moaning, sobbing, his breathcoming in gasps, his hair standing up on end, his eyes starting, and hisface ghastly, there burst in upon them Master Dan Duff. That he was inthe very height of terror, there could be no mistaking. To add to theconfusion, he flung his arms out as he came in, and his hand caught oneof the side panes of glass in the bow window and shattered it, thepieces falling amongst the displayed wares. Dan leaped in, caught holdof his mother with a spasmodic howl, and fell down on some bundles in acorner of the small shop. 

Mrs. Duff was dragged down with him. She soon extricated herself, andstared at the boy in very astonishment. However inclined to play tricksout of doors, Mr. Dan never ventured to play them, in. Polly Dawsonstared. Susan Peckaby, forgetting New Jerusalem for once, sprang off herstool and stared. But that his terror was genuine, and Mrs. Duff sawthat it was, Dan had certainly been treated then to that bugbear of hisdomestic life--a "basting. "

"What has took you now?" sharply demanded Mrs. Duff, partly incuriosity, partly in wrath. 

"I see'd a dead man, " responded Dan, and he forthwith fell intoconvulsions. 

They shook him, they pulled him, they pinched him. One laid hold of hishead, another of his feet; but, make nothing of him, could they. Theboy's face was white, his hands and arms were twitching, and froth wasgathering on his lips. By this time the shop was full. 

"Run across, one of you, " cried the mother, turning her face to thecrowd, "and see if you can find Mr. Jan Verner. "

CHAPTER XLIX. 

"I SEE'D A DEAD MAN!"

Jan Verner was turning in at his own door--the surgery--at a swingingpace. Jan's natural pace was a deliberate one; but Jan found so much todo, now he was alone in the business, that he had no resource but tomove at the rate of a steam engine. Otherwise he would never have gotthrough his day's work. Jan had tried one assistant, who had proved tobe more plague than profit, and Jan was better without him. MasterCheese, promoted now to tail-coats and turn-up collars, was coming on, and could attend to trifling cases. Master Cheese wished to be promotedalso to "Mister" Cheese; but he remained obstinately excessively short, and people would still call him "Master. " He appeared to grow in breadthinstead of height, and underwent, in consequence, a perpetual inwardmortification. Jan would tell him he should eat less and walk more; butthe advice was not taken. 

Jan Verner was turning into the surgery at a swinging pace, and came inviolent contact with Master Cheese, who was coming out at another sharppace. Jan rubbed his chest, and Cheese his head. 

"I say, Jan, " said he, "can't you look where your going?"

"Can't _you_ look?" returned Jan. "Where are you off to?"

"There's something the matter at Duff's. About a dozen came here in abody, wanting you. Bob says Dan Duff was dying. "

Jan turned his eyes on Bob, the surgery-boy. Bob answered the look--

"It's what they said, sir. They said as Dan Duff was a-dying anda-frothing at the mouth. It's about five minutes ago, sir. "

"Did you go over?" asked Jan of Cheese. "I saw a crowd round Mrs. Duff'sdoor. "

"No, I didn't. I am going now. I was indoors, having my supper. "

"Then you need not trouble yourself, " returned Jan. "Stop where you are, and digest your supper. "

He, Jan, was speeding off, when a fresh deputation arrived. Twentyanxious faces at the least, all in a commotion, their tongues goingtogether. "Dan was frothing dreadful, and his legs was twitchin' likeone in the epilepsies. "

"What has caused it?" asked Jan. "I saw him well enough an hour or twoago. "

"He see a dead man, sir; as it's said. We can't come to the bottom ofit, 'cause of his not answering no questions. He be too bad, he be. "

"He did see a dead man, " put in Polly Dawson, who made one of thedeputation, and was proud of being able to add her testimony to theasserted fact. "Leastways, he said he did. I was a-buying some silk, sir, in at Mother Duff's shop, and Susan Peckaby was in there too, shewas, a-talking rubbish about her white donkey, when Dan flounders inupon us in a state not to be told, a-frightening of us dreadful, anda-smashing in the winder with his arm. And he said he'd seen a deadman. "

Jan could not make sense of the tale. There was nobody lying dead inDeerham, that he knew of. He pushed the crowd round the door right andleft to get space to enter. The shop was pretty full already, butnumbers pushed in after Jan. Dan had been carried into the kitchen atthe back of the shop, and was laid upon the floor, a pillow under hishead. The kitchen was more crowded than the shop; there was notbreathing space; and room could hardly be found for Jan. 

The shop was Mrs. Duff's department. If she chose to pack it full ofpeople to the ceiling, it was her affair: but Jan made the kitchen, where the boy lay, his. 

"What's the matter with him, sir?" was the eager question to Jan, themoment he had cast his eyes on the invalid. 

"I may be able to ascertain as soon as I have elbow room, " replied Jan. "Suppose you give it me. Mrs. Duff may stop, but nobody else. "

Jan's easy words carried authority in their tone, and the company turnedtail and began to file out. 

"Couldn't you do with me in, as well as his mother, sir?" asked SusanPeckaby. "I was here when he came in, I was; and I knowed what it wasa'most afore he spoke. He have been frightened by that thing in thepound. Only a few minutes afore, it had turned my inside almost out. "

"No, I can't, " answered Jan. "I must have the room clear. Perhaps Ishall send away his mother. "

"I should ha' liked to know for sure, " meekly observed Susan Peckaby, preparing to resign herself to her fate. "I hope you'll ask him, sir, when he comes to, whether it were not that thing in the pound asfrightened him. I took it for some'at else, more's the grief! but itlooks, for all the world, like a ghost in the moonlight. "

"What is in the pound?" demanded Jan. 

"It's a white cow, " responded Susan Peckaby. "And it strikes me as it'sFarmer Blow's. He have got a white cow, you know, sir, like he have gota white pony, and they be always a-giving me a turn, one or t'other of'em. I'd like old Blow to be indicted for a pest, I would! a-keepingwhite animals to upset folks. It's not a week ago that I met that cow inthe road at dusk--strayed through a gap in the hedge. Tiresome beast, a-causing my heart to leap into my mouth!"

"If Dan have put himself into this state, and done all this damage, through nothing but seeing of a white cow, won't I baste him!"emphatically rejoined Mrs. Duff. 

Jan at length succeeded in getting the kitchen clear. But for some time, in spite of all his skill and attention--and he spared neither--he couldmake no impression upon the unhappy Dan. His mother's bed was made readyfor him--Dan himself sharing the accommodation of a dark closet in anordinary way, in common with his brothers--and Jan carried him up to it. There he somewhat revived, sufficiently to answer a question or tworationally. It must be confessed that Jan felt some curiosity upon thesubject; to suppose the boy had been thrown into that state, simply byseeing a white cow in the pound, was ridiculous. 

"What frightened you?" asked Jan. 

"I see'd a dead man, " answered the boy. "Oh, lor!"

"Well?" said Jan, with composure, "he didn't eat you. What is there in adead man to be alarmed at? I have seen scores--handled 'em too. Whatdead man was it?"

The boy pulled the bed-clothes over him, and moaned. Jan pulled themdown again. 

"Of course you can't tell! There's no dead man in Deerham. Was it in thechurchyard?"

"No. "

"Was it in the pound?" asked Jan triumphantly, thinking he had got itright this time. 

"No. "

The answer was an unexpected one. 

"Where was it, then?"

"Oh-o-o-o-oh!" moaned the boy, beginning to shake and twitch again. 

"Now, Dan Duff, this won't do, " said Jan. "Tell me quietly what you saw, and where you saw it. "

"I see'd a dead man, " reiterated Dan Duff. And it appeared to be all hewas capable of saying. 

"You saw a white cow on its hind legs, " returned Jan. "That's what yousaw. I am surprised at you, Dan Duff. I should have thought you more ofa man. "

Whether the reproof overcame Master Duff's nerves again, or theremembrance of the "dead man, " certain it was, that he relapsed into astate which rendered it imprudent, in Jan's opinion, to continue for thepresent the questioning. One more only he put--for a sudden thoughtcrossed him, which induced it. 

"Was it in the copse at Verner's Pride?"

"'Twas at the Willow Pool; he was a-walking round it. Oh-o-o-o-o-oh!"

Jan's momentary fear was dispelled. A night or two back there had been aslight affray between Lionel's gamekeeper and some poachers: and thenatural doubts arose whether anything fresh of the same nature had takenplace. If so, Dan Duff might have come upon one of them lying, dead orwounded. The words--"walking round the pool"--did away with this. Forthe present, Jan departed. 

But, if Dan's organs of disclosure are for the present in abeyance, there's no reason why we should not find out what we can for ourselves. You may be very sure that Deerham would not fail to do it. 

The French madmizel--as Mrs. Duff styled her, meaning, of course, Mademoiselle Benoite--had called in at Mrs. Duff's shop and made apurchase. It consisted--if you are curious to know--of pins and needles, and a staylace. Not a parcel that would have weighed her down, certainly, had she borne it herself; but it pleased her to demand thatDan should carry it for her. This she did, partly to display her ownconsequence, chiefly that she might have a companion home, forMademoiselle Benoite did not relish the walk alone by moonlight toVerner's Pride. Of course young Dan was at the beck and call of Mrs. Duff's customers, that being, as mademoiselle herself might have said, his _spécialité_. Whether a customer bought a parcel that would havefilled a van, or one that might have gone inside a penny thimble, MasterDan was equally expected to be in readiness to carry the purchase to itsdestination at night, if called upon. Master Dan's days being connectednow with the brick-fields, where his _spécialité_ appeared to be, to putlayers of clay upon his clothes. 

Accordingly, Dan started with Mademoiselle Benoite. She had been making'purchases at other places, which she had brought away with her--shoes, stationery, and various things, all of which were handed over to theporter, Dan. They arrived at Verner's Pride in safety, and Dan wasordered to follow her in, and deposit his packages on the table of theapartment that was called the steward's room. 

"One, two, three, four, " counted Mademoiselle Benoite, with Frenchcaution, lest he should have dropped any by the way. "You go outsidenow, Dan, and I bring you something from my pocket for your trouble. "

Dan returned outside accordingly, and stood gazing at the laundrywindows, which were lighted up. Mademoiselle dived in her pocket, tooksomething from thence, which she screwed carefully up in a bit ofnewspaper, and handed it to Dan. Dan had watched the process in a glowof satisfaction, believing it could be nothing less than a silversixpence. How much more it might prove, Dan's aspirations were afraid toanticipate. 

"There!" said Mademoiselle, when she put it into his hand. "Now you cango back to your mother. "

She shut the door in his face somewhat inhospitably, and Dan eagerlyopened his _cadeau_. It contained--two lumps of fine white sugar. 

"Mean old cat!" burst forth Dan. "If it wasn't that mother 'ud baste me, I'd never bring a parcel for her again, not if she bought up the shop. Wouldn't I like to give all the French a licking?"

Munching his sugar wrathfully, he passed across the yard, and out at thegate. There he hesitated which way home he should take, as he hadhesitated that far gone evening, when he had come up upon the errand topoor Rachel Frost. More than four years had elapsed since then, and Danwas now fourteen; but he was a young and childish boy of his age, whichmight be owing to the fact of his being so kept under by his mother. 

"I have a good mind to trick her!" soliloquised he; alluding, it must beowned, to that revered mother. "She wouldn't let me go out to BillHook's to-night; though I telled her as it wasn't for no nonsense Iwanted to see him, but about that there gray ferret. I will, too! I'llgo back the field way, and cut down there. She'll be none the wiser. "

Now, this was really a brave resolve for Dan Duff. The proposed roadwould take him past the Willow Pool; and he, in common with othertimorous spirits, had been given to eschew that place at night, sincethe end of Rachel. It must be supposed that the business touching thegray ferret was one of importance, for Dan to lose sight of his usualfears, and turn towards that pool. 

Not once, from that time to this, had Dan Duff taken this road alone atnight. From that cause probably, no sooner had he now turned into thelane, than he began to think of Rachel. He would have preferred to thinkof anything else in the world; but he found, as many others are obligedto find, that unpleasant thoughts cannot be driven away at will. It wasnot so much that the past night of misfortune was present to him, asthat he feared to meet the ghost of Rachel. 

He went on, glancing furtively on all sides, his face and his hairgrowing hotter and hotter. There, on his right, was the gate throughwhich he had entered the field to give chase to the supposed cat; there, on the left, was the high hedge; before him lay the length of lanetraversed that evening by the tall man, who had remained undiscoveredfrom that hour to this. Dan could see nothing now; no tall man, no cat;even the latter might have proved a welcome intruder. He glanced up atthe calm sky, at the bright moon riding overhead. The night wasperfectly still; a lovely night, could Dan only have kept the ghosts outof his mind. 

Suddenly a horse, in the field on the other side the hedge, set up aloud neigh, right in Dan's ear. Coming thus unexpectedly, it startledDan above everything. He half resolved to go back, and turned round andlooked the way he had come. But he thought of the gray ferret, andplucked up some courage and went on again, intending, the moment he camein sight of the Willow Pool, to make a dash past at his utmost speed. 

The intention was not carried out. Clambering over the gate which led tothe enclosure, a more ready way to Dan than opening it, he was broughtwithin view of the pool. There it was, down in the dreary lower part, near the trees. The pool itself was distinct enough, lying to the right, and Dan involuntarily looked towards it. Not to have saved his life, could Dan have helped looking. 

Susan Peckaby had said to Jan, that her heart leaped into her mouth atthe sight of the white cow in the pound. Poor Dan Duff might have saidthat his heart leaped right out of him, at sight now of the WillowPool. For there was some shadowy figure moving round it. 

Dan stood powerless. But for the gate behind him he would have turnedand ran; to scramble back over that, his limbs utterly refused. Thedelay caused him, in spite of his fear, to discern the very obviousfact, that the shadowy figure was not that of a woman habited inwhite--as the orthodox ghost of Rachel ought to have been--but a man's, wearing dark clothes. There flashed into Dan's remembrance the frequentnightly visits of Robin Frost to the pond, bringing with it a ray ofrelief. 

Robin had been looked upon as little better than a lunatic since themisfortune; but, to Dan Duff, he appeared in that moment worth hisweight in gold. Robin's companionship was as good as anybody's to wardoff the ghostly fears, and Dan set off, full speed, towards him. To goright up to the pond would take him a few yards out of his way to BillHook's. What of that? To exchange words with a human tongue, Dan, inthat moment of superstitious fright, would have gone as many miles. 

He had run more than half the intervening distance, when he broughthimself to a halt. It had become evident to Dan's sight that it was notRobin Frost. Whoever it might be, he was a head and shoulders tallerthan Robin; and Dan moved up more quietly, his eyes strained forward inthe moonlight. A suspicion came over him that it might be Mr. Verner;Dan could not, at the moment, remember anybody else so tall, unless itwas Mr. Jan. The figure stood now with its back to him; apparentlygazing into the pool. Dan advanced with slow steps; if it was Mr. Verner, he would not presume to intrude upon him; but when he camenearly close, he saw that it bore no resemblance to the figure of Mr. Verner. Slowly, glidingly, the figure turned round; turned its faceright upon Dan, full in the rays of the bright moon; and the most awfulyell you ever heard went forth upon the still night air. 

It came from Dan Duff. What could have been its meaning? Did he think hesaw the ghost, which he had been looking out for the lasthalf-hour--poor Rachel's?--saw it beyond this figure which had turnedupon him? Dan alone knew. That he had fallen into the most appallingterror, was certain. His eyes were starting, the drops of perspirationpoured off him, and his hair rose up on end. The figure--just as if ithad possessed neither sight nor hearing, neither sense nor sympathy forhuman sound--glided noiselessly away; and Dan went yelling on. 

Towards home now. All thought of Bill Hook and the gray ferret was gone. Away he tore, the nearest way, which took him past the pound. He neversaw the white cow: had the cow been a veritable ghost, Dan had not seenit then. The yells subsiding into moans, and the perspiration into feverheat, he gained his mother's, and broke the window, as you have heard, in passing in. 

Such were the particulars; but as yet they were not known. The firstperson to elicit them was Roy the bailiff. 

After Jan Verner had departed, saying he should be back by and by, andgiving Mrs. Duff strict orders to keep the boy quiet, to allow nobodynear him but herself, and, above all, no questioning, Mrs. Duff quittedhim, "that he might get a bit o' sleep, " she said. In point of fact, Mrs. Duff was burning to exercise her gossiping powers with those othergossipers below. To them she descended; and found Susan Peckaby holdingforth upon the subject of the white cow. 

"You be wrong, Susan Peckaby, " said Mrs. Duff, "It warn't the white cowat all; Dan warn't a-nigh the pound. He told Mr. Jan so. "

"Then what was it?" returned Susan Peckaby. 

One of the present auditors was Roy the bailiff. He had only recentlypushed in, and had stood listening in silence, taking note of thevarious comments and opinions. As silently, he moved behind the group, and was stealing up the stairs. Mrs. Duff placed herself before him. 

"Where be you a-going, Mr. Roy? Mr. Jan said as not a soul was to goa-nigh him to disturb him with talk. A nice thing, it 'ud be, for it tosettle on his brain!"

"I ain't a-going to disturb him, " returned Roy. "I have seen somethingmyself to-night that is not over-kind. I'd like to get a inkling if it'sthe same that has frightened him. "

"Was it in the pound?" eagerly asked Mrs. Peckaby. 

"The pound be smoked!" was the polite answer vouchsafed by Roy. "Thee'llgo mad with th' white donkey one of these days. "

"There can't be any outlet to it, but one, " observed Mrs. Chuff, theblacksmith's wife, giving her opinion in a loud key. "He must ha' seenRachel Frost's ghost. "

"Have _you_ been and seen that to-night, Mr. Roy?" cried Susan Peckaby. 

"Maybe I have, and maybe I haven't, " was Roy's satisfactory reply, "AllI say is, I've seen something that I'd rather not have seen; somethingthat 'ud have sent all you women into fits. 'Twarn't unlike Rachel, and'twere clothed in white. I'll just go and take a look at Dan, MotherDuff. No fear o' my disturbing him. "

Mother Duff, absorbed with her visitors, allowed him to go on withoutfurther impediment. The first thing Roy did upon getting upstairs, wasto shut the chamber door; the next, to arouse and question the sufferingDan. Roy succeeded in getting from him the particulars already related, and a little more; insomuch that Dan mentioned the name which the deadman had borne in life. 

Roy sat and stared at him after the revelation, keeping silence. It mayhave been that he was digesting the wonder; it may have been that he wasdeliberating upon his answer. 

"Look you here, Dan Duff, " said he, by and by, holding the shaking boyby the shoulder. "You just breathe that name again to living mortal, andsee if you don't get hung up by the neck for it. 'Twas nothing butRachel's ghost. Them ghosts takes the form of anything that it pleases, 'em to take; whether it's a dead man's, or whether it's a woman's, whatdo they care? There's no ghost but Rachel's 'ud be a-hovering over thatpond. Where be your senses gone, not to know that?"

Poor Dan's senses appeared to be wandering somewhere yet; they certainlywere not in him. He shook and moaned, and finally fell into the samesort of stupor as before. Roy could make nothing further of him, and hewent down. 

"Well, " said he to the assemblage, "I've got it out of him. The minutehe saw me, he stretched his arm out--'Mr. Roy, ' says he, 'I'm sick tounburden myself to somebody'; and he up and told. He's fell off againnow, like one senseless, and I question if he'd remember telling me. "

"And what was it? And what was it?" questioned the chorus. "Rachel'sghost?"

"It was nothing less, you may be sure, " replied Roy, his tone expressiveof contempt that they should have thought it could be anything less. "The young idiot must take and go by the pond on this bright night, andin course he saw it. Right again' his face, he says, it appeared; therewasn't no mistaking of it. It was a-walking round and round the pool. "

Considerable shivering in the assembly. Polly Dawson, who was on itsoutskirts, shrieked, and pushed into its midst, as if it were a saferplace. The women drew into a closer circle, and glanced round at animaginary ghost behind their shoulders. 

"Was it that as you saw yourself to-night, Mr. Roy?"

"Never mind me, " was Roy's answer. "I ain't one to be startled to deathat sight of a sperit, like boys and women is. I had my pill in what Isaw, I can tell ye. And my advice to ye all is, keep within your owndoors after nightfall. "

Without further salutation, Roy departed. The women, with one accord, began to make for the staircase. To contemplate one who had just been inactual contact with the ghost--which some infidels had persistentlyasserted throughout was nothing but a myth--was a sight not to bemissed. But they were driven back again. With a succession of yells, thelike of which had never been heard, save at the Willow Pond that night, Dan appeared leaping down upon them, his legs naked and his short shirtflying behind him. To be left alone, a prey to ghosts or theirremembrances, was more than the boy, with his consciousness upon him, could bear. The women yelled also, and fell back one upon another; not afew being under the impression that it was the ghost itself. 

What was to be done with him? Before the question was finally decided, Mrs. Bascroft, the landlady of the Plough and Harrow, who had made oneof the company, went off to her bar, whence she hastened back again withan immense hot tumbler, three parts brandy, one part water, the whole ofwhich was poured down the throat of Dan. 

"There's nothing like it for restoring folks after a fright, " remarkedMrs. Bascroft. 

The result of the dose was, that Dan Duff subsided into a state of realstupor, so profound and prolonged that even Jan began to doubt whetherhe would awake from it. 

CHAPTER L. 

MR. AND MRS. VERNER. 

Lionel Verner sat over his morning letters, bending upon one of them aperplexed brow. A claim which he had settled the previous spring--atleast, which he believed had been settled--was now forwarded to himagain. That there was very little limit to his wife's extravagance, hehad begun to know. 

In spite of Sibylla's extensive purchases made in Paris at the time oftheir marriage, she had contrived by the end of the following winter torun up a tolerable bill at her London milliner's. When they had gone totown in the early spring, this bill was presented to Lionel. Fourhundred and odd pounds. He gave Sibylla a cheque for its amount, andsome gentle, loving words of admonition at the same time--not to spendhim out of house and home. 

A second account from the same milliner had arrived this morning--beendelivered to him with other London letters. Why it should have been sentto him, and not to his wife, he was unable to tell--unless it was meantas a genteel hint that payment would be acceptable. The whole amount wasfor eleven hundred pounds, but part of this purported to be "To billdelivered"--four hundred and odd pounds--the precise sum which Lionelbelieved to have been paid. Eleven hundred pounds! and all the otherclaims upon him! No wonder he sat with a bent brow. If things went on atthis rate, Verner's Pride would come to the hammer. 

He rose, the account in his hand, and proceeded to his wife'sdressing-room. Among other habits, Sibylla was falling into that ofindolence, scarcely ever rising to breakfast now. Or, if she rose, shedid not come down. Mademoiselle Benoite came whisking out of a side roomas he was about to enter. 

"Madame's toilette is not made, sir, " cried she, in a tart tone, as ifshe 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 silkdressing-gown thrown on, and her feet were thrust into blue quiltedslippers, sat Sibylla, before a good fire. She leaned in an easy-chair, reading; a miniature breakfast service of Sèvres china, containingchocolate, on a low table at her side. Some people like to read a wordor two of the Bible, as soon as conveniently may be, after getting up inthe morning. Was that good book the study of Sibylla? Not at all. Herstudy was a French novel. By dint of patience, and the assistance ofMademoiselle 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 goneshooting with the rest?"

"I did not go this morning, " he answered, closing the door andapproaching her. 

"Have you taken breakfast?" she asked. 

"Breakfast has been over a long while. Were I you, Sibylla, when I hadguests staying in the house, I should try and rise to breakfast withthem. "

"Oh, you crafty Lionel! To save you the trouble of presiding. Thankyou, " she continued good-humouredly, "I am more comfortable here. Whatis 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 Deerhamlast night, and brought him home to carry her parcels. In going backagain, he saw, as he says, Rachel Frost's ghost, and it terrified himout of his senses. Old Roy saw it too, and the news has travelled uphere. "

Sibylla laughed as she spoke. Lionel looked vexed. 

"They are very stupid, " he said. "A pity but they kept such stories tothemselves. If they were only as quiet as poor Rachel's ghost is, itmight be better for some of them. "

"Of course _you_ would wish it kept quiet, " said Sibylla, in a tone fullof 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 hehad not gone thither to dispute about ghosts. 

"Sibylla, " he gravely said, putting the open account into her hand, "Ihave received this bill this morning. "

Sibylla ran her eyes over it with indifference; first at the bill'shead, to see whence it came, next at its sum total. 

"What an old cheat! Eleven hundred pounds! I am sure I have not had thehalf. "

Lionel pointed to the part "bill delivered. " "Was that not paid in thespring?"

"How can I recollect?" returned Sibylla, speaking as carelessly asbefore. 

"I think you may recollect if you try. I gave you a cheque for theamount. "

"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'tthink how fast money goes in London, Lionel. "

The avowal proved only what he suspected. Nevertheless it hurt himgreatly--grieved him to his heart's core. Not so much the spending ofthe money, as the keeping the fact from him. What a lack of goodfeeling, of confidence, it proved. 

He bent towards her, speaking gently, kindly. Whatever might be herfaults to him, her provocations, he could never behave otherwise to herthan as a thorough gentleman, a kind husband. 

"It was not right to use that cheque, Sibylla. It was made out in MadameLebeau's name, and should have been paid to her. But why did you nottell me?"

Sibylla shrugged her shoulders in place of answer. She had picked upmany such little national habits of Mademoiselle Benoite's. Veryconspicuous just then was the upright line on Lionel's brow. 

"The amount altogether is, you perceive, eleven hundred pounds, " hecontinued. 

"Yes, " said Sibylla. "She's a cheat, that Madame Lebeau. I shall makeBenoite write her a French letter, and tell her so. "

"It must be paid. But it is a great deal of money. I cannot continue topay 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 adegree less than you have, " he gravely said. "Part of the revenues ofVerner'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'sPride would have been his and mine, and never yours at all. "

"Hush, Sibylla! You don't know how these allusions hurt me, " heinterrupted, 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 aremine, Sibylla, and mine are yours. I only tell you the fact--and a factit is--that our income will not stand these heavy calls upon it. Were Ito show you how much you have spent in dress since we were married--whatwith Paris, London, and Heartburg--the sum total would frighten you. "

"You should not keep the sum total, " resentfully spoke Sibylla. "Why doyou 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 lookupon Verner's Pride as mine, more than yours; if it had not been for thedeath of my husband, you would never have had it. "

Inexpressibly vexed--vexed beyond the power to answer, for he would nottrust himself to answer--Lionel prepared to quit the room. He began towish he had not had Verner's Pride, if this was to be its domesticpeace. Sibylla petulantly threw the French book from her lap upon thetable, and it fell down with its page open. 

Lionel's eyes caught its title, and a flush, not less deep than thepreceding flush, darkened his brow. He laid his open palm upon the pagewith an involuntary movement, as if he would guard it from the eyes ofhis 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 forit 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 tome! Don't say you are never selfish. "

"Sibylla! What is fit for me to read may be most unfit for you. I readthe book when I was a young man; I would not read it now. Is itBenoite's?" he inquired, seeing the name in the first page. 

"Yes, it is. "

Lionel closed the book. "Promise me, Sibylla, that you will not attemptto read more of it. Give it her back at once, and tell her to send itout of the house, or to keep it under lock and key while it remainswithin it. "

Sibylla hesitated. 

"Is it so very hard a promise?" he tenderly asked. "I would do a greatdeal more for you. "

"Yes, Lionel, I will promise, " she replied, a better feeling coming overher. "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 ofthe nature of the book, she had not suffered you to produce it. "

Mademoiselle went away, her skirts jerking. Lionel bent down to hiswife. 

"You know that it _pains_ me to find fault, Sibylla, " he fondlywhispered. "I have ever your welfare and happiness at heart. Moreanxiously, I think, than you have mine. "

CHAPTER LI. 

COMMOTION IN DEERHAM. 

Lionel Verner was strolling out later in the day, and met theshooting-party coming home. After congratulating them on their goodsport, he was turning home with them, when the gamekeeper intimated thathe should be glad to speak a word to him in private. Upon which, Lionellet the gentlemen go on. 

"What is it, Broom?" asked he. 

"I'm much afeared, sir, if thing's are not altered, that there'll bemurder committed some night, " answered Broom, without circumlocution. 

"I hope not, " replied Lionel. "Are you and the poachers again at issue?"

"It's not about the poachers, hang 'em! It's about Robin Frost, sir. What on earth have come to him I can't conceive. This last few nights hehave took to prowling out with a gun. He lays himself down in the copse, or a ditch, or the open field--no matter where--and there he stops, onthe watch, with his gun always pointed. "

"On the watch for what?" asked Lionel. 

"He best knows himself, sir. He's going quite cracked, it's my belief;he have been half-way to it this long while. Sometimes he's trailingthrough the brushwood on all fours, the gun ever pointed; but mostlyhe's posted on the watch. He'll get shot for a poacher, or some of thepoachers will shoot him, as sure as it's a gun that he carries. "

"What can be his motive?" mused Lionel. 

"I'm inclined to think, sir, though he is Robin Frost, that he's afterthe birds, " boldly returned Broom. 

"Then rely upon it that you think wrong, Broom, " rebuked Lionel, "RobinFrost would no more go out poaching, than I should go out thieving. "

"I saw him trailing along last night in the moonlight, sir. I saw hisold father come up and talk to him, urging him to go home, as it seemedto me. But he couldn't get him; and the old man had to hobble backwithout Robin. Robin stopped in his cold berth on the ground. "

"I did not think old Matthew was capable of going out at night. "

"He did last night, sir; that's for certain. It was not far; only downaway by the brick-kilns. There's a tale going abroad that Dan Duff wassent into mortal fright by seeing something that he took to be Rachel'sghost; my opinion is, that he must have met old Frost in his whitesmock-frock, and took him for a ghost. The moon did cast an uncommonwhite shade last night. Though old Frost wasn't a-nigh the Willow Pool, nor Robin neither, and that's where they say Dan Duff got his fright. Formerly, Robin was always round that pool, but lately he has changedhis beat. Anyhow, sir, perhaps you'd be so good as drop a warning toRobin of the risk he runs. He may mind you. "

"I will, " said Lionel. 

The gamekeeper touched his hat, and walked away. Lionel considered thathe might as well give Robin the warning then; and he turned towards thevillage. Before fairly entering it, he had met twenty talkative persons, who gave him twenty different versions of the previous night's doings, touching Dan Duff. 

Mrs. Duff was at her door when Lionel went by. She generally was at herdoor, unless she was serving customers. He stopped to accost her. 

"What's the truth of this affair, Mrs. Duff?" asked he. "I have heardmany reports of it?"

Mrs. Duff gave as succinct an account as it was in her nature to give. Some would have told it in a third of the time: but Lionel had patience;he was in no particular hurry. 

"I have been one of them to laugh at the ghost, sir a-saying that itnever was Rachel's, and that it never walked, " she added. "But I'llnever do so again. Roy, he see it, as well as Dan. "

"Oh! he saw it, too, did he, " responded Lionel, with a good-naturedsmile of mockery. "Mrs. Duff, you ought to be too old to believe inghosts, " he more seriously resumed. "I am sure Roy is, whatever he maychoose to say. "

"If it was no ghost, sir, what could have put our Dan into that awfulfright? Mr. Jan doesn't know as he'll overget it at all. He's a-lyingwithout a bit of conscientiousness on my bed, his eyes shut, and hisbreath a-coming hard. "

"Something frightened him, no doubt. The belief in poor Rachel's ghosthas been so popular, that every night fright is attributed to that. Whowas it went into a fainting fit in the road, fancying Rachel's ghost waswalking down upon them; and it proved afterwards to have been only themiller's man with a sack of flour on his back?"

"Oh, that!" slightingly returned Mrs. Duff. "It was that stupid MotherGrind, before they went off with the Mormons. She'd drop at her shadder, sir, she would. "

"So would some of the rest of you, " said Lionel. "I am sorry to hearthat Dan is so ill. "

"Mr. Jan's in a fine way over him, sir. Mrs. Bascroft gave him just ataste of weak brandy and water, and Mr. Jan, when he come to know it, said we might just as well have give him pison; and he'd not answer forhis life or his reason. A pretty thing it'll be for Deerham, if there'smore lives to be put in danger, now the ghost have took to walk again!Mr. Bourne called in just now, sir, to learn the rights of it. He wentup and see Dan; but nothing could he make of him. Would you be pleasedto go up and take a look at him, sir?"

Lionel declined, and wished Mrs. Duff good-day. 

He could do the boy no good, and had no especial wish to look at him, although he had been promoted to the notoriety of seeing a ghost. A fewsteps farther he encountered Jan. 

"What is it that's the matter with the boy?" asked Lionel. 

"He had a good fright; there's no doubt about that, " replied Jan. "Saw awhite cow on its hind legs, it's my belief. That wouldn't have beenmuch. The boy would have been all right by now, but the women drenchedhim with brandy, and made him stupidly drunk. He'll be better thisevening. I can't stop, Lionel; I am run off my legs to-day. "

The commotion in the village increased as the evening approached. Janknew that young Dan would be well--save for any little remembrance ofthe fright which might remain--when the fumes of the brandy had goneoff; But he wisely kept his own counsel, and let the public think he wasin danger. Otherwise, a second instalment of the brandy might have beenadministered behind Jan's back. To have a boy dying of fright fromseeing a ghost was a treat in the marvellous line, which Deerham hadnever yet enjoyed. There had been no agitation like unto it, since theday of poor Rachel Frost. 

Brave spirits, some of them! They volunteered to go out and meet theapparition. As twilight approached you could not have got into Mrs. Duff's shop, for there was the chief gathering. Arguments were beingused to prove that, according to all logic, if a ghost appeared onenight, it was safe to appear a second. 

"Who'll speak up to go and watch for it?" asked Mrs. Duff. "I can't. Ican't leave Dan. Sally Green's a-sitting up by him now; for Mr. Jan saysif he's left again, he shall hold me responsible. It don't stand toreason as I can leave Sally Green in charge of the shop, though I canleave her a bit with Dan. Not but what I'd go alone to the pond, andstop there; _I_ haven't got no fear. "

It singularly happened that those who were kept at home by domestic orother duties, had no fear; they, to hear them talk, would rather haveenjoyed an encounter _solus_ with the ghost, than not. Those who couldplead no home engagement professed themselves willing to undertake theexpedition in company; but freely avowed they would not go alone for theworld. 

"Come! who'll volunteer?" asked Mrs. Duff. "It 'ud be a greatsatisfaction to see the form it appears in, and have that set at rest. Dan, he'll never be able to tell, by the looks of him now. "

"I'll go for one, " said bold Mrs. Bascroft. "And them as joins me shalleach have a good stiff tumbler of some'at hot afore starting, to prime'em again' the cold. "

Whether it was the brave example set, or whether it was the promiseaccompanying it, certain it was, that there was no lack of volunteersnow. A good round dozen started, filling up the Plough and Harrow bar, as Mrs. Bascroft dealt out her treat with no niggard hand. 

"What's a-doing now?" asked Bascroft, a stupid-looking man with red haircombed straight down his forehead, and coloured shirt-sleeves, surveyingthe inroad on his premises with surprise. 

"Never you mind, " sharply reproved his better half. "These ladies is myvisitors, and if I choose to stand treat round, what's that to you? Youtakes _your_ share o' liquor, Bascroft. "

Bascroft was not held in very great estimation by the ladies generally, and they turned their backs upon him. 

"We are a-going out to see the ghost, if you must know, Bascroft, " saidSusan Peckaby, who made one of the volunteers. 

Bascroft stared. "What a set of idiots you must be!" grunted he. "Mr. Jan says as Dan Duff see nothing but a white cow; he telled me sohisself. Be you a-thinking to meet that there other white animal on yourroad, Mrs. Peckaby?"

"Perhaps I am, " tartly returned Mrs. Peckaby. 

"One 'ud think so. _You_ can't want to go out to meet ghostesses; yoube a-going out to your saints at New Jerusalem. I'd whack that theredonkey for being so slow, when he did come, if I was you. "

Hastening away from Bascroft and his aggravating tongue, the expedition, having drained their tumblers, filed out. Down by the pound--relievednow of its caged inmate--went they, on towards the Willow Pond. Thetumblers had made them brave. The night was light, as the preceding onehad been; the ground looked white, as if with frost, and the air wascold. The pond in view, they halted, and took a furtive glance, beginning to feel somewhat chill. So far as these half glances allowedthem to judge, there appeared to be nothing near to it, nothing upon itsbrink. 

"It's of no good marching right up to it, " said Mrs. Jones, the baker'swife. "The ghost mightn't come at all, if it saw all us there. Let's getinside the trees. "

Mrs. Jones meant inside the grove of trees. The proposition was mostacceptable, and they took up their position, the pond in view, peepingout, and conversing in a whisper. By and by they heard the church clockstrike eight. 

"I wish it'ud make haste, " exclaimed Susan Peckaby, with someimpatience. "I don't never like to be away from home long together, forfear of that there blessed white animal arriving. "

"He'd wait, wouldn't he?" sarcastically rejoined Polly Dawson. "He'd----"

A prolonged hush--sh--sh! from the rest restored silence. Something wasrustling the trees at a distance. They huddled closer together, andcaught hold one of another. 

Nothing appeared. The alarm went off. And they waited, without result, until the clock struck nine. The artificial strength within them hadcooled by that time, their ardour had cooled, and they were feelingchill and tired. Susan Peckaby was upon thorns, she said, and urgedtheir departure. 

"_You_ can go if you like, " was the answer. "Nobody wants to keep you. "

Susan Peckaby measured the distance between the pond and the way she hadto go, and came to the determination to risk it. 

"I'll make a rush for it, I think, " said she. "I sha'n't see nothing. For all I know, that quadruple may be right afore our door now. Ifhe----"

Susan Peckaby stopped, her voice subsiding into a shriek. She, and thosewith her, became simultaneously aware that some white figure was bearingdown upon them. The shrieks grew awful. 

It proved to be Roy in his white fustian jacket. Roy had never had theprivilege of hearing a dozen women shriek in concert before; at least, like this. His loud derisive laugh was excessively aggravating. Whatwith that, what with the fright his appearance had really put them in, they all tore off, leaving some hard words for him; and never stopped totake breath until they burst into the shop of Mrs. Duff. 

It was rather an ignominious way of returning, and Mrs. Duff did notspare her comments. If she had went out to meet the ghost, sh'd ha'stopped till the ghost came, _she_ would! Mrs. Jones rejoined that themwatched-for ghosts, as she had heered, never did come--which she hadsaid so afore she went out!

Master Dan, considerably recovered, was downstairs then. Rather pale andshaky, and accommodated with a chair and pillow, in front of the kitchenfire. The expedition pressed into the kitchen, and five hundredquestions were lavished upon the boy. 

"What was it dressed in, Dan? Did you get a good sight of her face, Dan?Did it look just as Rachel used to look? Speak up, Dan. "

"It warn't Rachel at all, " replied Dan. 

This unexpected assertion brought a pause of discomfiture. "He's headain't right yet, " observed Mrs. Duff apologetically; "and that's whyI've not asked him nothing. "

"Yes, it is right, mother, " said Dan. "I never see Rachel last night. Inever said as I did. "

Another pause--spent in contemplating Dan. "I knowed a case like this, once afore, " observed old Miss Till, who carried round the milk toDeerham. "A boy got a fright, and they couldn't bring him to at all. Epsum salts did it at last. Three pints of 'em they give, I think itwas, and that brought his mind round. "

"It's a good remedy, " acquiesced Mrs. Jones. "There's nothing likeplenty of Epsum salts for boys. I'd try 'em on him, Mother Duff. "

"Dan, dear, " said Susan Peckaby insinuatingly--for she had come in alongwith the rest, ignoring for the moment what might be waiting at herdoor--"was it in the pound as you saw Rachel's ghost?"

"'Twarn't Rachel's ghost as I did see, " persisted Dan. 

"Tell us who it was, then?" asked she, humouring him. 

The boy answered. But he answered below his breath; as if he scarcelydared to speak the name aloud. His mother partially caught it. 

"Whose?" she exclaimed, in a sharp voice, her tone changing. And Danspoke a little louder. 

"It was Mr. Frederick Massingbird's!"

CHAPTER LII. 

MATTHEW FROST'S NIGHT ENCOUNTER. 

Old Matthew Frost sat in his room at the back of the kitchen. It was hisbedroom and sitting-room combined. Since he had grown feeble, the bustleof the kitchen and of Robin's family disturbed him, and he sat much inhis chamber, they frequently taking his dinner in to him. 

A thoroughly comfortable arm-chair had Matthew. It had been the gift ofLionel Verner. At his elbow was a small round table, of very dark wood, rubbed to brightness. On that table Matthew's large Bible mightgenerally be found open, and Matthew's spectacled eyes bending over it. But the Bible was closed to-day. He sat in deep thought. His handsclasped upon his stick, something after the manner of old Mr. Verner;and his eyes fixed through the open window at the September sun, as itplayed on the gooseberry and currant bushes in the cottage garden. 

The door opened, and Robin's wife--her hands and arms white, for she waskneading dough--appeared, showing in Lionel; who had come on after hisconversation with Mrs. Duff, as you read of in the last chapter; for itis necessary to go back a few hours. One cannot tell two portions of ahistory at one and the same time. The old man rose, and stood leaning onhis stick. 

"Sit down, Matthew, " said Lionel, in a kindly tone. "Don't let medisturb you. " He made him go into his seat again, and took a chairopposite to him. 

"The time's gone, sir, for me to stand afore you. That time must go forus all. "

"Ay, that it must, Matthew, if we live. I came in to speak to Robin. Hiswife says she does not know where he is. "

"He's here and there and everywhere, " was old Matthew's answer. "Onenever knows how to take him, sir, or when to see him. My late master'sbounty to me, sir, is keeping us in comfort, but I often ask Robin whathe'll do when I am gone. It gives me many an hour's care, sir. Robin, hedon't earn the half of a living now. "

"Be easy, Matthew, " was Lionel's answer. "I am not sure that theannuity, or part of it, will not be continued to Robin. My uncle left itin my charge to do as I should see fit. I have never mentioned it, evento you; and I think it might be as well for you not to speak of it toRobin. It is to be hoped that he will get steady and hard-working again;were he to hear that there was a chance of his being kept without work, he might never become so. "

"The Lord bless my old master!" aspirated Matthew, lifting his hands. "The Lord bless you, sir! There's not many gentlemen would do for uswhat him and you have. "

Lionel bent his head forward, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Matthew, what is this that I hear, of Robin's going about the groundsat night with a loaded gun?"

Matthew flung up his hands. Not with the reverence of the past minute, but with a gesture of despair. "Heaven knows what he does it for, sir!I'd keep him in; but it's beyond me. "

"I know you would. You went yourself after him last night, Broom tellsme. "

Matthew's eyes fell. He hesitated much in his answer. "I--yes, sir--I--Icouldn't get him home. It's a pity. "

"You got as far as the brick-kilns, I hear. I was surprised. I don'tthink you should be out at night, Matthew. "

"No, sir, I am not a-going again. "

The words this time were spoken readily enough. But, from some cause orother, the old man was evidently embarrassed. His eyes were not lifted, and his clear face had gone red. Lionel searched his imagination for areason, and could only connect it with his son. 

"Matthew, " said he, "I am about to ask you a painful question. I hopeyou will answer it. Is Robin perfectly sane?"

"Ay, sir, as sane as I am. Unsettled he is, ever dwelling on poorRachel, ever thinking of revenge; but his senses be as much his as theyever were. I wish his mind could be set at rest. "

"At rest in what way?"

"As to who it was that did the harm to Rachel. He has had it in his headfor a long while, sir, that it was Mr. John Massingbird; but he can't becertain, and it's the uncertainty that keeps his mind on the worrit. "

"Do you know where he picked up the notion that it was Mr. JohnMassingbird?" inquired Lionel, remembering the conversation on the samepoint that Robin had once held with him, on that very garden bench, inthe face of which he and Matthew were now sitting. 

Old Matthew shook his head. "I never could learn, sir. Robin's a dutifulson to me, but he'd never tell me that. I know that Mr. John Massingbirdhas been like a pill in his throat this many a day. Oftentimes have Ifelt thankful that he was dead, or Robin would surely have gone out towhere he was, and murdered him. Murder wouldn't mend the ill, sir--as Ihave told him many a time. "

"Indeed it would not, " replied Lionel. "The very fact of Mr. JohnMassingbird's being dead, should have the effect of setting Robin's mindat rest--if it was to him that his suspicions were directed. For mypart, I think Robin is wrong in suspecting him. "

"I think so too, sir. I don't know how it is, but I can't bring my mindto suspect him more than anybody else. I have thought over things inthis light, and I have thought 'em over in that light; and I'd ratherincline to believe that she got acquainted with some stranger, poordear! than that it was anybody known to us. Robin is in doubt; he hashad some cause given him to suspect Mr. John Massingbird, but he is notsure, and it's that doubt, I say, that worrits him. "

"At any rate, doubt or no doubt, there is no cause for him to go aboutat night with a gun. What does he do it for?"

"I have asked him, sir, and he does not answer. He seems to me to be onthe watch. "

"On the watch for what?" rejoined Lionel. 

"I'm sure I don't know, " said old Matthew. "If you'd say a word to him, sir, it might stop it. He got a foolish notion into his mind that poorRachel's spirit might come again, and he'd used to be about the pondpretty near every moonlight night. That fancy passed off, and he hasgone to his bed at night as the rest of us have, up to the last week orso, when he has taken to go out again, and to carry a gun. "

"It was a foolish notion, " remarked Lionel. "The dead do not come again, Matthew. "

Matthew made no reply. 

"I must try and come across Robin, " said Lionel, rising. "I wish youwould tell him to come up to me, Matthew. "

"Sir, if you desire that he shall wait upon you at Verner's Pride, hewill be sure to do so, " said the old man, leaning on his stick as hestood. "He has not got to the length of disobeying an order of yours. I'll tell him. "

It happened that Lionel did "come across" Robin Frost. Not to anyeffect, however, for he could not get to speak to him. Lionel wasstriking across some fields towards Deerham Court, when he came in viewof Roy and Robin Frost leaning over a gate, their heads together inclose confab. It looked very much as though they were talking secrets. They looked up and saw him; but when he reached the place, both weregone. Roy was in sight, but the other had entirely disappeared. Lionellifted his voice. 

"Roy, I want you. "

Roy could not fain deafness, although there was every appearance that hewould like to do it. He turned and approached, putting his hand to hishat in a half surly manner. 

"Where's Robin Frost?"

"Robin Frost, sir? He was here a minute or two agone. I met himaccidental, and I stopped him to ask what he was about, that he hadn'tbeen at work this three days. He went on his way then, down the gap. Didyou want him, sir?"

Lionel Verner's perceptive faculties were tolerably developed. That Roywas endeavouring to blind him, he had no doubt. They had not met"accidental, " and the topic of conversation had not been Robin'swork--of that he felt sure. Roy and Robin Frost might meet and talktogether all day long. It was nothing to him. Why they should strive todeceive him was the only curious part about it. Both had striven toavoid meeting him; and Roy was talking to him now unwillingly. In ageneral way, Robin Frost was fond of meeting and receiving a word fromMr. Verner. 

"I shall see him another time, " carelessly remarked Lionel. "Not sofast, Roy"--for the man was turning away--"I have not done with you. Will you be good enough to inform me what you were doing in front of myhouse last night?"

"I wasn't doing anything, sir. I wasn't there. "

"Oh, yes, you were, " said Lionel. "Recollect yourself. You were postedunder the large yew tree on the lawn, watching my drawing-room windows. "

Roy looked up at this, the most intense surprise in his countenance. "Inever was on your lawn last night, sir; I wasn't near it. Leastways notnearer than the side field. I happened to be in that, and I got througha gap in the hedge, on to the high road. "

"Roy, I believe that you _were_ on the lawn last night, and watching thehouse, " persisted Lionel, looking fixedly at his countenance. For thelife of him he could not tell whether the man's surprise was genuine, his denial real. "What business had you there?"

"I declare to goodness, if it was the last word I had to speak, that Iwas not on your lawn, sir--that I did not watch the house. I did not gonear the house. I crossed the side field, cornerwise, and got out intothe road; and that's the nearest I was to the house last night. "

Roy spoke unusually impressive for him, and Lionel began to believethat, so far, he was telling truth. He did not make any immediate reply, and Roy resumed. 

"What cause have you got to accuse me, sir? I shouldn't be likely towatch your house--why should I?"

"Some man was watching it, " replied Lionel. "As you were seen in theroad shortly afterwards, close to the side field, I came to theconclusion that it was you. "

"I can be upon my oath that it wasn't, sir, " answered Roy. 

"Very well, " replied Lionel, "I accept your denial. But allow me to giveyou a recommendation, Roy--not to trouble yourself with my affairs inany way. They do not concern you; they never will concern you;therefore, don't meddle with them. "

He walked away as he spoke. Roy stood and gazed after him, a strangeexpression on his countenance. Had Lucy Tempest seen it, she might haverenewed her warning to Lionel. And yet she would have been puzzled totell the meaning of the expression, for it did not look like athreatening one. 

Had Lionel Verner turned up Clay Lane, upon leaving Matthew Frost'scottage, instead of down it, to take a path across the fields at theback, he would have encountered the Vicar of Deerham. That gentleman waspaying parochial visits that day in Deerham, and in due course he cameto Matthew Frost's. He and Matthew had long been upon confidentialterms; the clergyman respected Matthew, and Matthew revered his pastor. 

Mr. Bourne took the seat which Lionel had but recently vacated. He wasso accustomed to the old man's habitual countenance that he could detectevery change in it; and he saw that something was troubling him. 

"I am troubled in more ways than one, sir, " was the old man's answer. "Poor Robin, he's giving me trouble again; and last night, sir, I had asort of fright. A shock, it may be said. I can't overget it. "

"What was its nature?" asked Mr. Bourne. 

"I don't much like to speak of it, sir; and, beside yourself, there'snot a living man that I'd open my lips to. It's an unpleasant thing tohave upon the mind. Mr. Verner, he was here but a few minutes a-gone, and I felt before him like a guilty man that has something to conceal. When I have told it to you, sir, you'll be hard of belief. "

"Is it connected with Robin?"

"No, sir. But it was my going after Robin that led to it, as may besaid. Robin, sir, has took these last few nights to go out with a gun. It has worrited me so, sir, fearing some mischief might ensue, that Icouldn't sleep; and last evening, I thought I'd hobble out and see if Icouldn't get him home. Chuff, he said as he had seen him go toward thebrick-field, and I managed to get down; and, sure enough, I came uponRobin. He was lying down at the edge of the field, watching, as itseemed to me. I couldn't get him home, sir. I tried hard, but 'twas ofno use. He spoke respectful to me, as he always does: 'Father, I havegot my work to do, and I must do it. You go back home, and go to sleepin quiet. ' It was all I could get from him, sir, and at last I turned togo back----"

"What was Robin doing?" interrupted Mr. Bourne. 

"Sir, I suppose it's just some fancy or other that he has got into hishead, as he used to get after the poor child died. Mr. Verner has justasked me whether he is sane, but there's nothing of that sort wrongabout him. You mind the clump of trees that stands out, sir, betweenhere and the brick-field, by the path that would lead to Verner'sPride?" added old Matthew in an altered tone. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Bourne. 

"I had just got past it, sir, when I saw a figure crossing that barecorner from the other trees. A man's shape, it looked like. Tall andshadowy it was, wearing what looked like a long garment, or a woman'sriding-habit, trailing nearly on the ground. The very moment my eyesfell upon it, I felt that it was something strange, and when the figurepassed me, turning its face right upon me--I _saw_ the face, sir. "

Old Matthew's manner was so peculiar, his pause so impressive, that Mr. Bourne could only gaze at him, and wait in wonder for what was coming. 

"Sir, it was the face of one who has been dead these two years past--Mr. Frederick Massingbird. "

If the rector had gazed at old Matthew before, he could only stare now. That the calm, sensible old man should fall into so extraordinary adelusion, was incomprehensible. He might have believed it of Deerham ingeneral, but not of Matthew Frost. 

"Matthew, you must have been deceived, " was his quiet answer. 

"No, sir. There never was another face like Mr. Frederick Massingbird's. Other features may have been made like his--it's not for me to say theyhave not--but whose else would have the black mark upon it? Themoonlight was full upon it, and I could see even the little linesshooting out from the cheek, so bright was the night. The face wasturned right upon me as it passed, and I am as clear about its being hisas I am that it was me looking at it. "

"But you know it is a thing absolutely impossible, " urged Mr. Bourne. "Ithink you must have dreamt this, Matthew. "

Old Matthew shook his head. "I wouldn't have told you a dream, sir. Itturned me all in a maze. I never felt the fatigue of a step all the wayhome after it. When I got in, I couldn't eat my supper; I couldn't go tobed. I sat up thinking, and the wife, she came in and asked what ailedme that I didn't go to rest. I had got no sleep in my eyes, I told her, which was true; for, when I did get to bed, it was hours afore I couldclose 'em. "

"But, Matthew, I tell you that it is impossible. You must have beenmistaken. "

"Sir, until last night, had anybody told me such a thing, I should havesaid it was impossible. You know, sir, I have never been given to suchfancies. There's no doubt, sir; there's _no doubt_ that it was thespirit of Mr. Frederick Massingbird. "

Matthew's clear, intelligent eye was fixed firmly on Mr. Bourne's--hisface, as usual, bending a little forward. Mr. Bourne had never believedin "spirits"; clergymen, as a rule, do not. A half smile crossed hislips. 

"Were you frightened?" he asked. 

"I was not frightened, sir, in the sense that you, perhaps, put thequestion. I was surprised, startled. As I might have been surprised andstartled at seeing anybody I least expected to see--somebody that I hadthought was miles away. Since poor Rachel's death, sir, I have lived, soto say, in communion with spirits. What with Robin's talking of his hopeto see _hers_, and my constantly thinking of her; knowing also that itcan't be long, in the course of nature, before I am one myself, I havegrown to be, as it were, familiar with the dead in my mind. Thus, sir, in that sense, no fear came upon me last night. I don't think, sir, Ishould feel fear at meeting or being alone with a spirit, any more thanI should at meeting a man. But I was startled and disturbed. "

"Matthew, " cried Mr. Bourne, in some perplexity, "I had always believedyou superior to these foolish things. Ghosts might do well enough forthe old days, but the world has grown older and wiser. At any rate, thegreater portion of it has. "

"If you mean, sir, that I was superior to the belief in ghosts, you areright. I never had a grain of faith in such superstition in my life; andI have tried all means to convince my son what folly it was of him tohover round about the Willow Pond, with any thought that Rachel might'come again. ' No, sir, I have never been given to it. "

"And yet you deliberately assure me, Matthew, that you saw a ghost lastnight!"

"Sir, that it was Mr. Frederick Massingbird, dead or alive, that I saw, I must hold to. We know that he is dead, sir, his wife buried him inthat far land; so what am I to believe? The face looked ghastly white, not like a person's living. "

Mr. Bourne mused. That Frederick Massingbird was dead and buried, therecould not be the slightest doubt. He hardly knew what to make of oldMatthew. The latter resumed. 

"Had I been flurried or terrified by it, sir, so as to lose my presenceof mind, or if I was one of those timid folks that see signs in dreams, or take every white post to be a ghost, that they come to on a darknight, you might laugh at and disbelieve me. But I tell it to you, sir, as you say, deliberately; just as it happened. I can't have much longertime to live, sir; but I'd stake it all on the truth that it was thespirit of Mr. Frederick Massingbird. When you have once known a man, there are a hundred points by which you may recognise him, beyondpossibility of being mistaken. They have got a story in the place, sir, to-day--as you may have heard--that my poor child's ghost appeared toDan Duff last night, and that the boy has been senseless ever since. Ithas struck me, sir, that perhaps he also saw what I did. "

Mr. Bourne paused. "Did you say anything of this to Mr. Verner?"

"Not I, sir. As I tell you, I felt like a guilty man in his presence, one with something to hide. He married Mr. Fred's widow, prettycreature, and it don't seem a nice thing to tell him. If it had been theother gentleman's spirit, Mr. John's, I should have told him at once. "

Mr. Bourne rose. To argue with old Matthew in his present frame of mind, appeared to be about as useless a waste of time as to argue with SusanPeckaby on the subject of the white donkey. He told him he would see himagain in a day or two, and took his departure. 

But he did not dismiss the subject from his thoughts. No, he could notdo that. He was puzzled. Such a tale from one like old Matthew--calm, pious, sensible, and verging on the grave, made more impression on Mr. Bourne than all Deerham could have made. Had Deerham come to him withthe story, he would have flung it to the winds. 

He began to think that some person, from evil design or love ofmischief, must be personating Frederick Massingbird. It was a naturalconclusion. And Matthew's surmise, that the same thing might havealarmed Dan Duff, was perfectly probable. Mr. Bourne determined toascertain the latter fact, as soon as Dan should be in a state ofsufficient convalescence, bodily and mentally, to give an account. Hehad already paid one visit to Mrs. Duff's--as that lady informed Lionel. 

Two or three more visits he paid there during the day, but not untilnight did he find Dan revived. In point of fact, the clergymanpenetrated to the kitchen just after that startling communication hadbeen made by Dan. The women were standing in consternation when thevicar entered, one of them strongly recommending that the copper furnaceshould be heated, and Dan plunged into it to "bring him round. "

"How is he now?" began Mr. Bourne. "Oh! I see; he is sensible. "

"Well, sir, I don't know, " said Mrs Duff. "I'm afraid as his head'sa-going right off. He persists in saying now that it wasn't the ghost ofRachel at all--but somebody else's. "

"If he was put into a good hot furnace, sir, and kep' at a even heat upto biling pint for half an hour--that is, as near biling as his skincould bear it--I know it 'ud do wonders, " spoke up Mrs. Chuff. "It's aexcellent remedy, where there's a furnace convenient, and water notshort. "

"Suppose you allow me to be alone with him for a few minutes, " suggestedMr. Bourne. "We will try and find out what will cure him; won't we, Dan?"

The women filed out one by one. Mr. Bourne sat down by the boy, and tookhis hand. In a soothing manner he talked to him, and drew from him bygentle degrees the whole tale, so far as Dan's memory and belief went. The boy shook in every limb as he told it. He could not boast immunityfrom ghostly fears as did old Matthew Frost. 

"But, my boy, you should know that there are no such things as ghosts, "urged Mr. Bourne. "When once the dead have left this world, they do notcome back to it again. "

"I see'd it, sir, " was Dan's only argument--an all sufficient one withhim. "It was stood over the pool, it was, and it turned round right uponme as I went up. I see the porkypine on his cheek, sir, as plain asanything. "

The same account as old Matthew's!

"How was the person dressed?" asked Mr. Bourne. "Did you notice?"

"It had got on some'at long--a coat or a skirt, or some'at. It was asthin as thin, sir. "

"Dan, shall I tell you what it was--as I believe? It was somebodydressed up to frighten you and other timid persons. "

Dan shook his head. "No, sir, 'twasn't. 'Twas the ghost of Mr. FrederickMassingbird. "

CHAPTER LIII. 

MASTER CHEESE'S FRIGHT--OTHER FRIGHTS. 

Strange rumours began to be rife in Deerham. The extraordinary news toldby Dan Duff would have been ascribed to some peculiar hallucination ofthat gentleman's brain, and there's no knowing but that the furnacemight have been tried as a cure, had not other testimony arisen tocorroborate it. Four or five different people, in the course of as manydays--or rather nights--saw, or professed to have seen, the apparitionof Frederick Massingbird. 

One of them was Master Cheese. He was one night coming home from payinga professional visit--in slight, straightforward cases Jan could trusthim--when he saw by the roadside what appeared to be a man standing upunder the hedge, as if he had taken his station there to look at thepassers-by. 

"He's up to no good, " quoth Master Cheese to himself. "I'll go anddislodge the fellow. "

Accordingly Master Cheese turned off the path where he was walking, andcrossed the waste bit--only a yard or two in breadth--that ran by theside of the road. Master Cheese, it must be confessed, did not want forbravery; he had a great deal rather face danger of any kind than hardwork; and the rumour about Fred Massingbird's ghost had been rare nutsfor him to crack. Up he went, having no thought in his head at thatmoment of ghosts, but rather of poachers. 

"I say, you fellow----" he was beginning, and there he stopped dead. 

He stopped dead, both in step and tongue. The figure, never moving, never giving the faintest indication that it was alive, stood there likea statue. Master Cheese looked in its face, and saw the face of the lateFrederick Massingbird. 

It is _not_ pleasant to come across a dead man at moonlight--a man whosebody has been safely reposing in the ground ever so long ago. MasterCheese did not howl as Dan Duff had done. He set off down the road--hewas too fat to propel himself over or through the hedge, though that wasthe nearest way--he took to his heels down the road, and arrived in anincredibly short space of time at home, bursting into the surgery andastonishing Jan and the surgery boy. 

"I say, Jan, though, haven't I had a fright?"

Jan, at the moment, was searching in the prescription-book. He raisedhis eyes, and looked over the counter. Master Cheese's face had turnedwhite, and drops of wet were pouring off it--in spite of his bravery. 

"What have you been at?" asked Jan. 

"I saw the thing they are talking about, Jan. It _is_ FredMassingbird's. "

Jan grinned. That Master Cheese's fright was genuine, there could be nomistaking, and it amused Jan excessively. 

"What had you been taking?" asked he, in his incredulity. 

"I had taken nothing, " retorted Master Cheese, who did not like theridicule. "I had not had the opportunity of taking anything--unless itwas your medicine. Catch me tapping that! Look here, Jan. I was comingby Crow Corner, when I saw a something standing back in the hedge. Ithought it was some poaching fellow hiding there, and went up todislodge him. Didn't I wish myself up in the skies? It was the face ofFred Massingbird. "

"The face of your fancy, " slightingly returned Jan. 

"I swear it was, then! There! There's no mistaking _him_. The hedgehogon his cheek looked larger and blacker than ever. "

Master Cheese did not fail to talk of this abroad; the surgery boy, Bob, who had listened with open ears, did not fail to talk of it, and itspread throughout Deerham; additional testimony to that alreadyaccumulated. In a few days' time, the commotion was at its height;nearly the only persons who remained in ignorance of the reported factsbeing the master and mistress of Verner's Pride, and those connectedwith them, relatives on either side. 

That some great internal storm of superstition was shaking Deerham, Lionel knew. In his happy ignorance, he attributed it to the rumourwhich had first been circulated, touching Rachel's ghost. He was anear-witness to an angry colloquy at home. Some indispensable trifle forhis wife's toilette was required suddenly from Deerham one evening, andMademoiselle Benoite ordered that it should be sent for. But not one ofthe maids would go. The Frenchwoman insisted, and there ensued a stormywar. The girls, one and all, declared they'd rather give up theirservice, than go abroad after nightfall. 

When the fears and the superstitions came palpably in Lionel's way, hemade fun of them--as Jan might have done. Once or twice he felt halfprovoked; and asked the people, in a tone between earnest and jest, whether they were not ashamed of themselves. Little reply made they; notone of them but seemed to shrink from mentioning to Lionel Verner thename that the ghost had borne in life. 

On nearly the last evening that it would be light during this moon, Mr. Bourne started from home to pay a visit to Mrs. Hook, the labourer'swife. The woman had been ailing for some time; partly from naturalillness, partly from chagrin--for her daughter Alice was the talk of thevillage--and she had now become seriously ill. On this day Mr. Bournehad accidentally met Jan; and, in conversing upon parish matters, he hadinquired after Mrs. Hook. 

"Very much worse, " was Jan's answer. "Unless a change takes place, she'll not last many days. "

The clergyman was shocked; he had not deemed her to be in danger. "Iwill go and see her to-day, " said he. "You can tell her that I amcoming. "

He was a conscientious man; liking to do his duty, and especially kindto those that were in sickness or trouble. Neither did he willinglybreak a specific promise. He made no doubt that Jan delivered themessage, and therefore he went; though it was late at night when hestarted, other duties having detained him throughout the day. 

His most direct way from the vicarage to Hook's cottage, took him pastthe Willow Pond. _He_ had no fear of ghosts, and therefore he chose it, in preference to going down Clay Lane, which was farther round. TheWillow Pool looked lonely enough as he passed it, its waters gleaming inthe moonlight, its willows bending. A little farther on, the clergyman'sears became alive to the sound of sobs, as from a person in distress. There was Alice Hook, seated on a bench underneath some elm-trees, sobbing enough to break her heart. 

However the girl might have got herself under the censure of theneighbourhood, it is a clergyman's office to console, rather than tocondemn. And he could not help liking pretty Alice; she had been one ofthe most tractable pupils in his Sunday-school. He addressed her assoothingly, as considerately, as though she were one of the first ladiesin his parish; harshness would not mend the matter now. Her heart openedto the kindness. 

"I've broke mother's heart, and killed her!" cried she, with a wildburst of sobs. "But for me, she might have got well. "

"She may get well still, Alice, " replied the vicar. "I am going on tosee her now. What are you doing here?"

"I am on my way, sir, to get the fresh physic for her. Mr. Jan, he saidthis morning as somebody was to go for it; but the rest have been outall day. As I came along, I got thinking of the time, sir, when I couldgo about by daylight with my head up, like the best of 'em; and itovercame me. "

She rose up, dried her eyes with her shawl, and Mr. Bourne proceededonwards. He had not gone far, when something came rushing past him fromthe opposite direction. It seemed more like a thing than a man, with itsswift pace--and he recognised the face of Frederick Massingbird. 

Mr. Bourne's pulses stood still, and then gave a bound onwards. Clergyman though he was, he could not, for his life, have helped thequeer feeling which came over him. He had sharply rebuked thesuperstition in his parishioners; had been inclined to ridicule MatthewFrost; had cherished a firm and unalterable belief that some foolishwight was playing pranks with the public; but all these suppositions andconvictions faded in this moment; and the clergyman felt that that whichhad rustled past was the veritable dead and-gone Frederick Massingbird, in the spirit or in the flesh. 

He shook the feeling off--or strove to shake it. That it was FrederickMassingbird in the flesh he did not give a second supposition to; andthat it could be Frederick Massingbird in the spirit, was opposed toevery past belief of the clergyman's life. But he had never seen such alikeness; and though the similarity in the features might be accidental, what of the black star?

He strove to shake the feeling off; to say to himself that some one, bearing a similar face, must be in the village; and he went on to hisdestination. Mrs. Hook was better; but she was lying in the placeunattended, all of them out somewhere or other. The clergyman talked toher and read to her; and then waited impatiently for the return ofAlice. He did not care to leave the woman alone. 

"Where are they all?" he asked, not having inquired before. 

They were gone to the wake at Broxley, a small place some two milesdistant. Of course! Had Mr. Bourne remembered the wake, he need not haveput the question. 

An arrival at last. It was Jan. Jan, attentive to poor patients as hewas to rich ones, had come striding over, the last thing. They asked himif he had seen anything of Alice in his walk. But Jan had come acrossfrom Deerham Court, and that would not be the girl's road. Anotherminute, and the husband came in. The two gentlemen left together. 

"She is considerably better, to-night, " remarked Jan. "She'll get aboutnow, if she does not fret too much over Alice. "

"It is strange where Alice can have got to, " remarked Mr. Bourne. Herprolonged absence, coupled with the low spirits the girl appeared to bein, rather weighed upon his mind. "I met her as I was coming here anhour ago, " he continued. "She ought to have been home long before this. "

"Perhaps she has encountered the ghost, " said Jan, in a joke. 

"I saw it to-night, Jan. "

"Saw what?" asked Jan, looking at Mr. Bourne. 

"The--the party that appears to be personating Frederick Massingbird. "

"Nonsense!" uttered Jan. 

"I did. And I never saw such a likeness in my life. "

"Even to the porcupine, " ridiculed Jan. 

"Even to the porcupine, " gravely replied Mr. Bourne. "Jan, I am notjoking. Moreover, I do not consider it a subject for a joke. If any oneis playing the trick, it is an infamous thing, most disrespectful toyour brother and his wife. And if not----"

"If not--what?" asked Jan. 

"In truth, I stopped because I can't continue. Frederick Massingbird'sspirit it cannot be--unless all our previous belief in thenon-appearance of spirits is to be upset--and it cannot be FrederickMassingbird in life. He died in Australia, and was buried there. I ampuzzled, Jan. "

Jan was not. Jan only laughed. He believed there must be something inthe moonlight that deceived the people, and that Mr. Bourne had caughtthe infection from the rest. 

"Should it prove to be a trick that any one is playing, " resumed theclergyman, "I shall----"

"Hollo!" cried Jan. "What's this? Another ghost?"

They had nearly stumbled over something lying on the ground. A woman, dressed in some light material. Jan stooped. 

"It's Alice Hook!" he cried. 

The spot was that at which Mr. Bourne had seen her sitting. The emptybottle for medicine in her hand told him that she had not gone upon hererrand. She was insensible and cold. 

"She has fainted, " remarked Jan. "Lend a hand, will you, sir?"

Between them they got her on the bench, and the stirring revived her. She sighed once or twice, and opened her eyes. 

"Alice, girl, what is it? How were you taken ill?" asked the vicar. 

She looked up at him; she looked at Jan. Then she turned her eyes in anopposite direction, glanced fearfully round, as if searching for somesight that she dreaded; shuddered, and relapsed into insensibility. 

"We must get her home, " observed Jan. 

"There are no means of getting her home in her present state, unless sheis carried, " said Mr. Bourne. 

"That's easy enough, " returned Jan. And he caught her up in his longarms, apparently having to exert little strength in the action. "Puther petticoats right, will you?" cried he, in his unceremonious fashion. 

The clergyman put her things as straight as he could, as they hung overJan's arm. "You'll never be able to carry her, Jan, " said he. 

"Not carry her!" returned Jan. "I could carry you, if put to it. "

And away he went, bearing his burden as tenderly and easily as though ithad been a little child. Mr. Bourne could hardly keep pace with him. 

"You go on, and have the door open, " said Jan, as they neared thecottage. "We must get her in without the mother hearing, upstairs. "

They had the kitchen to themselves. Hook, the father, a little the worsefor what he had taken, had gone to bed, leaving the door open for hischildren. They got her in quietly, found a light, and placed her in achair. Jan took off her bonnet and shawl--he was handy as a woman; andlooked about for something to give her. He could find nothing exceptwater. By and by she got better. 

Her first movement, when she fully recovered her senses, was to clutchhold of Jan on the one side, of Mr. Bourne on the other. 

"Is it gone?" she gasped, in a voice of the most intense terror. 

"Is what gone, child?" asked Mr. Bourne. 

"The ghost, " she answered. "It came right up, sir, just after you leftme. I'd rather die than see it again. "

She was shaking from head to foot. There was no mistaking that herterror was intense. To attempt to meet it with confuting arguments wouldhave been simply folly, and both gentlemen knew that it would. Mr Bourneconcluded that the same sight, which had so astonished him, had beenseen by the girl. 

"I sat down again after you went, sir, " she resumed, her teethchattering. "I knew there was no mighty hurry for my being back, as youhad gone on to mother, and I sat on ever so long, and it came right upagain me, brushing my knees with its things as it passed. At the firstmoment I thought it might be you coming back, to say something to me, sir, and I looked up. It turned its face upon me, and I never remembernothing after that. "

"Whose face?" questioned Jan. 

"The ghost's, sir. Mr. Fred Massingbird's. "

"Bah!" said Jan. "Faces look alike in the moonlight. "

"Twas his face, " answered the girl, from between her shaking lips. "Isaw its every feature, sir. "

"Porcupine and all?" retorted Jan, ironically. 

"Porkypine and all, sir. I'm not sure that I should have knowed it atfirst, but for the porkypine. "

What were they to do with the girl? Leave her there, and go? Jan, whowas more skilled in ailments than Mr. Bourne, thought it possible thatthe fright had seriously injured her. 

"You must go to bed at once, " said he. "I'll just say a word to yourfather. "

Jan was acquainted with the private arrangements of the Hooks'household. He knew that there was but one sleeping apartment for thewhole family--the room above, where the sick mother was lying. Father, mother, sons, and daughters all slept there together. The "house"consisted of the kitchen below and the room above it. There were manysuch on the Verner estate. 

Jan, carrying the candle to guide him, went softly up the creakystaircase. The wife was sleeping. Hook was sleeping, too, and snoringheavily. Jan had something to do to awake him; shaking seemed useless. 

"Look here, " said he in a whisper, when the man was aroused, "Alice hashad a fright, and I think she may perhaps be ill through it; if so, mindyou come for me without loss of time. Do you understand, Hook?"

Hook signified that he did. 

"Very well, " replied Jan. "Should----"

"What's that! what's that?"

The alarmed cry came from the mother. She had suddenly awoke. 

"It's nothing, " said Jan. "I only had a word to say to Hook. You go tosleep again, and sleep quietly. "

Somehow Jan's presence carried reassurance with it to most people. Mrs. Hook was contented. "Is Ally not come in yet?" asked she. 

"Come in, and downstairs, " replied Jan. "Good-night. Now, " said he toAlice, when he returned to the kitchen, "you go on to bed and get tosleep; and don't get dreaming of ghosts and goblins. "

They were turning out at the door, the clergyman and Jan, when the girlflew to them in a fresh attack of terror. 

"I daren't be left alone, " she gasped. "Oh, stop a minute! Pray stop, till I be gone upstairs. "

"Here, " said Jan, making light of it. "I'll marshal you up. "

He held the candle, and the girl flew up the stairs as fast as youngCheese had flown from the ghost. Her breath was panting, her bosomthrobbing. Jan blew out the candle, and he and Mr. Bourne departed, merely shutting the door. Labourers' cottages have no fear of midnightrobbers. 

"What do you think now?" asked Mr. Bourne, as they moved along. 

Jan looked at him. "_You_ are not thinking, surely, that it is FredMassingbird's ghost!"

"No. But I should advise Mr. Verner to place a watch, and have the thingcleared up--who it is, and what it is. "

"Why, Mr. Verner?"

"Because it is on his land that the disturbance is occurring. This girlhas been seriously frightened. "

"You may have cause to know that, before many hours are over, " answeredJan. 

"Why! you don't fear that she will be seriously ill?"

"Time will show, " was all the answer given by Jan. "As to the ghost, I'll either believe in him, or disbelieve him, when I come across him. If he were a respectable ghost, he'd confine himself to the churchyard, and not walk in unorthodox places, to frighten folks. "

They looked somewhat curiously at the seat near which Alice had fallen;at the Willow Pond, farther on. There was no trace of a ghost aboutthen--at least, that they could see--and they continued their way. Inemerging upon the high road, whom should they meet but old Mr. Bitterworth and Lionel, arm in arm. They had been to an evening meetingof the magistrates at Deerham, and were walking home together. 

To see the vicar and surgeon of a country village in company by night, imparts the idea that some one of its inhabitants may be in extremity. It did so now to Mr. Bitterworth--

"Where do you come from?" he asked. 

"From Hook's, " answered Jan. "The mother's better to-night; but I havehad another patient there. The girl, Alice, has seen the ghost, orfancied that she saw it, and was terrified, literally, out of hersenses. "

"How is she going on?" asked Mr. Bitterworth. 

"Physically, do you mean, sir?"

"No, I meant morally, Jan. If all accounts are true, the girl has beenlosing herself. "

"Law!" said Jan. "Deerham has known that this many a month past. I'd tryand stop it, if I were Lionel. "

"Stop what?" asked Lionel. 

"I'd build 'em better dwellings, " composedly went on Jan. "They might bebrought up to decency then. "

"It's true that decency can't put its head into such dwellings as thatof the Hooks', " observed the vicar. "People have accused me of showingleniency to Alice Hook, since the scandal has been known; but I cannotshow harshness to her when I think of the home the girl was reared in. "

The words pricked Lionel. None could think worse of the homes than hedid. He spoke in a cross tone; we are all apt to do so, when vexed withourselves. "What possesses Deerham to show itself so absurd just now?Ghosts! They only affect fear, it is my belief. "

"Alice Hook did not affect it, for one, " said Jan. "She may have beenfrightened to some purpose. We found her lying on the ground, insensible. They are stupid, though, all the lot of them. "

"Stupid is not the name for it, " remarked Lionel. "A littlesuperstition, following on Rachel's peculiar death, may have beenexcusable, considering the ignorance of the people here, and thetendency to superstition inherent in human nature. But why it shouldhave been revived now, I cannot imagine. "

Mr. Bitterworth and Jan had walked on. The vicar touched Lionel on thearm, not immediately to follow them. 

"Mr. Verner, I do not hold good with the policy which seems to prevail, of keeping this matter from you, " he said, in a confidential tone. "Icannot see the expediency of it in any way. It is not Rachel's Frost'sghost that is said to be terrifying people. "

"Whose then?" asked Lionel. 

"Frederick Massingbird's. "

Lionel paused, as if his ears deceived him. 

"_Whose_?" he repeated. 

"Frederick Massingbird's. "

"How perfectly absurd!" he presently exclaimed. 

"True, " said Mr. Bourne. "So absurd that, were it not for a circumstancewhich has happened to-night, I scarcely think I should have broughtmyself to repeat it. My conviction is, that some person bearing anextraordinary resemblance to Frederick Massingbird is walking about toterrify the neighbourhood. "

"I should think there's not another face living, that bears aresemblance to Fred Massingbird's, " observed Lionel. "How have you heardthis?"

"The first to tell me of it was old Matthew Frost. He saw him plainly, believing it to be Frederick Massingbird's spirit--although he had neverbelieved in spirits before. Dan Duff holds to it that _he_ saw it; andnow Alice Hook; besides others. I turned a deaf ear to all, Mr. Verner;but to-night I met one so like Frederick Massingbird that, wereMassingbird not dead, I could have sworn it was himself. It waswondrously like him, even to the mark on the cheek. "

"I never heard such a tale!" uttered Lionel. 

"That is precisely what I said--until to-night. I assure you theresemblance is so great, that if we have all female Deerham in fits, Ishall not wonder. It strikes me--it is the only solution I can cometo--that some one is personating Frederick Massingbird for the purposeof a mischievous joke--though how they get up the resemblance is anotherthing. Let me advise you to see into it, Mr. Verner. "

Mr. Bitterworth and Jan were turning round in front, waiting; and thevicar hastened on, leaving Lionel glued to the spot where he stood. 

CHAPTER LIV. 

MRS. DUFF'S BILL. 

Peal! peal! peal! came the sound of the night-bell at Jan's window as helay in bed. For Jan had caused the night-bell to be hung there since hewas factotum. "Where's the good of waking up the house?" remarked Jan;and he made the alteration. 

Jan got up with the first sound, and put his head out at the window. Upon which, Hook--for he was the applicant--advanced. Jan's windowbeing, as you may remember, nearly on a level with the ground, presentedfavourable auspices for holding a face to face colloquy with nightvisitors. 

"She's mortal bad, sir, " was Hook's salutation. 

"Who is?" asked Jan. "Alice, or the missis?"

"Not the missis, sir. The other. But I shouldn't ha' liked to troubleyou, if you hadn't ordered me. "

"I won't be two minutes, " said Jan. 

It seemed to Hook that Jan was only one, so speedily did he come out. Abelief was popular in Deerham that Mr. Jan slept with his clothes on; nosooner would a night summons be delivered to Jan, than Jan was out withthe summoner, ready for the start. Before he had closed the surgerydoor, through which he had to pass, there came another peal, and a womanran up to him. Jan recognised her for the cook of a wealthy lady in theBelvedere Road, a Mrs. Ellis. 

"Law, sir! what a provident mercy that you are up and ready!" exclaimedshe. "My mistress is attacked again. "

"Well, you know what to do, " returned Jan. "You don't want me. "

"But she do want you, sir. I have got orders not to go back withoutyou. "

"I suppose she has been eating cucumber again, " remarked Jan. 

"Only a bit of it, sir. About the half of a small one, she took for hersupper. And now the spasms is on her dreadful. "

"Of course they are, " replied Jan. "She knows how cucumber serves her. Well, I can't come. I'll send Mr. Cheese, if you like. But he can do nomore good than you can. Give her the drops and get the hot flannels;that's all. "

"You are going out, sir!" cried the woman, in a tone that sounded as ifshe would like to be impertinent. "_You_ are come for him, I suppose?"turning a sharp tongue upon Hook. 

"Yes, I be, " humbly replied Hook. "Poor Ally--"

The woman set up a scream. "You'd attend _her_, that miserable castaway, afore you'd attend my mistress!" burst out she to Jan. "Who's Ally Hook, by the side of folks of standing?"

"If she wants attendance, she must have it, " was the composed return ofJan. "She has got a body and a soul to be saved, as other folks have. She is in danger; your mistress is not. "

"Danger! What has that got to do with it?" angrily answered the woman. "You'll never get paid there, sir. "

"I don't expect it, " returned Jan. "If you'd like Cheese, that's hiswindow, " pointing to one in the house. "Throw a handful of gravel up, and tell them I said he was to attend. "

Jan walked off with Hook. He heard a crash of gravel behind him; soconcluded the cook was flinging at Mr. Cheese's window in a temper. Asshe certainly was, giving Mr. Jan some hard words in the process. Justas Lady Verner had never been able to inculcate suavity on Jan, so Dr. West had found it a hopeless task to endeavour to make Jan understandthat, in medical care, the rich should be considered before the poor. Take, for example, that _bête noire_ of Deerham just now, Alice Hook, and put her by the side of a born duchess; Jan would have gone to theone who had most need of him, without reference to which of the two itmight be. Evidently there was little hope for Jan. 

Jan, with his long legs, outstripped the stooping and hard-workedlabouring man. In at the door and up the stairs he went, into thesleeping room. 

Did you ever pay a visit to a room of this social grade? If not, youwill deem the introduction of this one highly coloured. Had Jan been ahead and shoulders shorter, he might have been able to stand up in thelean-to attic, without touching the lath and plaster of the roof. On alow bedstead, on a flock mattress, lay the mother and two children, about eight and ten. How they made room for Hook also, was a puzzle. Opposite to it, on a straw mattress, slept three sons, grown up, ornearly so; between these beds was another straw mattress where lay Aliceand her sister, a year younger; no curtains, no screens, no anything. All were asleep, with the exception of the mother and Alice; the formercould not rise from her bed; Alice appeared too ill to rise from hers. Jan stooped his head and entered. 

A few minutes, and he set himself to arouse the sleepers. They mightmake themselves comfortable in the kitchen, he told them, for the restof the night: he wanted room in the place to turn himself round, andthey must go out of it. And so he bundled them out. Jan was not given tostand upon ceremony. But it is not a pleasant room to linger in, so wewill leave Jan to it. 

It was pleasanter at Lady Verner's. Enough of air, and light, andaccommodation there. But even in that desirable residence it was not all_couleur de rose_. Vexations intrude into the most luxurious home, whatever may be the superfluity of room, the admirable style of thearchitecture; and they were just now agitating Deerham Court. 

On the morning which rose on the above night--as lovely a morning asever September gave us--Lady Verner and Lucy Tempest received each aletter from India. Both were from Colonel Tempest. The contents of LadyVerner's annoyed her, and the contents of Lucy's annoyed _her_. 

It appeared that some considerable time back, nearly, if not quite, twelve months, Lucy had privately written to Colonel Tempest, urgentlyrequesting to be allowed to go out to join him. She gave no reason ormotive for the request, but urged it strongly. That letter, inconsequence of the moving about of Colonel Tempest, had only justreached him; and now had arrived the answer to it. He told Lucy that heshould very shortly be returning to Europe; therefore it was useless forher to think of going out. 

So far, so good. However Lucy might have been vexed or disappointed atthe reply--and she was both; still more at the delay which had takenplace--there the matter would have ended. But Colonel Tempest, having noidea that Lady Verner was a stranger to this request; inferring, on thecontrary, that she was a party to it, and must, therefore, be growingtired of her charge, had also written to her an elaborate apology forleaving Lucy so long upon her hands, and for being unable to comply withher wish to be relieved of her. This enlightened Lady Verner as to whatLucy had done. 

She was very angry. She was worse than angry; she was mortified. And shequestioned Lucy a great deal more closely than that young lady liked, asto what her motive could have been, and why she was tired of DeerhamCourt. 

Lucy, all self-conscious of the motive by which she had been reallyactuated, stood before her like a culprit. "I am not tired of DeerhamCourt, Lady Verner. But I wished to be with papa. "

"Which is equivalent to saying that you wish to be away from me, "retorted my lady. "I ask you why?"

"Indeed, Lady Verner, I am pleased to be with you; I like to be withyou. It was not to be away from you that I wrote. It is a long whilesince I saw papa; so long, that I seem to have forgotten what he islike. "

"Can you assure me, in all open truth, that the wish to be with ColonelTempest was your sole reason for writing, unbiassed by any privatefeeling touching Deerham?" returned Lady Verner, searching her facekeenly. "I charge you answer me, Lucy. "

Lucy could not answer that it was her sole reason, unless she told anuntruth. Her eyes fell under the gaze bent upon her. 

"I see, " said Lady Verner. "You need not equivocate more. Is it to methat you have taken a dislike? or to any part of my arrangements?"

"Believe me, dear Lady Verner, that it is neither to you nor to yourhome, " she answered, the tears rising to her eyes. "Believe me, I am ashappy here as I ever was; on that score I have no wish to change. "

It was an unlucky admission of Lucy's, "on that score. " Of course, LadyVerner immediately pressed to know on what other score the wish might befounded. Lucy pleaded the desire to be with her father, which LadyVerner did not believe; and she pleaded nothing else. It was notsatisfactory to my lady, and she kept Lucy the whole of the morning, harping upon the sore point. 

Lionel entered, and interrupted the discussion. Lady Verner put him inpossession of the facts. That for some cause which Lucy refused toexplain, she wanted to leave Deerham Court; had been writing, twelvemonths back, to Colonel Tempest, to be allowed to join him in India; andthe negative answer had arrived but that morning. Lady Verner would likethe motive for her request explained; but Lucy was obstinate, and wouldnot explain it. 

Lionel turned his eyes on Lucy. If she had stood self-conscious beforeLady Verner, she stood doubly self-conscious now. Her eyelashes weredrooping, her cheeks were crimson. 

"She says she has no fault to find with me, no fault to find with thearrangements of my house, " pursued Lady Verner. "Then I want to knowwhat else it is that should drive her away from Deerham. Look at her, Lionel! That is how she stands--unable to give me an answer. "

Lady Verner might equally well have said, Look at Lionel. _He_ stoodself-conscious also. Too well he knew the motive--absence fromhim--which had actuated Lucy. From him, the married man; the man who hadplayed her false; away, anywhere, from witnessing the daily happiness ofhim and his wife. He read it all, and Lucy saw that he did. 

"It were no such strange wish, surely, to be where my dear papa is!" sheexclaimed, the crimson of her cheeks turning to scarlet. 

"No, " murmured Lionel, "no such strange wish. I wish _I_ could go toIndia, and free the neighbourhood of my presence!"

A curious wish! Lady Verner did not understand it. Lionel gave her noopportunity to inquire its meaning, for he turned to quit the room andthe house. She rose and laid her hand upon his arm to detain him. 

"I have an engagement, " pleaded Lionel. 

"A moment yet. Lionel, what _is_ this nonsense that is disturbing theequanimity of Deerham? About a ghost!"

"Ah, what indeed?" returned Lionel, in a careless tone, as if he wouldmake light of it. "You know what Deerham is, mother. Some think Dan Duffsaw his own shadow; some, a white cow in the pound. Either is sufficientmarvel for Deerham. "

"So vulgar a notion!" reiterated Lady Verner, resuming her seat, andtaking her essence bottle in her delicately gloved hand. "I wonder youdon't stop it, Lionel. "

"I!" cried Lionel, opening his eyes in considerable surprise. "How am Ito stop it?"

"You are the Lord of Deerham. It is vulgar, I say, to have such a reportafloat on your estate. "

Lionel smiled. "I don't know how you are to put away vulgarity fromstargazers and villagers. Or ghosts either--if they once get ghosts intheir heads. "

He finally left the Court, and turned towards home. His mother's wordsabout the ghost had brought the subject to his mind; if, indeed, it hadrequired bringing; but the whispered communication of the vicar theprevious night had scarcely been out of his thoughts since. It troubledhim. In spite of himself, of his good sense and reason, there was anundercurrent of uneasiness at work within him. Why should there be?Lionel could not have explained had he been required to do it. ThatFrederick Massingbird was dead and buried, there could be no shade ofdoubt; and ghosts had no place in the creed of Lionel Verner. All true;but the consciousness of uneasiness was there, and he could not ignoreit. 

In the last few days, the old feeling touching Lucy had been revivedwith unpleasant force. Since that night which she had spent at hishouse, when they saw, or fancied they saw, a man hiding himself underthe tree, he had thought of her more than was agreeable; more than wasright, he would have said, but that he saw not how to avoid it. Thelittle episode of this morning at his mother's house had served to openhis eyes most completely, to show him how intense was his love for LucyTempest. It must be confessed that his wife did little towards strivingto retain his love. 

He went along, thinking of these things. He would have put them fromhim; but he could not. The more he tried, the more unpleasantly vividthey became. "Tush!" said Lionel. "I must be getting nervous! I'll askJan to give me a draught. "

He was passing Dr. West's as he spoke, and he turned into the surgery. Sitting on the bung of a large stone jar was Master Cheese, his attitudea disconsolate one, his expression of countenance rebellious. 

"Is Mr. Jan at home?" asked Lionel. 

"No, he's not at home, sir, " replied Master Cheese, as if the fact weresome personal grievance of his own. "Here's all the patients, all themaking up of the physic left in my charge, and I'd like to know how I amto do it? I can't go out to fifty folks at a time?"

"And so you expedite the matter by not going to one! Where is Mr. Jan?"

"He was fetched out in the night to that beautiful Ally Hook, " grumbledMaster Cheese. "It's a shame, sir, folks are saying, for him to give histime to _her_. I had to leave my warm bed and march out to that fancifulMother Ellis, through it, who's always getting the spasms. And I hadabout forty poor here this morning, and couldn't get a bit ofcomfortable breakfast for 'em. Miss Deb, she never kept my bacon warm, or anything; and somebody had eaten the meat out of the veal pie when Igot back. Jan _will_ have those horrid poor here twice a week, and if Ispeak against it, he tells me to hold my tongue. "

"But is Mr. Jan not back yet from Hook's?"

"No, sir, he's not, " was the resentful response. "He has never come backat all since he went, and that was at four o'clock this morning. If hehad gone to cut off all the arms in the house, he couldn't have beenlonger! And I wish him joy of it! He'll get no breakfast. They have gotnothing for themselves but bread and water. "

Lionel left his draught an open question, and departed. As he turnedinto the principal street again, he saw Master Dan Duff at the door ofhis mother's shop. A hasty impulse prompted Lionel to question the boyof what he saw that unlucky night; or believed he saw. He crossed over;but Master Dan retreated inside the shop. Lionel followed him. 

"Well, Dan! Have you overcome the fright of the cow yet?"

"'Twarn't a cow, please, sir, " replied Dan, timidly. "'Twere a ghost. "

"Whose ghost?" returned Lionel. 

Dan hesitated. He stood first on one leg, then on the other. 

"Please, sir, 'twarn't Rachel's, " said he, presently. 

"Whose then?" repeated Lionel. 

"Please, sir, mother said I warn't to tell you. Roy, he said, if I toldit to anybody, I should be took and hanged. "

"But I say that you are to tell me, " said Lionel. And his pleasant tone, combined, perhaps, with the fact that he was Mr. Verner, effected morewith Dan Duff than his mother's sharp tone or Roy's threatening one. 

"Please, sir, " glancing round to make sure that his mother was notwithin hearing, "'twere Mr. Fred Massingbird's. They can't talk me outon't, sir. I see'd the porkypine as plain as I see'd him. He were--"

Dan brought his information to a summary standstill. Bustling down thestairs was that revered mother. She came in, curtseying fifty times toLionel. "What could she have the honour of serving him with?" He wasleaning over the counter, and she concluded he had come to patronise theshop. 

Lionel laughed. "I am a profitless customer, I believe, Mrs. Duff. I wasonly talking to Dan. "

Dan sidled off to the street door. Once there, he took to his heels, outof harm's way. Mr. Verner might begin telling his mother moreparticulars, and it was as well to be at a safe distance. 

Lionel, however, had no intention to betray trust. He stood chatting afew minutes with Mrs. Duff. He and Mrs. Duff had been great friends whenhe was an Eton boy; many a time had he ransacked her shop over for fliesand gut and other fishing tackle, a supply of which Mrs. Duff professedto keep. She listened to him with a somewhat preoccupied manner; inpoint of fact, she was debating a question with herself. 

"Sir, " said she, rubbing her hands nervously one over the other, "Ishould like to make bold to ask a favour of you. But I don't know how itmight be took. I'm fearful it might be took as a cause of offence. "

"Not by me. What is it?"

"It's a delicate thing, sir, to have to ask about, " resumed she. "And Ishouldn't venture, sir, to speak to _you_, but that I'm so put to it, and that I've got it in my head it's through the fault of the servants. "

She spoke with evident reluctance. Lionel, he scarcely knew why, leapedto the conclusion that she was about to say something regarding thesubject then agitating Deerham--the ghost of Frederick Massingbird. Unconsciously to himself, the pleasant manner changed to one ofconstraint. 

"Say what you have to say, Mrs. Duff. "

"Well, sir--but I'm sure I beg a hundred thousand pardings formentioning of it--it's about the bill, " she answered, lowering hervoice. "If I could be paid, sir, it 'ud be the greatest help to me. Idon't know hardly how to keep on. "

No revelation touching the ghost could have given Lionel the surpriseimparted by these ambiguous words. But his constraint was gone. 

"I do not understand you, Mrs. Duff. What bill?"

"The bill what's owing to me, sir, from Verner's Pride. It's a large sumfor me, sir--thirty-two pound odd. I have to keep up my payments for mygoods, sir, whether or not, or I should be a bankrupt to-morrow. Thingsis hard upon me just now, sir; though I don't want everybody to knowit. There's that big son o' mine, Dick, out o' work. If I could have thebill, or only part of it, it 'ud be like a God-send. "

"Who owes you the bill?" asked Lionel. 

"It's your good lady, sir, Mrs. Verner. "

"_Who?_" echoed Lionel, his accent quite a sharp one. 

"Mrs. Verner, sir. "

Lionel stood gazing at the woman. He could not take in the information;he believed there must be some mistake. 

"It were for things supplied between the time Mrs. Verner came homeafter your marriage, sir, and when she went to London in the spring. TheFrench madmizel, sir, came down and ordered some on 'em; and Mrs. Vernerherself, sir, ordered others. "

Lionel looked around the shop. He did not disbelieve the woman's words, but he was in a maze of astonishment. Perhaps a doubt of the Frenchwomancrossed his mind. 

"There's nothing here that Mrs. Verner would wear!" he exclaimed. 

"There's many odds and ends of things here, sir, as is useful to alady's tilette--and you'd be surprised, sir, to find how such thingsmounts up when they be had continual. But the chief part o' the bill, sir, is for two silk gownds as was had of our traveller. Mrs. Verner, sir, she happened to be here when he called in one day last winter, andshe saw his patterns, and she chose two dresses, and said she'd buy 'emof me if I ordered 'em. Which in course I did, sir, and paid for 'em, and sent 'em home. I saw her wear 'em both, sir, after they was made up, and very nice they looked. "

Lionel had heard quite enough. "Where is the bill?" he inquired. 

"It have been sent in, sir, long ago. When I found Mrs. Verner didn'tpay it afore she went away, I made bold to write and ask her. Miss West, she gave me the address in London, and said she wished she could pay meherself. I didn't get a answer, sir, and I made bold to write again, andI never got one then. Twice I have been up to Verner's Pride, sir, sinceyou come home this time, but I can't get to see Mrs. Verner. That Frenchmadmizel's one o' the best I ever see at putting folks off. Sir, it goesagain the grain to trouble you; and if I could have got to see Mrs. Verner, I never would have said a word. Perhaps if you'd be so good asto tell her, sir, how hard I'm put to it, she'd send me a little. "

"I am sure she will, " said Lionel. "You shall have your money to-day, Mrs. Duff. "

He turned out of the shop, a scarlet spot of emotion on his cheek. Thirty-two pounds owing to poor Mrs. Duff! Was it _thoughtlessness_ onSibylla's part? He strove to beat down the conviction that it was a lessexcusable error. 

But the Verner pride had been wounded to its very core. 

CHAPTER LV. 

SELF WILL. 

Gathered before a target on the lawn, in their archery costume gleamingwith green and gold, was a fair group, shooting their arrows in the air. Far more went into the air than struck the target. They were thevisitors of Verner's Pride; and Sibylla, the hostess, was the gayest, the merriest, the fairest among them. 

Lionel came on to the terrace, descended the steps, and crossed the lawnto join them--as courtly, as apparently gay, as if that bill of Mrs. Duff's was not making havoc of his heartstrings. They all ran tosurround him. It was not often they had so attractive a host tosurround; and attractive men are, and always will be, welcome to women. A few minutes, a quarter of an hour given to them, an unruffledsmoothness on his brow, a smile upon his lips, and then he contrived todraw his wife aside. 

"Oh, Lionel, I forgot to tell you, " she exclaimed. "Poynton has beenhere. He knows of the most charming pair of gray ponies, he says. Andthey can be ours if secured at once. "

"I don't want gray ponies, " replied Lionel. 

"But I do, " cried Sibylla. "You say I am too timid to drive. It is allnonsense; I should soon get over the timidity. I _will_ learn to drive, Lionel. Mrs. Jocelyn, come here, " she called out. 

Mrs. Jocelyn, a young and pretty woman, almost as pretty as Sibylla, answered to the summons. 

"Tell Mr. Verner what Poynton said about the ponies. "

"Oh, you must not miss the opportunity, " cried Mrs. Jocelyn to Lionel. "They are perfectly beautiful, the man said. Very dear, of course; butyou know nobody looks at money when buying horses for a lady. Mrs. Verner must have them. You might secure them to-day. "

"I have no room in my stables for more horses, " said Lionel, smiling atMrs. Jocelyn's eagerness. 

"Yes, you have, Lionel, " interposed his wife. "Or, if not, room must bemade. I have ordered the ponies to be brought. "

"I shall send them back, " said Lionel, laughing. 

"Don't you wish your wife to take to driving, Mr. Verner? Don't you liketo see a lady drive? Some do not. "

"I think there is no necessity for a lady to drive, while she has ahusband at her side to drive for her, " was the reply of Lionel. 

"Well--if I had such a husband as you to drive for me, I don't know butI might subscribe to that doctrine, " candidly avowed Mrs. Jocelyn. "_I_would not miss these ponies, were I Mrs. Verner. You can drive them, youknow. They are calling me. It is my turn, I suppose. "

She ran back to the shooting, Sibylla was following her, but Lionelcaught her hand and drew her into a covered walk. Placing her handwithin his arm, he began to pace it. 

"I must go back, too, Lionel. "

"Presently. Sibylla, I have been terribly vexed this morning. "

"Oh, now Lionel, don't you begin about 'vexing, '" interrupted Sibylla, in the foolish, light, affected manner, which had grown worse of late, more intolerable to Lionel. "I have ordered the ponies. Poynton willsend them in; and if there's really not room in the stables, you mustsee about it, and give orders that room must be made. "

"I cannot buy the ponies, " he firmly said. "My dear, I have given in toyour every wish, to your most trifling whim; but, as I told you a fewdays ago, these ever-recurring needless expenses I cannot stand. Sibylla"--and his voice grew hoarse--"do you know that I am becomingembarrassed?"

"I don't care if you are, " pouted Sibylla. "I must have the ponies. "

His heart ached. Was this the loving wife--the intelligent companion forwhom he had once yearned?--the friend who should be as his own soul? Hehad married the Sibylla of his imagination; and he woke to findSibylla--what she was. The disappointment was heavy upon him always; butthere were moments when he could have cried out aloud in its sharpbitterness. 

"Sibylla, you know the state in which some of my tenants live; themiserable dwellings they are forced to inhabit. I must change this stateof things. I believe it to be a duty for which I am accountable to God. How am I to set about it if you ruin me?"

Sibylla put her fingers to her ears. "I can't stand to listen when youpreach, Lionel. It is as bad as a sermon. "

[Illustration: Sibylla put her fingers to her ears. ]

It was ever thus. He could not attempt to reason with her. Anything likesensible conversation she could not, or would not, hold. Lionel, considerate to her as he ever was, felt provoked. 

"Do you know that this unfortunate affair of Alice Hook's is laidremotely to me?" he said, with a sternness, which he could not help, inhis tone. "People are saying that if I gave them decent dwellings, decent conduct would ensue. It is so. God knows that I feel its truthmore keenly than my reproachers. "

"The dwellings are good enough for the poor. "

"Sibylla! You cannot think it. The laws of God and man alike demand achange. Child, " he continued in a softer tone, as he took her hand inhis, "let us bring the case home to ourselves. Suppose that you and Ihad to sleep in a room a few feet square, no chimney, no air, and thatothers tenanted it with us? Girls and boys growing up--nay, grown up, some of them; men and women as we are, Sibylla. The beds huddledtogether, no space between them; sickness, fever----"

"I am only shutting my ears, " interrupted Sibylla. "You pretend to be socareful of me--you would not even let me go to that masked ball inParis--and yet you put these horrid pictures into my mind! I think youought to be ashamed of it, Lionel. People sleeping in the same room withus!"

"If the picture be revolting, what must be the reality?" was hisrejoinder. "_They_ have to endure it. "

"They are used to it, " retorted Sibylla. "They are brought up to nothingbetter. "

"Just so. And therefore their perceptions of right and wrong aredeadened. The wonder is, not that Alice Hook has lost herself, butthat----"

"I don't want to hear about Alice Hook, " interrupted Sibylla. "She isnot very good to talk about. "

"I have been openly told, Sibylla, that the reproach should lie at mydoor. "

"I believe it is not the first reproach of the kind that has been caston you, " answered Sibylla, with cutting sarcasm. 

He did not know what she meant, or in what sense to take the remark; buthis mind was too preoccupied to linger on it. "With these things staringme in the face, how can I find money for superfluous vanities? The timehas come when I am compelled to make a stand against it. I will, I must, have decent dwellings on my estate, and I shall set about the workwithout a day's loss of time. For that reason, if for no other, I cannotbuy the ponies. "

"I have bought them, " coolly interrupted Sibylla. 

"Then, my dear, you must forgive me if I countermand the purchase. I amresolute, Sibylla, " he continued, in a firm tone. "For the first timesince our marriage, I must deny your wish. I cannot let you bring me tobeggary, because it would also involve you. Another year or two of thisextravagance, and I should be on the verge of it. "

Sibylla flung his arms from her. "Do you want to keep me as a beggar? Iwill have the ponies!"

He shook his head. "The subject is settled, Sibylla. If you cannot thinkfor yourself, I must think for you. But it was not to speak of theponies that I brought you here. What is it that you owe to Mrs. Duff?"

Sibylla's colour heightened. "It is no business of yours, Lionel, what Iowe her. There may be some trifle or other down in her book. It will betime enough for you to concern yourself with my little petty debts whenyou are asked to pay them. "

"Then that time is the present one, with regard to Mrs. Duff. Sheapplied to me for the money this morning. At least, she asked if I wouldspeak to you--which is the same thing. She says you owe her thirty-twopounds. Sibylla, I had far rather been stabbed than have heard it. "

"A fearful sum, truly, to be doled out of your coffers!" cried Sibylla, sarcastically. "You'll never recover it, I should think!"

"Not that--not that, " was the reply of Lionel, his tone one of pain. "Sibylla! have you _no_ sense of the fitness of things? Is it seemly forthe mistress of Verner's Pride to keep a poor woman, as Mrs. Duff is, out of her money; a humble shopkeeper who has to pay her way as shegoes on?"

"I wish Fred had lived! He would never have taken me to task as you do. "

"I wish he had!" was the retort in Lionel's heart; but he bit his lipsto silence, exchanging the words, after a few minutes' pause, forothers. 

"You would have found Frederick Massingbird a less indulgent husband toyou than I have been, " he firmly said. "But these remarks areprofitless, and will add to the comfort of neither you nor me. Sibylla, I shall send, in your name, to pay this bill of Mrs. Duff's. Will yougive it me?"

"I dare say Benoite can find it, if you choose to ask her. "

"And, my dear, let me beg of you not to contract these paltry debts. There have been others, as you know. I do not like that Mrs. Verner'sname should be thus bandied in the village. What you buy in the village, pay for at once. "

"How can I pay while you stint me?"

"Stint you!" repeated Lionel, in amazement. "_Stint_ you!"

"It's nothing but stinting--going on at me as you do!" she sullenlyanswered. "You would like to deprive me of the horses I have set my mindupon! You know you would!"

"The horses you cannot have, Sibylla, " he answered, his tone a decisiveone. "I have already said it. "

It aroused her anger. "If you don't let me have the horses, and allother things I want, I'll go where I can have them. "

What did she mean? Lionel's cheek turned white with the taunt the wordsmight be supposed to imply. He held her two hands in his, pressing themnervously. 

"You shall not force me to quarrel with you, Sibylla, " he continued, with emotion. "I have almost registered a vow that no offensive word orconduct on your part shall make me forget myself for a moment; or renderme other than an ever considerate, tender husband. It may be that ourmarriage was a mistake for both of us; but we shall do well to make thebest of it. It is the only course remaining. "

He spoke in a strangely earnest tone; one of deep agitation. Sibylla wasaroused. She had believed that Lionel blindly loved her. Otherwise shemight have been more careful to retain his love--there's no knowing. 

"How do you mean that our marriage was a mistake for both of us?" shehastily cried. 

"You do your best to remind me continually that it must be so, " was hisreply. 

"Psha!" returned Sibylla. And Lionel, without another word, quitted herand walked away. In these moments, above all others, would the image ofLucy Tempest rise up before his sight. Beat it down as he would, it wasever present to him. A mistake in his marriage! Ay; none save Lionelknew how fatal a one. 

He passed on direct to the terrace, avoiding the lawn, traversed it, andwent out at the large gates. Thence he made his way to Poynton's, theveterinary surgeon, who also dealt in horses. At least, dealt in them sofar as that he would buy and sell when employed to do so. 

The man was in his yard, watching a horse go through his paces. He cameforward to meet Lionel. 

"Mrs. Verner has been talking to you about some ponies, she tells me, "began Lionel. "What are they?"

"A very handsome pair, sir. Just the thing for a lady to drive. They areto be sold for a hundred and fifty pounds. It's under their value. "

"Spirited?"

"Yes. They have their mettle about them. Good horses always have, youknow, sir. Mrs. Verner has given me the commission. "

"Which I am come to rescind, " replied Lionel, calling up a light smileto his face. "I cannot have my wife's neck risked by her attempting todrive spirited ponies, Poynton. She knows nothing of driving, isconstitutionally timid, and--in short, I do not wish the orderexecuted. "

"Very well, sir, " was the man's reply. "There's no harm done. I was atVerner's Pride with that horse that's ill, and Mrs. Verner spoke to meabout some ponies. It was only to-day I heard these were in the market, and I mentioned them to her. But, for all I know, they may be alreadysold. "

Lionel turned to walk out of the yard. "After Mrs. Verner shall havelearned to drive, then we shall see; perhaps we may buy a pair, " heremarked. "My opinion is that she will not learn. After a trial or twoshe will give it up. "

"All right, sir. "

CHAPTER LVI. 

A LIFE HOVERING IN THE BALANCE. 

Jan was coming up the road from Deerham with long strides, as Lionelturned out of Poynton's yard. Lionel advanced leisurely to meet him. 

"One would think you were walking for a wager, Jan!"

"Ay, " said Jan. "This is my first round to-day. Bitterworths have sentfor me in desperate haste. Folks always get ill at the wrong time. "

"Why don't you ride?" asked Lionel, turning with Jan, and stepping outat the same pace. 

"There was no time to get the horse ready. I can walk it nearly as fast. I have had no breakfast yet. "

"No breakfast!" echoed Lionel. 

"I dived into the kitchen and caught up a piece of bread out of thebasket. Half my patients must do without me to-day. I have only just gotaway from Hook's. "

"How is the girl?"

"In great danger, " replied Jan. 

"She is ill, then?"

"So ill, that I don't think she'll last the day out. The child's dead. Imust cut across the fields back there again, after I have seen what'samiss at Bitterworth's. "

The words touching Alice Hook caused quite a shock to Lionel. "It willbe a sad thing, Jan, if she should die!"

"I don't think I can save her. This comes of the ghost. I wonder howmany more folks will get frightened to death. "

Lionel paused. "Was it really that alone that frightened the girl, andcaused her illness? How very absurd the thing sounds! And yet serious. "

"I can't make it out, " remarked Jan. "Here's Bourne now, says he saw it. There's only one solution of the riddle that I can come to. "

"What's that?" asked Lionel. 

"Well, " said Jan, "it's not a pleasant one. "

"You can tell it me, Jan, pleasant or unpleasant. "

"Not pleasant for you, I mean, Lionel. I'll tell you if you like. "

Lionel looked at him. 

"Speak!"

"I think it must be Fred Massingbird himself. "

The answer appeared to take Lionel by surprise. Possibly he had notadmitted the doubt. 

"Fred Massingbird himself; I don't understand you, Jan. "

"Fred himself, in life, " repeated Jan. "I fancy it will turn out that hedid not die in Australia. He may have been very ill perhaps, and theyfancied him dead; and now he is well, and has come over. "

Every vestige of colour forsook Lionel's face. 

"Jan!" he uttered, partly in terror, partly in anger. "Jan!" he repeatedfrom between his bloodless lips. "Have you thought of the position inwhich your hint would place my wife?--the reflection it would cast uponher? How dare you?"

"You told me to speak, " was Jan's composed answer. "I said you'd notlike it. Speaking of it, or keeping silence, won't make it any thebetter, Lionel. "

"What could possess you to think of such a thing?"

"There's nothing else that I can think of. Look here! _Is_ there such athing as a ghost? Is that probable?"

"Nonsense! No, " said Lionel. 

"Then what can it be, unless it's Fred himself? Lionel, were I you, I'dlook the matter full in the face. It is Fred Massingbird, or it is not. If not, the sooner the mystery is cleared up the better, and the fellowbrought to book and punished. It's not to be submitted to that he is tostride about for his own pastime, terrifying people to their injury. IsAlice Hook's life nothing? Were Dan Duff's senses nothing?--and, upon myword, I once thought there was good-bye to them. "

Lionel did not answer. Jan continued. 

"If it is Fred himself, the fact can't be long concealed. He'll be sureto make himself known. Why he should not do it at once, I can't imagine. Unless--"

"Unless what?" asked Lionel. 

"Well, you are so touchy on all points relating to Sibylla, that onehesitates to speak, " continued Jan. "I was going to say, unless he fearsthe shock to Sibylla; and would let her be prepared for it by degrees. "

"Jan, " gasped Lionel, "it would kill her. "

"No, it wouldn't, " dissented Jan. "She's not one to be killed by emotionof any sort. Or much stirred by it, as I believe, if you care for myopinion. It would not be pleasant for you or for her, but she'd not dieof it. "

Lionel wiped the moisture from his face. From the moment Jan had firstspoken, a conviction seemed to arise within him that the suggestionwould turn out to be only too true a one--that the ghost, in point offact, was Frederick Massingbird in life. 

"This is awful!" he murmured. "I would sacrifice my own life to saveSibylla from pain. "

"Where'd be the good of that?" asked practical Jan. "If it is FredMassingbird in the flesh, she's his wife and not your's; yoursacrificing yourself--as you call it, Lionel--would not make her any theless or the more so. I am abroad a good deal at night, especially now, when there's so much sickness about, and I shall perhaps come across thefellow. Won't I pin him if I get the chance. "

"Jan, " said Lionel, catching hold of his brother's arm to detain him ashe was speeding away, for they had reached the gate of Verner's Pride, "be cautious that not a breath of this suspicion escapes you. For mypoor wife's sake. "

"No fear, " answered Jan. "If it gets about, it won't be from me, mind. Iam going to believe in the ghost henceforth, you understand. Except toyou and Bourne. "

"If it gets about, " mechanically answered Lionel, repeating the wordswhich made most impression upon his mind. "You think it will get about?"

"Think! It's safe to, " answered Jan. "Had old Frost and Dan Duff andCheese not been great gulls, they'd have taken it for Fred himself; nothis ghost. Bourne suspects. From a hint he dropped to me just now atHook's, I find he takes the same view of the case that I do. "

"Since when have you suspected this, Jan?"

"Not for many hours. Don't keep me, Lionel. Bitterworth may be dying, for aught I know, and so may Alice Hook. "

Jan went on like a steam-engine. Lionel remained, standing at hisentrance-gate, more like a prostrate being than a living man. 

Thought after thought crowded upon him. If it was really FrederickMassingbird in life, how was it that he had not made his appearancebefore? Where had he been all this while? Considerably more than twoyears had elapsed since the supposed death. To the best of Lionel'srecollection, Sibylla had said Captain Cannonby _buried_ her husband;but it was a point into which Lionel had never minutely inquired. Allowthat Jan's suggestion was correct--that he did not die--where had hebeen since? What had prevented him from joining or seeking his wife?What prevented him doing it now? From what motive could he be inconcealment in the neighbourhood, stealthily prowling about at night?Why did he not appear openly? Oh, it could not--it could not beFrederick Massingbird!

Which way should he bend his steps? Indoors, or away? Not indoors! Hecould scarcely _bear_ to see his wife, with this dreadful uncertaintyupon him. Restless, anxious, perplexed, miserable, Lionel Verner turnedtowards Deerham. 

There are some natures upon whom a secret, awful as this, tells withappalling force, rendering it next to impossible to keep silence. Theimparting it to some friend, the speaking of it, appears to be a matterof dire necessity. It was so in this instance to Lionel Verner. 

He was on his way to the vicarage. Jan had mentioned that Mr. Bourneshared the knowledge--if knowledge it could be called; and he was one inwhom might be placed entire trust. 

He walked onwards, like one in a fever dream, nodding mechanically inanswer to salutations; answering he knew not what, if words were spokento him. The vicarage joined the churchyard, and the vicar was standingin the latter as Lionel came up, watching two men who were digging agrave. He crossed over the mounds to shake hands with Lionel. 

Lionel drew him into the vicarage garden, amidst the trees. It was shadythere; the outer world shut out from eye and ear. 

"I cannot beat about the bush; I cannot dissemble, " began Lionel, indeep agitation. "Tell me your true opinion of this business, for thelove of Heaven! I have come down to ask it of you. "

The vicar paused. "My dear friend, I feel almost afraid to give it toyou. "

"I have been speaking with Jan. He thinks it may be FrederickMassingbird--not dead, but alive. "

"I fear it is, " answered the clergyman. "Within the last half-hour Ihave fully believed that it is. "

Lionel leaned his back against a tree, his arms folded. Tolerably calmoutwardly; but he could not get the healthy blood back to his face. "Whywithin the last half-hour more than before?" he asked. "Has anythingfresh happened?"

"Yes, " said Mr. Bourne. "I went down to Hook's; the girl's not expectedto live the day through--but that you may have heard from Jan. In comingaway, your gamekeeper met me. He stopped, and began asking my advice ina mysterious manner--whether, if a secret affecting his master had cometo his knowledge, he ought, or ought not, to impart it to his master. Ifelt sure what the man was driving at--that it could be no other thingthan this ghost affair--and gave him a hint to speak out to me inconfidence; which he did. "

"Well?" rejoined Lionel. 

"He said, " continued Mr. Bourne, lowering his voice, "that he passed aman last night who, he was perfectly certain, was Frederick Massingbird. 'Not Frederick Massingbird's ghost, as foolish people were fancying, 'Broom added, 'but Massingbird himself. ' He was in doubt whether or notit was his duty to acquaint Mr. Verner; and so he asked me. I bade himnot acquaint you, " continued the vicar, "but to bury the suspicionwithin his own breast, breathing a word to none. "

Evidence upon evidence! Every moment brought less loop-hole of escapefor Lionel. "How can it be?" he gasped. "If he is not dead, where can hehave been all this while?"

"I conclude it will turn out to be one of those every-day occurrencesthat have little marvel at all in them. My thoughts were busy upon it, while standing over the grave yonder. I suppose he must have been to thediggings--possibly laid up there by illness; and letters may havemiscarried. "

"You feel little doubt upon the fact itself--that it is FrederickMassingbird?"

"I feel none. It is certainly he. Won't you come in and sit down?"

"No, no, " said Lionel; and, drawing his hand from the vicar's, he wentforth again, he, and his heavy weight. Frederick Massingbird alive!

CHAPTER LVII. 

A WALK IN THE RAIN. 

The fine September morning had turned to a rainy afternoon. A heavy misthung upon the trees, the hedges, the ground--something akin to the mistwhich had fallen upon Lionel Verner's spirit. The day had grown morelike 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. Hewas in the height of his fever dream. It is not an inapt name for hisstate of mind. His veins coursed as with fever; his thoughts took allthe vague uncertainty of a dream. Little heeded he that the weather hadbecome chilly, or that the waters fell upon him!

What must be his course? What ought it to be? The more he dwelt on therevelation of that day, the deeper grew his conviction that FrederickMassingbird was alive, breathing the very air that he breathed. Whatought 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 solvethe doubt--to set it at rest. But how? It could only be done byunearthing Frederick Massingbird; or he who bore so strange aresemblance to him. And where was he to be looked for? To track thehiding-place of a "ghost" is not an easy matter; and Lionel had no cluewhere to find the track of this one. If staying in the village, he mustbe concealed in some house; lying _perdu_ by day. It was very strangethat it should be so; that he should not openly show himself. 

There was another way by which perhaps the doubt might be solved--as itsuddenly occurred to Lionel. And that was through Captain Cannonby. Ifthis gentleman really was with Frederick Massingbird when he died, andsaw him buried, it was evident that it could not be Frederick come backto life. In that case, who or what it might be, Lionel did not stay tospeculate; his business lay in ascertaining by the most direct means inhis power, whether it was, or was not, Frederick Massingbird. How was itpossible to do this? how could it be possible to set the question atrest?

By a very simple process, it may be answered--the waiting for time andchance. Ay, but do you know what that waiting involves, in a case likethis? Think of the state of mind that Lionel Verner must live underduring the suspense!

He made no doubt that the man who had been under the tree on the lawn afew nights before, watching his window, whom they had set down as beingRoy, 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 tothe inhabitants and ask--have you seen Frederick Massingbird? or say toeach individual, I must send a police officer to search your house, forI suspect Frederick Massingbird is somewhere concealed, and I want tofind him. For _her_ sake he could not so much as breathe the name, inconnection with his being alive. 

Given that it was Frederick Massingbird, what could possibly prevent hismaking 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 waswatching for an opportunity to harm him--came into his mind. _That_, surely, could not be the solution! If he had taken FrederickMassingbird's wife to be his wife, he had done it in all innocence. Lionel spurned the notion as a preposterous one; nevertheless, aremembrance crossed him of the old days when the popular belief atVerner's Pride had been, that the younger of the Massingbirds was of aremarkably secretive and also of a revengeful nature. But all that hebarely 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 bentwith the most unmistakable signs of care, when something not unlike asmall white balloon came flying down the path. A lady, with her silkdress turned over her shoulders, leaving only the white lining exposedto 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 dignifiedposition. "I and Decima went to call on Mrs. Bitterworth, " sheexplained, "and Decima is staying there. It began to rain as I cameout, so I turned into the back walk and put my dress up to save it. Am Inot economical, Mr. Verner?"

She spoke quickly. Lionel thought it was done with a view to hide heragitation. "You cannot go home through this rain, Lucy. Let me take youindoors; we are close to Verner's Pride. "

"No, thank you, " said Lucy hastily, "I must go back to Lady Verner. Shewill not be pleased at Decima's staying out, therefore I must return. Poor Mrs. Bitterworth has had an attack of--what did they callit?--spasmodical croup, I think. She is better now, and begged Decima tostay with her the rest of the day; Mr. Bitterworth and the rest of themare out. Jan says it is highly dangerous for the time it lasts. "

"She has had something of the same sort before, I remember, " observedLionel. "I wish you would come in, Lucy. If you must go home, I willsend 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 afamiliar acquaintance at Lionel Verner's. He had observed it, if no oneelse had. Sibylla had once said to her that she hoped they should begreat friends, that Verner's Pride would see a great deal of her. Lucyhad never responded to the wish. A formal visit with Decima or LadyVerner 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 havemy parasol, you see. "

She took her dress up again as she spoke; not high, as it waspreviously, but turning it a little. "Lady Verner scolds me so if Ispoil my things, " she said, in a tone of laughing apology. "She buys mevery 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 itsbeing "no trouble, " that the "trouble was a pleasure, " as others mightindulge in. Fine phrases from them! from the one to the other! Neithercould have spoken them. 

Lucy said no more, and they walked on side by side in silence, bothunpleasantly self-conscious. Lionel's face had resumed its strangeexpression of care. Lucy had observed it when she came up to him; sheobserved 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 ofman. "

"May I know it?" she timidly said. 

"No, Lucy. If I could speak it, it would only give you pain; but it isof a private nature. Possibly it may be averted; it is at present asuspected dread, not a confirmed one. Should it become confirmed, youwill learn it in common with all the world. "

She looked up at him, puzzled; sympathy in her mantling blush, in hersoft, dark, earnest eyes. He could not avoid contrasting that truthfulface 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 acareless smile. 

"Don't let it give you concern, Lucy. My troubles must rest upon my ownhead. ". 

"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, andI 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 havedone him harm. "

"You!" echoed Lucy. "And have you?"

"Yes. Unwittingly. It seems to be my fate, I think, to work harmupon--upon those whom I would especially shield from it. "

Did he allude to her? Lucy thought so, and the flush on her cheeksdeepened. At that moment the rain began to pour down heavily. They werethen passing the thicket of trees where those adventurous ghost-huntershad taken up their watch a few nights previously, in view of the WillowPond. Lucy stepped underneath their branches. 

"Now, " said Lionel, "should you have done well to accept my offer ofVerner's Pride as a shelter, or not?"

"It may only be a passing storm, " observed Lucy. "The rain then wasnothing. "

Lionel took her parasol and shook the wet off it. He began to wonder howLucy would get home. No carriage could be got to that spot, and therain, coming down now, was not, in his opinion, a passing storm. 

"Will you promise to remain here, Lucy, while I get an umbrella?" hepresently asked. 

"Why! where could you get an umbrella from?"

"From Hook's, if they possess such a thing. If not, I can get one fromBroom'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 stridingthrough an opening in the trees, but Jan. Jan was on his way from Hook'scottage, a huge brown cotton umbrella over his head, more useful thanelegant. 

"What, is that you, Miss Lucy! Well, I should as soon have thought ofseeing Mrs. Peckaby's white donkey!"

"I am weather-bound, Jan, " said Lucy. "Mr. Verner was about to get me anumbrella. "

"To see if I could get one, " corrected Lionel. "I question if the Hookspossess such a commodity. "

"Not they, " cried Jan. "The girl's rather better, " added heunceremoniously. "She may get through it now; at least there's a shadeof 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, givenwith 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 itabates?" asked Lionel. 

Lucy looked up at the skies, stretching her head beyond the trees to doso. 

"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 dependentmanner which she had brought from school with her, and which sheprobably would never lose. "She would scold me for walking out in them. "

Lionel smiled, and held the great umbrella--large enough for acarriage--close to the trees, that it might shelter her as she cameforth. 

"Take my arm, Lucy. "

She hesitated for a single moment--a hesitation so temporary that anyother than Lionel could not have observed it, and then took his arm. Andagain they walked on in silence. In passing down Clay Lane--the wayLionel 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 forsaying it to you. "

Mrs. Peckaby clasped her hands together. 

"It'll come!" she murmured. "Sometimes, sir, when my patience is wellnigh exhausted, I has a vision of the New Jerusalem in the night, and isrevived. It'll come, sir, the quadruple'll come!"

"I wonder, " laughed Lucy, as they walked on, "whether she will go on tothe end of her life expecting it?"

"If her husband will allow her, " answered Lionel. "But by what I haveheard since I came home, his patience is--as she says by her own withreference to the white 'quadruple'--well nigh exhausted. "

"He told Decima, the other day, that he was sick of the theme and of herfolly, and he wished the New Jerusalem had her and the white donkeytogether. Here we are!" added Lucy, as they came in front of DeerhamCourt. "Lionel, please, let me go in the back way--Jan's way. And thenLady Verner will not see me. She will say I ought not to have comethrough the rain. "

"She'll see the shoes and the silk dress, and she'll say you should havestopped at Verner's Pride, as a well-trained young lady ought, " returnedLionel. 

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 havegiven 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'sanswer. 

CHAPTER LVIII. 

THE THUNDER-STORM. 

A wet walk back Lionel certainly had; but, wet or dry, it was all thesame in his present distressed frame of mind. Arrived at Verner's Pride, he found his wife dressed for dinner, and the centre of a host of guestsgay as she was. No opportunity, then, to question her about FrederickMassingbird's death, and how far Captain Cannonby was cognisant of theparticulars. 

He had to change his own things. It was barely done by dinner-time; andhe sat down to table, the host of many guests. His brow was smooth, hisspeech was courtly; how could any of them suspect that a terrible dreadwas gnawing at his heart? Sibylla, in a rustling silk dress and acoronet of diamonds, sat opposite to him, in all her dazzling beauty. Had she suspected what might be in store for her, those smiles would nothave chased each other so incessantly on her lips. 

Sibylla went up to bed early. She was full of caprices as a waywardchild. Of a remarkably chilly nature--as is the case, sometimes, wherethe constitution is delicate--she would have a fire in her dressing-roomnight and morning all the year round, even in the heat of summer. Itpleased her this evening to desert her guests suddenly; she had theheadache, she said. 

The weather on this day appeared to be as capricious as Sibylla, asstrangely curious as the great fear which had fallen upon Lionel. Thefine morning had changed to the rainy, misty, chilly afternoon; theafternoon to a clear, bright evening; and that evening had now becomeovercast with portentous clouds. 

Without much warning the storm burst forth; peals of thunderreverberated through the air, flashes of forked lightning played in thesky. Lionel hastened upstairs; he remembered how these storms terrifiedhis wife. 

She had knelt down to bury her head amidst the soft cushions of a chairwhen Lionel entered her dressing-room. "Sibylla!" he said. 

[Illustration: "Sibylla!" he said. ]

Up she started at the sound of his voice, and flew to him. There lay herprotection; and in spite of her ill-temper and her love of aggravation, she felt and recognised it. Lionel held her in his sheltering arms, bending her head down upon his breast, and drawing his coat over it, sothat she might see no ray of light--as he had been wont to do in formerstorms. As a timid child was she at these times, humble, loving, gentle;she felt as if she were on the threshold of the next world, that thenext moment might be her last. Others have been known to experience thesame dread in a thunder-storm; and, to be thus brought, as it were, faceto face with death, takes the spirit out of people. 

He stood, patiently holding her. Every time the thunder burst abovetheir heads, he could feel her heart beat against his. One of her armswas round him; the other he held; all wet it was with fear. He did notspeak; he only clasped her closer every now and then, that she might bereminded of her shelter. 

Twenty minutes or so, and the violence of the storm abated. Thelightning grew less frequent, the thunder distant and more distant. Atlength the sound wholly ceased, and the lightning subsided into thatharmless sheet lightning which is so beautiful to look at in the far-offhorizon. 

"It is over, " he whispered. 

She lifted her head from its resting place. Her blue eye was bright withexcitement, her delicate cheek was crimson, her golden hair fell in adishevelled mass around. Her gala robes had been removed, with thediamond coronet, and the storm had surprised her writing a note in herdressing-gown. In spite of the sudden terror which overtook her, she didnot forget to put the letter--so far as had been written of it--safelyaway. It was not expedient that her husband's eyes should fall upon it. Sibylla had many answers to write now to importunate creditors. 

"Are you sure, Lionel?"

"Quite sure. Come and see how clear it is. You are not alarmed at thesheet lightning. "

He put his arm round her, and led her to the window. As he said, the skywas clear again. Nearly all traces of the storm had passed away; therehad been no rain with it; and, but for the remembrance of its sound intheir ears, they might have believed that it had not taken place. Thebroad lands of Verner's Pride lay spreading out before them, the lawnsand the terrace underneath; the sheet-lightning illumined the heavensincessantly, rendering objects nearly as clear as in the day. 

Lionel held her to his side, his arm round her. She trembledstill--trembled excessively; her bosom heaved and fell beneath his hand. 

"When I die, it will be in a thunder-storm, " she whispered. 

"You foolish girl!" he said, his tone half a joking one, wholly tender. "What can have given you this excessive fear of thunder, Sibylla?"

"I was always frightened at a thunder-storm. Deborah says mamma was. ButI was not so _very_ frightened until a storm I witnessed in Australia. It killed a man!" she added, shivering and nestling nearer to Lionel. 

"Ah!"

"It was only a few days before Frederick left me, when he and CaptainCannonby went away together, " she continued. "We had hired a carriage, and had gone out of the town ever so far. There was something to be seenthere; I forget what now; races perhaps. I know a good many people went;and an awful thunder-storm came on. Some ran under the trees forshelter; some would not; and the lightning killed a man. Oh, Lionel, Ishall never forget it! I saw him carried past; I saw his face! Sincethen I have felt ready to die myself with the fear. "

She turned her face, and hid it upon his bosom. Lionel did not attemptto soothe the _fear_; he knew that for such fear time alone is the onlycure. He whispered words of soothing to _her_; he stroked fondly hergolden hair. In these moments, when she was gentle, yielding, clingingto him for protection, three parts of his old love for her would comeback again. The lamp, which had been turned on to its full blaze oflight, was behind them, so that they might have been visible enough toanybody standing in the nearer portion of the grounds. 

"Captain Cannonby went away with Frederick Massingbird, " observedLionel, approaching by degrees to the questions he wished to ask. "Didthey start together?"

"Yes. Don't talk about it, Lionel. "

"My dear wife, I must talk about it, " he gravely answered. "You havealways put me off in this manner, so that I know little or nothing ofthe circumstances. I have a reason for wishing to become cognisant ofthose past particulars. Surely, " he added, a shade of deeper feeling inhis tone, "at this distance of time it cannot be so very painful to yourfeelings to speak of Frederick Massingbird. _I_ am by your side. "

"What is the reason that you wish to know?"

"A little matter that regarded him and Cannonby. Was Cannonby with himwhen he died?"

Sibylla, subdued still, yielded to the wish as she would probably haveyielded at no other time. 

"Of course he was with him. They were but a day's journey fromMelbourne. I forget the name of the place; a sort of small village orsettlement, I believe, where the people halted that were going to, orreturning from, the diggings. Frederick was taken worse as they gotthere, and in a few hours he died. "

"Cannonby remaining with him?"

"Yes. I am sure I have told you this before, Lionel. I told it to you onthe night of my return. "

He was aware she had. He could not say: "But I wish to press you uponthe points; to ascertain beyond doubt that Frederick Massingbird didreally die; that he is not living. " "Did Cannonby stay until he wasburied?" he asked aloud. 

"Yes. "

"You are sure of this?"

Sibylla looked at him curiously. She could not think why he wasrecalling this; why want to know it?

"I am sure of it only so far as that Captain Cannonby told me so, "replied Sibylla. 

The reservation struck upon him with a chill; it seemed to be aconfirmation of his worst fears. Sibylla continued, for he did notspeak--

"Of course he stayed with him until he was buried. When Captain Cannonbycame back to me at Melbourne, he said he had waited to lay him in theground. Why should he have said it, if he did not?"

"True, " murmured Lionel. 

"He said the burial-service had been read over him. I remember that, well. I reproached Captain Cannonby with not having come back to meimmediately, or sent for me that I might at least have seen him dead, ifnot alive. He excused himself by saying that he did not think I shouldlike to see him; and he had waited to bury him before returning. "

Lionel fell into a reverie. If this, that Captain Cannonby had stated, was correct, there was no doubt that Frederick Massingbird was safelydead and buried. But he could not be sure that it was correct; CaptainCannonby may not have relished waiting to see a dead man buried;although he had affirmed so much to Sibylla. A thousand pounds wouldLionel have given out of his pocket at that moment, for one minute'sinterview with Captain Cannonby. 

"Lionel!"

The call came from Sibylla with sudden intensity, half startling him. She had got one of her fingers pointed to the lawn. 

"Who's that--peeping forth from underneath the yew-tree?"

The same place, the same tree which had been pointed to by Lucy Tempest!An impulse, for which Lionel could not have accounted, caused him toturn round and put out the lamp. 

"Who can it be?" wondered Sibylla. "He appears to be watching us. Howfoolish of any of them to go out! _I_ should not feel safe under a tree, although that lightning is only sheet-lightning. "

Every perceptive faculty that Lionel Verner possessed was strained uponthe spot. He could make out a tall man; a man whose figure bore--unlesshis eyes and his imagination combined to deceive him--a strongresemblance to Frederick Massingbird's. Had it come to it? Were he andhis rival face to face; was she, by his own side now, about to bebandied between them?--belonging, save by the priority of the firstmarriage ceremony, no more to one than to the other? A stifled cry, suppressed instantly, escaped his lips; his pulses stood still, and thenthrobbed on with painful violence. 

"Can you discern him, Lionel?" she asked. "He is going away--going backamidst the trees. Perhaps because he can't see us any longer, now youhave put the light out. Who is it? Why should he have stood there, watching us?"

Lionel snatched her to him with an impulsive gesture. He would havesacrificed his life willingly, to save Sibylla from the terriblemisfortune that appeared to be falling upon her. 

CHAPTER LIX. 

A CASUAL MEETING ON THE RIVER. 

A merry breakfast-table. Sibylla, for a wonder, up, and present at it. The rain of the preceding day, the storm of the night had entirelypassed away, and as fine a morning as could be wished was smiling on theearth. 

"Which of you went out before the storm was over, and ventured under thegreat yew-tree?"

It was Mrs. Verner who spoke. She looked at the different gentlemenpresent, and they looked at her. They did not know what she meant. 

"You _were_ under it, one of you, " persisted Sibylla. 

All, save one, protested that they had neither been out nor under thetree. That one--it happened to be Mr. Gordon, of whom casual mention hasbeen made--confessed to having been on the lawn, so far as crossing itwent; but he did not go near the tree. 

"I went out with my cigar, " he observed, "and had strolled some distancefrom the house when the storm came on. I stood in the middle of a fieldand watched it. It was grandly beautiful. "

"I wonder you were not brought home dead!" ejaculated Sibylla. 

Mr. Gordon laughed. "If you once witnessed the thunder-storms that weget in the tropics, Mrs. Verner, you would not associate these withdanger. "

"I have seen dreadful thunder-storms, apart from what we get here, aswell as you, Mr. Gordon, " returned Sibylla. 

"Perhaps you will deny that anybody's ever killed by them in thiscountry. But why did you halt underneath the yew-tree?"

"I did not, " he repeated. "I crossed the lawn, straight on to the upperend of the terrace. I did not go near the tree. "

"Some one did, if you did not. They were staring right up at mydressing-room window. I was standing at it with Mr. Verner. "

Mr. Gordon shook his head. "Not guilty, so far as I am concerned, Mrs. Verner. I met some man, when I was coming home, plunging into thethicket of trees as I emerged from them. It was he, possibly. "

"What man?" questioned Sibylla. 

"I did not know him. He was a stranger. A tall, dark man with stoopingshoulders, and something black upon his cheek. "

"Something black upon his cheek;" repeated Sibylla, thinking the wordsbore an odd sound. 

"A large black mark it looked like. His cheek was white--sallow would bethe better term--and he wore no whiskers, so it was a conspicuouslooking brand. In the moment he passed me, the lightning rendered theatmosphere as light as----"

"Sibylla!" almost shouted Lionel, "we are waiting for more tea in thisquarter. Never mind, Gordon. "

They looked at him with surprise. He was leaning towards his wife; hisface crimson, his tones agitated. Sibylla stared at him, and said, if hecalled out like that, she would not get up another morning. Lionelreplied, talking fast; and just then the letters were brought in. Altogether, the subject of the man with the mark upon his cheek droppedout of the discussion. 

Bread fast over, Lionel put his arm within Mr. Gordon's and drew himoutside upon the terrace. Not to question him upon the man he hadseen--Lionel would have been glad that that encounter should pass out ofMr. Gordon's remembrance, as affording less chance of Sibylla's hearingof it again--but to get information on another topic. He had beenrapidly making up his mind during the latter half of breakfast, and hadcome to a decision. 

"Gordon, can you inform me where Captain Cannonby is to be found?"

"Can you inform me where the comet that visited us last year may be metwith this?" returned Mr. Gordon. "I'd nearly as soon undertake to findout the locality of the one as of the other. Cannonby did go to Paris;but where he may be now, is quite another affair. "

"Was he going there for any length of time?"

"I fancy not. Most likely he is back in London by this time. Had he toldme he was coming back, I should have paid no attention to it. He neverknows his own mind two hours together. "

"I particularly wish to see him, " observed Lionel. "Can you give me anyaddress where he may be found in London?--if he has returned?"

"Yes. His brother's in Westminster. I can give you the exact number andaddress by referring to my notebook. When Cannonby's in London, he makesit his headquarters. If he is away, his brother may know where he is. "

"His brother may be out of town also. Few men are in it at this season. "

"If they can get out. But Dr. Cannonby can't. He is a physician, andmust stop at his post, season or no season. "

"I am going up to town to-day, " remarked Lionel, "and----"

"You are! For long?"

"Back to-morrow, I hope; perhaps to-night. If you will give me theaddress, I'll copy it down. "

Lionel wrote it down; but Mr. Gordon told him there was no necessity;any little ragged boy in the street could direct him to Dr. Cannonby's. Then he went to make his proposed journey known to Sibylla. She wasstanding near one of the terrace pillars, looking up at the sky, hereyes shaded with her hand. Lionel drew her inside an unoccupied room. 

"Sibylla, a little matter of business is calling me to London, " he said. "If I can catch the half-past ten train, I may be home again to-night, late. "

"How sudden!" cried Sibylla. "Why didn't you tell me? What weather shallwe have to-day, do you think?"

"Fine. But it is of little consequence to me whether it be fine or wet. "

"Oh! I was not thinking of you, " was the careless reply. "I want it tobe fine for our archery. "

"Good-bye, " he said, stooping to kiss her. "Take care of yourself. "

"Lionel, mind, I shall have the ponies, " was her answer, given in apouting, pretty, affected manner. 

Lionel smiled, shook his head, took another kiss, and left her. Oh, ifhe could but shield her from the tribulation that too surely seemed tobe ominously looming!

The lightest and fleetest carriage he possessed had been made ready, andwas waiting for him at the stables. He got in there, and drove off withhis groom, saying farewell to none, and taking nothing with him but anovercoat. As he drove past Mrs. Duff's shop, the remembrance of the billcame over him. He had forwarded the money to her the previous night inhis wife's name. 

He caught the train; was too soon for it; it was five minutes behindtime. If those who saw him depart could but have divined the errand hewas bent on, what a commotion would have spread over Deerham! If thehandsome lady, seated opposite to him, the only other passenger in thatcompartment, could but have read the cause which rendered him soself-absorbed, so insensible to her attractions, she would have gazed athim with far more interest. 

"Who is that gentleman?" she privately asked of the guard when she gotthe opportunity. 

"Mr. Verner, of Verner's Pride. "

He sat back on his seat, heeding nothing. Had all the pretty women ofthe kingdom been ranged before him, in a row, they had been nothing toMr. Verner then. Had Lucy Tempest been there, he had been equallyregardless of her. If Frederick Massingbird were indeed in life, Verner's Pride was no longer his. But it was not of that he thought; itwas of the calamity that would involve his wife. A calamity which, tothe refined, sensitive mind of Lionel Verner, was almost worse thandeath itself. 

What would the journey bring forth for him? Should he succeed in seeingCaptain Cannonby? He awaited the fiat with feverish heat; and wished thefast express engine would travel faster. 

The terminus gained at last, a hansom took him to Dr. Cannonby's. It washalf-past two o'clock. He leaped out of the cab and rang, entering thehall when the door was opened. 

"Can I see Dr. Cannonby?"

"The doctor's just gone out, sir. He will be home at five. "

It was a sort of checkmate, and Lionel stood looking at the servant--asif the man could telegraph some impossible aerial message to his masterto bring him back then. 

"Is Captain Cannonby staying here?" was his next question. 

"No, sir. He was staying here, but he went away this morning. "

"He is home from Paris then?"

"He came back two or three days ago, sir, " replied the servant. 

"Do you know where he is gone?"

"I don't, sir. I fancy it's somewhere in the country. "

"Dr. Cannonby would know?"

"I dare say he would, sir. I should think so. "

Lionel turned to the door. Where was the use of his lingering? He lookedback to ask a question. 

"You are sure that Captain Cannonby has gone out of town?"

"Oh, yes, sir. "

He descended the steps, and the man closed the door upon him. Whereshould he go? What should he do with himself for the next two and a halfmortal hours? Go to his club? Or to any of the old spots of his Londonlife? Not he; some familiar faces might be in town; and he was in nomood for familiar faces then. 

Sauntering hither, sauntering thither, he came to Westminster Bridge. One of the steamers was approaching the pier to take in passengers, onits way down the river. For want of some other mode in which to employhis time, Lionel went down to the embarking place, and stepped on board. 

Does _any_thing in this world happen by chance? What secret unknownimpulse could have sent Lionel Verner on board that steamer? Had Dr. Cannonby been at home he would not have gone near it; had he turned tothe right hand instead of to the left, on leaving Dr. Cannonby's house, the boat would never have seen him. 

It was not crowded, as those steamers sometimes are crowded, suggestingvisions of the bottom of the river. The day was fine; warm forSeptember, but not too hot; the gliding down the stream delightful. Witha heart at ease, Lionel would have found it so; as it was, he couldscarcely have told whether he was going down the stream or up, whetherit was wet or dry. He could see but one thing--the image of FrederickMassingbird. 

As the boat drew up to the Temple Pier, the only person waiting toembark was a woman; a little body in a faded brown silk dress. Whether, seeing his additional freight was to be so trifling, the manager of thesteamer did not take the usual care to bring it alongside, certain itis, that in some way the woman fell, in stepping on board; her knees onthe boat, her feet hanging down to the water. Lionel, who was sittingnear, sprang forward and pulled her out of danger. 

"I declare I never ought to come aboard these nasty steamers!" sheexclaimed, as he placed her in a seat. "I'm greatly obliged to you, sir;I might have gone in, else; there's no saying. The last time I wasaboard one I was in danger of being killed. I fell through theport-hole, sir. "

"Indeed!" responded Lionel, who could not be so discourteous as not toanswer. "Perhaps your sight is not good?"

"Well, yes it is, sir, as good as most folks, at middle age. I get timidaboard 'em, and it makes me confused and awkward, and I suppose I don'tmind where I put my feet. This was in Liverpool, sir, a week or two ago. It was a passenger-ship just in from Australia, and the bustle andconfusion aboard was dreadful--they say it's mostly so with them vesselsthat are coming home. I had gone down to meet my husband, sir; he hasbeen away four years--and it's a pity he ever went, for all the good hehas done. But he's back safe himself, so I must not grumble. "

"That's something, " said Lionel. 

"True, sir. It would have been a strange thing if I had lost my lifejust as he had come home. And I should, but for a gentleman on board. Heseized hold of me by the middle, and somehow contrived to drag me upagain. A strong man he must have been! I shall always remember him withgratitude, I'm sure; as I shall you, sir. His name, my husband told meafterwards, was Massingbird. "

All Lionel's inertness was gone at the sound of the name. "Massingbird?"he repeated. 

"Yes, sir. He had come home in the ship from the same port as myhusband--Melbourne. Quite a gentleman, my husband said he was, withgrand relations in England. He had not been out there over long--hardlyas long as my husband, I fancy--and my husband don't think he has mademuch, any more than himself has. "

Lionel had regained all his outward impassiveness. He stood by thetalkative woman, his arms folded. "What sort of a looking man was thisMr. Massingbird?" he asked. "I knew a gentleman once of that name, whowent to Australia. "

The woman glanced up at him, measuring his height. "I should say he wasas tall as you, sir, or close upon it, but he was broader made, and hadgot a stoop in the shoulders. He was dark; had dark eyes and hair, and apale face. Not the clear paleness of your face, sir, but one of themsallow faces that get darker and yellower with travelling; never red. "

Every word was as fresh testimony to the suspicion that it was FrederickMassingbird. "Had he a black mark upon his cheek?" inquired Lionel. 

"Likely he might have had, sir, but I couldn't see his cheeks. He wore asort of fur cap with the ears tied down. My husband saw a good bit ofhim on the voyage, though he was only a middle-deck passenger, and thegentleman was a cabin. His friends have had a surprise before this, " shecontinued, after a pause. "He told my husband that they all supposed himdead; had thought he had been dead these two years past and more; and hehad never sent home to contradict it. "

Then it _was_ Frederick Massingbird! Lionel Verner quitted the woman'sside, and leaned over the rail of the steamer, apparently watching thewater. He could not, by any dint of reasoning or supposition, make outthe mystery. How Frederick Massingbird could be alive; or, being alive, why he had not come home before to claim Sibylla--why he had not claimedher before she left Australia--why he did not claim her now he was come. A man without a wife might go roving where he would and as long as hewould, letting his friends think him dead if it pleased him; but a manwith a wife could not in his sane senses be supposed to act so. It was astrange thing, his meeting with this woman--a singular coincidence; onethat he would hardly have believed, if related to him, as happening toanother. 

It was striking five when he again knocked at Dr. Cannonby's. He wishedto see Captain Cannonby still; it would be the crowning confirmation. But he had no doubt whatever that that gentleman's report would be: "Isaw Frederick Massingbird die--as I believed--and I quitted himimmediately. I conclude that I must have been in error in supposing hewas dead. "

Dr. Cannonby had returned, the servant said. He desired Lionel to walkin, and threw open the door of the room. Seven or eight people weresitting in it, waiting. The servant had evidently mistaken him for apatient, and placed him there to wait his turn with the rest. He tookhis card from his pocket, wrote on it a few words, and desired theservant to carry it to his master. 

The man came back with an apology. "I beg your pardon, sir. Will youstep this way?"

The physician was bowing a lady out as he entered the room--a room linedwith books, and containing casts of heads. He came forward to shakehands, a cordial-mannered man. He knew Lionel by reputation, but hadnever seen him. 

"My visit was not to you, but to your brother, " explained Lionel. "I wasin hopes to have found him here. "

"Then he and you have been playing at cross-purposes to-day, " remarkedthe doctor, with a smile. "Lawrence started this morning for Verner'sPride. "

"Indeed, " exclaimed Lionel. "Cross-purposes indeed!" he muttered tohimself. 

"He heard some news in Paris which concerned you, I believe, andhastened home to pay you a visit. "

"Which concerned me!" repeated Lionel. 

"Or rather Mrs. Massingbird--Mrs. Verner, I should say. "

A sickly smile crossed Lionel's lips. Mrs. Massingbird! Was it alreadyknown? "Why, " he asked, "did you call her Mrs. Massingbird?"

"I beg your pardon for my inadvertence, Mr. Verner, " was the reply ofDr. Cannonby. "Lawrence knew her as Mrs. Massingbird, and on his returnfrom Australia he frequently spoke of her to me as Mrs. Massingbird, sothat I got into the habit of thinking of her as such. It was not untilhe went to Paris that he heard she had exchanged the name for that ofVerner. "

A thought crossed Lionel that _this_ was the news which had takenCaptain Cannonby down to him. He might know of the existence ofFrederick Massingbird, and had gone to break the news to him, Lionel;to tell him that his wife was not his wife. 

"You do not know precisely what his business was with me?" he inquired, quite wistfully. 

"No, I don't. I don't know that it was much beyond the pleasure ofseeing you and Mrs. Verner. "

Lionel rose. "If I----"

"But you will stay and dine with me, Mr. Verner?"

"Thank you, I am going back at once. I wished to be home this evening ifpossible, and there's nothing to hinder it now. "

"A letter or two has come for Lawrence since the morning, " observed thedoctor, as he shook hands. "Will you take charge of them for him?"

"With pleasure. "

Dr. Cannonby turned to a letter rack over the mantel-piece, selectedthree letters from it, and handed them to Lionel. 

Back again all the weary way. His strong suspicions were no longersuspicions now, but confirmed certainties. The night grew dark; it wasnot darker than the cloud which had fallen upon his spirit. 

Thought was busy in his brain. How could it be otherwise? Should he gethome to find the news public property? Had Captain Cannonby made itknown to Sybilla? Most fervently did he hope not. Better that he, Lionel, should be by her side to help her to bear it when the dreadfulnews came out. Next came another thought. Suppose Frederick Massingbirdshould have discovered himself? should have gone to Verner's Pride totake possession? _his_ home now; his wife. Lionel might get back to findthat he had no longer a place there. 

Lionel found his carriage waiting at the station. He had ordered it tobe so. Wigham was with it. A very coward now, he scarcely dared askquestions. 

"Has Captain Cannonby arrived at the house to-day, do you know, Wigham?"

"Who, sir?"

"A strange gentleman from London. Captain Cannonby. "

"I can't rightly say, sir. I have been about in the stables all day. Isaw a strange gentleman cross the yard just at dinner-time, one I'dnever seen afore. May be it was him. "

A feeling came over Lionel that he could not see Captain Cannonby beforethem all. Better send for him to a private room, and get thecommunication over. What his after course would be was another matter. Yes; better in all ways. 

"Drive round to the yard, Wigham, " he said, as the coachman was about toturn on to the terrace. And Wigham obeyed. 

He stepped out. He went in at the back door, almost as if he wereslinking into the house, stealthily traversed the passages, and gainedthe lighted hall. At the very moment that he put his feet on itstessellated floor, a sudden commotion was heard up the stairs. A doorwas flung open, and Sibylla, with cheeks inflamed and breath panting, flew down, her convulsive cries echoing through the house. She sawLionel, and threw herself into his arms. 

"Oh, Lionel, what is this wicked story?" she sobbed. "It is not true! Itcannot be true that I am not your wife, that----"

"Hush, my darling!" he whispered, placing his hand across her mouth. "Weare not alone!"

They certainly were not! Out of the drawing-rooms, out of thedining-room, had poured the guests; out of the kitchen came peeping theservants. Deborah West stood on the stair like a statue, her handsclasped; and Mademoiselle Benoite frantically inquired what anybody hadbeen doing to her mistress. All stared in amazement. She, in thatterrible state of agitation; Lionel supporting her with his white andhaughty face. 

"It is nothing, " he said, waving them off. "Mrs. Verner is not well. Come with me, Sibylla. "

Waving them off still, he drew her into the study, closed the door, andbolted it. She clung to him like one in the extremity of terror, herthroat heaving convulsively. 

"Oh, Lionel! is it true that he is come back? That he did not die? Whatwill become of me? Tell me that they have been deceiving me; that it isnot true!"

[Illustration: "Tell me that it is not true!"]

He could not tell her so. He wound his arms tenderly round her and heldher face to his breast, and laid his own down upon it. "Strive forcalmness, " he murmured, his heart aching for her. "I will protect you solong as I shall have the power. "

CHAPTER LX. 

MISS DEB'S DISBELIEF. 

Miss Deborah West did not believe in ghosts. Miss Deb, setting aside afew personal weaknesses and vanities, was a strong-minded female, and nomore believed in ghosts than she did in Master Cheese's delicateconstitution, which required to be supplied with an unlimited quantityof tarts and other dainties to keep up his strength between meals. Thecommotion respecting Frederick Massingbird, that his ghost had arrivedfrom Australia, and "walked, " reached the ears of Miss Deb. It reachedthem in this way. 

Miss Deb and her sister, compelled to economy by the scanty allowanceafforded by Dr. West, had no more helpmates in the household departmentthan were absolutely necessary, and the surgery boy, Bob, found himselfsometimes pressed into aiding in the domestic service. One evening MissDeb entered the surgery, and caught Master Cheese revelling in a hatfulof walnuts by gaslight. This was the evening of the storm, previouslymentioned. 

"Where's Bob?" asked she. "I want a message taken to Mrs. Broom's aboutthose pickled mushrooms that she is doing for me. "

"Bob's out, " responded Master Cheese. "Have a walnut, Miss Deb?"

"I don't mind. Are they ripe?" answered Miss Deb. 

Master Cheese, the greediest chap alive, picked out the smallest hecould find, politely cracked it with his teeth, and handed it to her. 

"You'll not get Bob over to Broom's at this hour, " cried he. "Jan can'tget him to Mother Hook's with her medicine after dark. Unless it's madeup so that he can take it by daylight, they have to send for it. "

"What's that for?" asked Miss Deb. 

Master Cheese cracked on at his walnuts. "You have not heard the talethat's going about, I suppose, Miss Deb?" he presently said. 

"I have not heard any tale, " she answered. 

"And I don't know that I must tell it you, " continued Master Cheese, filling his mouth with five or six quarters at once, unpeeled. "Janordered me to hold my tongue indoors. "

"It would be more respectful, Master Cheese, if you said Mr. Jan, "rebuked Miss Deborah. "I have told you so often. "

"Who cares?" returned Master Cheese. "Jan doesn't. The fact is, MissDeb, that there's a ghost about at night just now. "

"Have they got up that folly again? Rachel Frost rests a great dealquieter in her grave than some of you do in your beds. "

"Ah, but it's not Rachel's this time, " significantly responded MasterCheese. "It's somebody else's. "

"Whose is it, then?" asked Miss Deb, struck with his manner. 

"I'll tell you if you won't tell Jan. It's--don't start, Miss Deb--it'sFred Massingbird's. "

Miss Deb did not start. She looked keenly at Master Cheese, believing hemight be playing a joke upon her. But there were no signs of joking inhis countenance. It looked, on the contrary, singularly serious, not tosay awe-struck, as he leaned forward to bring it nearer Miss Deborah's. 

"It is a fact that Fred Massingbird's ghost is walking, " he continued. "Lots have seen it. I have seen it. You'd have heard of it, as everybodyelse has, if you had not been Mrs. Verner's sister. It's an unpleasantlyqueer thing for her, you know, Miss Deb. "

"What utter absurdity!" cried Deborah. 

"Wait till you see it, before you say it's absurdity, " replied MasterCheese. "If it's not Fred Massingbird's ghost, it is somebody's that'sthe exact image of him. "

Miss Deborah sat down on a stone jar, and got Master Cheese to tell herthe whole story. That he should put in a few exaggerations, and soincrease the marvel, was only natural. But Deborah West heard sufficientto send her mind into a state of uneasy perplexity. 

"You say Mr. Jan knows of this?" she asked. 

"There's nobody about that doesn't know of it except you and the folksat Verner's Pride, " responded Master Cheese. "I say, don't you go andtell Jan that you made me betray it to you, Miss Deb! You'll get me intoa row if you do. "

But this was the very thing that Miss Deb resolved to do. Not to getMaster Cheese into a "row, " but that she saw no other way of allayingher uncertainty. Ghosts were utterly excluded from Deborah West's creed;and why so many people should be suddenly testifying that FrederickMassingbird's was to be seen, she could not understand. That there mustbe something in it more than the common absurdity of such tales, thestate of Alice Hook appeared to testify. 

"Can Bob be spared to go over to Broom's in the morning?" she asked, after a long pause of silence, given apparently to the contemplation ofMaster Cheese's intense enjoyment of his walnuts; in reality, to deepthought. 

"Well, I don't know, " answered the young gentleman, who never was readyto accord the services of Bob indoors, lest it might involve any littleextra amount of exertion for himself. "There's a sight of medicine to betaken out just now. Jan's got a great deal to do, and _I_ am nearlyworked off my legs. "

"It looks like it, " retorted Miss Deborah. "Your legs will never be muchthe worse for the amount of work _you_ do. Where's Mr. Jan?"

"He went out to go to Hook's, " replied Master Cheese, a desperately hardwalnut proving nearly too much for his teeth. "He'll take a round, Idare say, before he comes in. "

Deborah returned indoors. Though not much inclined to reticence ingeneral, she observed it now, saying nothing to Amilly. The storm cameon, and they sat and watched it. Supper time approached, and MasterCheese was punctual. He found some pickled herrings on the table, ofwhich he was uncommonly fond, and ate them as long as Miss West wouldsupply his plate. The meal was over when Jan came in. 

"Don't trouble to have anything brought back for me, " said he. "I'll eata bit of bread and cheese. " He was not like his assistant; his growingdays were over. 

Master Cheese went straight up to bed. He liked to do so as soon assupper was over, lest any summons came, and he should have to go out. Easy Jan, no matter how tired he might be, would attend himself, soonerthan wake up Master Cheese--a ceremony more easy to attempt than toaccomplish. Fortifying himself with about a pound of sweet cake, whichhe kept in his box, as dessert to the herrings, and to refresh hisdreams, Master Cheese put himself into bed. 

Jan meanwhile finished his bread and cheese, and rose. "I wonder whetherI shall get a whole night of it tonight?" said he, stretching himself. "I didn't have much bed last night. "

"Have you to go out again, Mr. Jan?"

"No. I shall look to the books a bit, and then turn in. Good night, MissDeborah; good-night, Miss Amilly. "

"Good-night, " they answered. 

Amilly drew to the fire. The chilly rain of the afternoon had causedthem to have one lighted. She put her feet on the fender, feeling thewarmth comfortable. Deborah sent the supper-tray away, and then left theroom. Stealing out of the side door quietly, she tripped across thenarrow path of wet gravel, and entered the surgery. Jan had got anaccount-book open on the counter, and was leaning over it, a pen in hishand. 

"Don't be frightened, Mr. Jan; it's only me, " said Deborah, who did notat all times confine herself to the rules of severe grammar. "I'll shutthe door, if you please, for I want to say a word to yourself alone. "

"Is it more physic that you want?" asked Jan. "Has the pain in the sidecome again?"

"It is not about pains or physic, " she answered, drawing nearer to thecounter. "Mr. Jan"--dropping her voice to a confidential whisper--"wouldyou be so good as to tell me the truth of this story that is goingabout?"

Jan paused. "What story?" he rejoined. 

"This ghost story. They are saying, I understand, that--that--they aresaying something about Frederick Massingbird. "

"Did Cheese supply you with the information?" cried Jan, imperturbableas ever. 

"He did. But I must beg you not to scold him for it--as he thought youmight do. It was I who drew the story from him. He said you cautionedhim not to speak of it to me or Amilly. I quite appreciate your motives, Mr. Jan, and feel that it was very considerate of you. But now that Ihave heard it, I want to know particulars from somebody more reliablethan Master Cheese. "

"I told Lionel I'd say nothing to any soul in the parish, " said Jan, open and single-minded as though he had been made of glass. "But he'dnot mind my making you an exception--as you have heard it. You areSibylla's sister. "

"_You_ don't believe in its being a ghost?"

Jan grinned. "I!" cried he. "No, I don't. "

"Then what do you suppose it is that's frightening people? And whyshould they be frightened?"

Jan sat himself down on the counter, and whirled his legs over to theother side, clearing the gallipots; so that he faced Miss Deborah. Notto waste time, he took the mortar before him. And there he was at hisease; his legs hanging, and his hands pounding. 

"What should you think it is?" inquired he. 

"How can I think, Mr. Jan? Until an hour or two ago, I had not heard ofthe rumour. I suppose it is somebody who walks about at night tofrighten people. But it is curious that he should look like FrederickMassingbird. Can you understand it?"

"I am afraid I can, " replied Jan, pounding away. 

"Will you tell me, please, what you think. "

"Can't you guess at it, Miss Deb?"

Miss Deb looked at him, beginning to think his manner as mysterious asMaster Cheese's had been. 

"I can't guess at it at all, " she presently said. "Please to tell me. "

"Then don't you go and drop down in a fit when you hear it, " was therejoinder of Jan. "I suppose it is Fred himself. "

The words took her utterly by surprise. Not at first did she understandtheir meaning. She stared at Jan, her eyes and her mouth graduallyopening. 

"Fred himself?" she mechanically uttered. 

"I suppose so. Fred himself. Not his ghost. "

"Do you mean that he has come to life again?" she rapidly rejoined. 

"Well, you can call it so if you like, " said Jan. "I expect that, inpoint of fact, he has never been dead. The report of his death must havebeen erroneous; one of those unaccountable mistakes that do sometimeshappen to astonish the world. "

Deborah West took in the full sense of the words, and sunk down on thebig stone jar. She turned all over of a burning heat; she felt her handsbeginning to twitch with emotion. 

"You mean that he is alive?--that he has never been dead?" she gasped. 

Jan nodded. 

"Oh, Mr. Jan! Then, what is--what is Sibylla?"

"Ah, " said Jan, "that's just it. She's the wife of both of 'em--as youmay say. "

For any petty surprise or evil, Miss Deborah would have gone off in asuccession of screams, of pseudo-faints. _This_ evil was all too real, too terrible. She sat with her trembling hands clasped to pain, lookinghopelessly at Jan. 

He told her all he knew; all that was said by others. 

"Dan Duff's nothing, " remarked he; "and Cheese is nothing; and others, who confess to have seen it, are nothing: and old Frost's not much. ButI'd back Bourne's calmness and sound sense against the world, and I'dback Broom's. "

"And they have both seen it?"

"Both, " replied Jan. "Both are sure that it is Frederick Massingbird. "

"What will Mr. Verner do?" she asked, looking round with a shudder, andnot speaking above her breath. 

"Oh, that's his affair, " said Jan. "It's hard to guess what he may do;he is one that won't be dictated to. If it were some people's case, they'd say to Sibylla, 'Now you have got two husbands, choose whichyou'll have, and keep to him. '"

"Good heavens, Mr. Jan!" exclaimed Miss Deb, shocked at the loosesentiments the words appeared to indicate. "And suppose she shouldchoose the second? Have you thought of the sin? The second _can't_ beher husband; it would be as bad as those Mormons. "

"Looking at it in a practical point of view, I can't see muchdifference, which of the two she chooses, " returned Jan. "If Fred washer husband once, Lionel's her husband now; practically I say you know, Miss Deb. "

Miss Deb thought the question was going rather into metaphysics, abranch of science which she did not understand, and so was content toleave the controversy. 

"Any way, it is dreadful for her, " she said, with another shiver. "Oh, Mr. Jan, do you think it can really be true?"

"_I_ think that there's not a doubt of it, " he answered, stopping in hispounding. "But you need not think so, Miss Deb. "

"How am I to help thinking so?" she simply asked. 

"You needn't think either way until it is proved. As I suppose it mustbe, shortly. Let it rest till then. "

"No, Mr. Jan, I differ from you. It is a question that ought to besought out and probed; not left to rest. Does Sibylla know it?"

"Not she. Who'd tell her? Lionel won't, I know. It was for her sake thathe bound me to silence. "

"She ought to be told, Mr. Jan. She ought to leave her husband--I mean, Mr. Lionel--this very hour, and shut herself up until the doubt issettled. "

"Where should she shut herself?" inquired Jan, opening his eyes. "In aconvent? Law, Miss Deb! If somebody came and told me I had got twowives, should you say I ought to make a start for the nearest monastery?How would my patients get on?"

Rather metaphysical again. Miss Deb drew Jan back to plain details--tothe histories of the various ghostly encounters. Jan talked and pounded;she sat on her hard seat and listened, her brain more perplexed than itcould have been with any metaphysics known to science. Eleven o'clockdisturbed them, and Miss Deborah started as if she had been shot. 

"How could I keep you until this time!" she exclaimed. "And you scarcelyin bed for some nights!"

"Never mind, Miss Deb, " answered good-natured Jan. "It's all in theday's work. "

He opened the door for her, and then bolted himself in for the night. For the night, that is, if Deerham would allow it to him. Hook'sdaughter was slowly progressing towards recovery, and Jan would not needto go to her. 

Amilly was nodding over the fire, or, rather, where the fire had been, for it had gone out. She inquired with wonder what her sister had beendoing, and where she had been. Deborah replied that she had been busy;and they went upstairs to bed. 

But not to sleep--for one of them. Deborah West lay awake through thelive-long night, tossing from side to side in her perplexity andthought. Somewhat strict in her notions, she deemed it a matter of sternnecessity, of positive duty, that Sibylla should retire, at any rate fora time, from the scenes of busy life. To enable her to do this, the newsmust be broken to her. But how?

Ay, how? Deborah West rose in the morning with the difficulty unsolved. She supposed she must do it herself. She believed it was as much a dutylaid upon her, the imparting these tidings to Sibylla, as the separatingherself from all social ties, the instant it was so imparted, would bethe duty of Sibylla herself. Deborah West went about her occupationsthat morning, one imperative sentence ever in her thoughts: "It must bedone! it must be done!"

She carried it about with her, ever saying it, through the whole day. She shrank, both for Sibylla's sake and her own, from the task she wasimposing upon herself; and, as we all do when we have an unpleasantoffice to perform, she put it off to the last. Early in the morning shehad said, I will go to Verner's Pride after breakfast and tell her;breakfast over, she said, I will have my dinner first and go then. 

But the afternoon passed on, and she did not go. Every little trivialdomestic duty was made an excuse for delaying it. Miss Amilly, findingher sister unusually bad company, went out to drink tea with somefriends. The time came for ordering in tea at home, and still Deborahhad not gone. 

She made the tea and presided at the table. But she could eatnothing--to the inward gratification of Master Cheese. There happened tobe shrimps--a dish which that gentleman preferred, if anything, topickled herrings; and by Miss Deborah's want of appetite he was able tosecure her share and his own, including the heads and tails. He woulduncommonly have liked to secure Jan's share also; but Miss Deborahfilled a plate and put them aside, against Jan came in. Jan's pressureof work caused him of late to be irregular at his meals. 

Scarcely was the tea over, and Master Cheese gone, when Mr. Bournecalled. Deborah, the one thought uppermost in her mind, closed the door, and spoke out what she had heard. The terrible fear, her own distress, Jan's belief that it was Fred himself, Jan's representation that Mr. Bourne also believed it. Mr. Bourne, leaning forward until his pale faceand his iron-gray hair nearly touched hers, whispered in answer that hedid not think there was a doubt of it. 

Then Deborah did nerve herself to the task. On the departure of thevicar, she started for Verner's Pride and asked to see Sibylla. Theservants would have shown her to the drawing-room, but she preferred togo up to Sibylla's chamber. The company were yet in the dining-room. 

How long Sibylla kept her waiting there, she scarcely knew. Sibylla wasnot in the habit of putting herself to inconvenience for her sisters. The message was taken to her--that Miss West waited in her chamber--asshe entered the drawing-room. And there Sibylla let her wait. One or twomore messages to the same effect were subsequently delivered. Theyproduced no impression, and Deborah began to think she should not get tosee her that night. 

But Sibylla came up at length, and Deborah entered upon her task. Whether she accomplished it clumsily, or whether Sibylla'sill-disciplined mind was wholly in fault, certain it is that thereensued a loud and unpleasant scene. The scene to which you were awitness. Scarcely giving herself time to take in more than the bare facthinted at by Deborah--that her first husband was believed to bealive--not waiting to inquire a single particular, she burst out of theroom and went shrieking down the stairs, flying into the arms of Lionel, who at that moment had entered. 

CHAPTER LXI. 

MEETING THE NEWS. 

Lionel Verner could not speak comfort to his wife; or, at the best, comfort of a most negative nature. He held her to him in the study, thedoor locked against intruders. They were somewhat at cross-purposes. Lionel supposed that the information had been imparted to her by CaptainCannonby; he never doubted but that she had been told FrederickMassingbird had returned and was on the scene; that he might come in anymoment--even that very present one as they spoke--to put in his claimto her. Sibylla, on the contrary, did not think (what little she wascapable of thinking) that Lionel had had previous information of thematter. 

"What am I to do?" she cried, her emotion becoming hysterical. "Oh, Lionel! don't you give me up!"

"I would have got here earlier had there been means, " he soothinglysaid, wisely evading all answer to the last suggestion. "I feared hewould be telling you in my I absence; better that you should have heardof it from me. "

She lifted her face to look at him. "Then you know it!"

"I have known it this clay or two. My journey to-day--"

She broke out into a most violent fit of emotion, shrieking, trembling, clinging to Lionel, calling out at the top of her voice that she wouldnot leave him. All his efforts were directed to stilling the noise. Heimplored her to be tranquil, to remember there were listeners around; hepointed out that, until the blow actually fell, there was no necessityfor those listeners to be made cognisant of it. All that he _could_ dofor her protection and comfort, he would do, he earnestly said. AndSibylla subsided into a softer mood, and cried quietly. 

"I'd rather die, " she sobbed, "than have this disgrace brought upon me. "

Lionel put her into the large arm-chair, which remained in the studystill, the old arm-chair of Mr. Verner. He stood by her and held herhands, his pale face grave, sad, loving, bent towards her with the mostearnest sympathy. She lifted her eyes to it, whispering--

"Will they say you are not my husband?"

"Hush, Sibylla! There are moments, even yet, when I deceive myself intoa fancy that it may be somewhat averted. _I cannot_ understand how hecan be alive. Has Cannonby told you whence the error arose?"

She did not answer. She began to shake again; she tossed back her goldenhair. Some blue ribbons had been wreathed in it for dinner; she pulledthem out and threw them on the ground, her hair partially falling withtheir departure. 

"I wish I could have some wine?"

He moved to the door to get it for her. "Don't you let _her_ in, Lionel, " she called out as he unlocked it. 

"Who?"

"That Deborah. I hate her now, " was the ungenerous remark. 

Lionel opened the door, called to Tynn, and desired him to bring wine. "What time did Captain Cannonby get here?" he whispered, as he took itfrom the butler. 

"Who, sir?" asked Tynn. 

"Captain Cannonby. "

Tynn paused, like one who does not understand. "There's no gentlemanhere of that name, sir. A Mr. Rushworth called to-day, and my mistressasked him to stay dinner. He is in the drawing-room now. There is noother stranger. "

"Has Captain Cannonby not been here at all?" reiterated Lionel. "He leftLondon this morning to come. "

Tynn shook his head to express a negative. "He has not arrived, sir. "

Lionel went in again, his feelings undergoing a sort of revulsion, forthere now peeped out a glimmer of hope. So long as the nearly certainconviction on Lionel's mind was not confirmed by positive testimony--ashe expected Captain Cannonby's would be--he could not entirely losesight of all hope. That he most fervently prayed the blow might notfall, might even now be averted, you will readily believe. Sibylla hadnot been to him the wife he had fondly hoped for; she provoked him everyhour in the day; she appeared to do what she could, wilfully to estrangehis affection. He was conscious of all this; he was all too consciousthat his inmost love was another's, not hers. But he lost sight ofhimself in anxiety for her; it was for her sake he prayed and hoped. Whether she was his wife by law or not; whether she was loved or hated, Lionel's course of duty lay plain before him now--to shield her, so faras he might be allowed, in all care and tenderness. He would have shedhis last drop of blood to promote her comfort; he would have sacrificedevery feeling of his heart for her sake. 

The wine in his hand, he turned into the room again. A change had takenplace in her aspect. She had left the chair, and was standing againstthe wall opposite the door, her tears dried, her eyes unnaturallybright, her cheeks burning. 

"Lionel, " she uttered, a catching of the breath betraying her emotion, "if _he_ is alive, whose is Verner's Pride?"

"His, " replied Lionel, in a low tone. 

She shrieked out, very much after the manner of a petulant child. "Iwon't leave it!--I won't leave Verner's Pride! You could not be so cruelas to wish me. Who says he is alive? Lionel, I ask you who it is thatsays he is alive?"

"Hush, my dear! This excitement will do you a world of harm, and itcannot mend the matter, however it may be. I want to know who told youof this, Sibylla. I supposed it to be Cannonby; but Tynn says Cannonbyhas not been here. "

The question appeared to divert her thoughts into another channel. "Cannonby! What should bring him here? Did you expect him to come?"

"Drink your wine, and then I will tell you, " he said, holding the glasstowards her. 

She pushed the wine from her capriciously. "I don't want wine now. I amhot. I should like some water. "

"I will get it for you directly. Tell me, first of all, how you came toknow of this?"

"Deborah told me. She sent for me out of the drawing-room where I was sohappy, to tell me this horrid tale. Lionel"--sinking her voice again toa whisper--"is--he--here?"

"I cannot tell you--"

"But you must tell me, " she passionately interrupted. "I will know. Ihave a right to know it, Lionel. "

"When I say I cannot tell you, Sibylla, I mean that I cannot tell youwith any certainty. I will tell you all I do know. Some one is in theneighbourhood who bears a great resemblance to him. He is seen sometimesat night; and--and--I have other testimony that he has returned fromAustralia. "

"What will be done if he comes here?"

Lionel was silent. 

"Shall you fight him?"

"Fight him!" echoed Lionel. "No. "

"You will give up Verner's Pride without a struggle! You will give upme! Then, are you a coward, Lionel Verner?"

"You know that I would give up neither willingly, Sibylla. "

Grievously pained was his tone as he replied to her. She was meetingthis as she did most other things--without sense or reason; not as athinking, rational being. Her manner was loud, her emotion violent; butdeep and true her grief was _not_. Depth of feeling, truth of nature, were qualities that never yet had place in Sibylla Verner. Not once, throughout all their married life, had Lionel been so painfullyimpressed with the fact as he was now. 

"Am I to die for the want of that water?" she resumed. "If you don'tget it for me I shall ring for the servants to bring it. "

He opened the door again without a word. He knew quite well that she hadthrown in that little shaft about ringing for the servants, because itwould not be pleasant to him that the servants should intrude upon themthen. Outside the door, about to knock at it, was Deborah West. 

"I must go home, " she whispered. "Mr. Verner, how sadly she is meetingthis!"

The very thought that was in Lionel's heart. But not to another would hecast a shade of reflection on his wife. 

"It is a terrible thing for any one to meet, " he answered. "I could havewished, Miss West, that you had not imparted it to her. Better that Ishould have done it, when it must have been done. "

"I did it from a good motive, " was the reply of Deborah, who was lookingsadly down-hearted, and had evidently been crying. "She ought to leaveyou until some certainty shall be arrived at. "

"Nonsense! No!" said Lionel. "I beg you--I _beg_ you, Miss West, notto say anything more that can distress or disturb her. Ifthe--the--explosion comes, of course it must come; and we must all meetit as we best may, and see then what is best to be done. "

"But it is not right that she should remain with you in thisuncertainty, " urged Deborah, who could be obstinate when she thought shehad cause. "The world will not deem it to be right. You should rememberthis. "

"I do not act to please the world. I am responsible to God and myconscience. "

"Responsible to--Good gracious, Mr. Verner!" returned Deborah, everyline in her face expressing astonishment. "You call keeping her with youacting as a responsible man ought! If Sibylla's husband is living, youmust put her away from your side. "

"When the time shall come. Until then, my duty--as I judge it--is tokeep her by my side; to shelter her from harm and annoyance, petty aswell as great. "

"You deem _that_ your duty!"

"I do, " he firmly answered. "My duty to her and to God. "

Deborah shook her head and her hands. "It ought not to be let go on, "she said, moving nearer to the study door. "I shall urge the leaving youupon her. "

Lionel calmly laid his hand upon the lock. "Pardon me, Miss West. Icannot allow my wife to be subjected to it. "

"But if she is not your wife?"

A streak of red came into his pale face. "It has yet to be proved thatshe is not. Until that time shall come, Miss West, she _is_ my wife, andI shall protect her as such. "

"You will not let me see her?" asked Deborah, for his hand was notlifted from the handle. 

"No. Not if your object be the motives you avow. Sleep a night upon it, Miss West, and see if you do not change your mode of thinking and comeover to mine. Return here in the morning with words of love and comfortfor her, and none will welcome you more sincerely than I. "

"Answer me one thing, Mr. Verner. Do you believe in your heart thatFrederick Massingbird is alive and has returned?"

"Unfortunately I have no resource but to believe it, " he replied. 

"Then, to your way of thinking I can never come, " returned Deborah insome agitation. "It is just sin, Mr. Verner, in the sight of Heaven. "

"I think not, " he quietly answered. "I am content to let Heaven judgeme, and the motives that actuate me; a judgment more merciful thanman's. "

Deborah West, in her conscientious, but severe rectitude, turned to thehall door and departed, her hands uplifted still. Lionel ordered Tynn toattend Miss West home. He then procured some water for his wife andcarried it in, as he had previously carried in the wine. 

A fruitless service. Sibylla rejected it. She wanted neither water noranything else, were all the thanks Lionel received, querulously spoken. He laid the glass upon the table, and, sitting down by her side in allpatience, he set himself to the work of soothing her, gently andlovingly as though she had been what she was showing herself--a waywardchild. 

CHAPTER LXII. 

TYNN PUMPED DRY. 

Miss West and Tynn proceeded on their way. The side path was dirty, andshe chose the middle of the road, Tynn walking a step behind her. Deborah was of an affable nature, Tynn a long-attached and valuedservant, and she chatted with him familiarly. Deborah, in her simplegood heart, could not have been brought to understand why she should notchat with him. Because he was a servant and she a lady, she thoughtthere was only the more reason why she should, that the man might not beunpleasantly reminded of the social distinction between them. 

She pressed down, so far as she could, the heavy affliction that wasweighing upon her mind. She spoke of the weather, the harvest, of Mrs. Bitterworth's recent dangerous attack, of other trifling topics patentat the moment to Deerham. Tynn chatted in his turn, never losing hisrespect of words and manner; a servant worth anything never does. Thusthey progressed towards the village, utterly unconscious that a pair ofeager eyes were following, and an evil tongue was casting anathemastowards them. 

The owner of the eyes and tongue was wanting to hold a few words ofprivate colloquy with Tynn. Could Tynn have seen right round the cornerof the pillar of the outer gate when he went out, he would have detectedthe man waiting there in ambush. It was Giles Roy. Roy was aware thatTynn sometimes attended departing visitors to the outer gate. Roy hadcome up, hoping that he might so attend them on this night. Tynn didappear, with Miss West, and Roy began to hug himself that fortune had sofar favoured him; but when he saw that Tynn departed with the lady, instead of only standing politely to watch her off, Roy growled outvengeance against the unconscious offenders. 

"He's a-going to see her home belike, " snarled Roy in soliloquy, following them with angry eyes and slow footsteps. "I must wait till hecomes back--and be shot to both of 'em!"

Tynn left Miss West at her own door, declining the invitation to go inand take a bit of supper with the maids, or a glass of beer. He wastrudging back again, his arms behind his back, and wishing himself athome, for Tynn, fat and of short breath, did not like much walking, when, in a lonely part of the road, he came upon a man sitting astrideupon a gate. 

"Hollo! is that you, Mr. Tynn? Who'd ha' thought of seeing you outto-night?"

For it was Mr. Roy's wish, from private motives of his own, that Tynnshould not know he had been looked for, but should believe theencounter to be accidental. Tynn turned off the road, and leaned hiselbow upon the gate, rather glad of the opportunity to stand a minuteand get his breath. It was somewhat up-hill to Verner's Pride, the wholeof the way from Deerham. 

"Are you sitting here for pleasure?" asked he of Roy. 

"I'm sitting here for grief, " returned Roy; and Tynn was not sharpenough to detect the hollow falseness of his tone. "I had to go up theroad to-night on a matter of business, and, walking back by Verner'sPride, it so overcame me that I was glad to bring myself to a anchor. "

"How should walking by Verner's Pride overcome you?" demanded Tynn. 

"Well, " said Roy, "it was the thoughts of poor Mr. And Mrs. Verner didit. He didn't behave to me over liberal in turning me from the place I'dheld so long under his uncle, but I've overgot that smart; it's past andgone. My heart bleeds for him now, and that's the truth. "

For Roy's heart to "bleed" for any fellow-creature was a marvel thateven Tynn, unsuspicious as he was, could not take in. Mrs. Tynnrepeatedly assured him that he had been born into the world with onesole quality--credulity. Certainly Tynn was unusually inclined to putfaith in fair outsides. Not that Roy could boast much of the latteradvantage. 

"What's the matter with Mr. Verner?" he asked of Roy. 

Roy groaned dismally. "It's a thing that is come to my knowledge, " saidhe--"a awful misfortin that is a-going to drop upon him. I'd not say aword to another soul but you, Mr. Tynn; but you be his friend if anybodybe, and I feel that I must either speak or bust. "

Tynn peered at Roy's face. As much as he could see of it, for the nightwas not a very clear one. 

"It seems quite a providence that I happened to meet you, " went on Roy, as if any meeting with the butler had been as far from his thoughts asan encounter with somebody at the North Pole. "Things does turn outlucky sometimes. "

"I must be getting home, " interposed Tynn. "If you have anything to sayto me, Roy, you had better say it. I may be wanted. "

Roy--who was standing now, his elbow leaning on the gate--brought hisface nearer to Tynn's. Tynn was also leaning on the gate. 

"Have you heered of this ghost that's said to be walking about Deerham?"he asked, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Have you heered whose theysay it is?"

Now, Tynn had heard. All the retainers, male and female, at Verner'sPride had heard. And Tynn, though not much inclined to give credence toghosts in a general way, had felt somewhat uneasy at the ale. More onhis mistress's account than on any other score; for Tynn had the senseto know that such a report could not be pleasing to Mrs. Verner, shouldit reach her ears. 

"I can't think why they do say it, " replied Tynn, answering the man'sconcluding question. "For my own part, I don't believe there's anythingin it. I don't believe in ghosts. "

"Neither didn't a good many more, till now that they have got orakelardemonstration of it, " returned Roy. "Dan Duff see it, and a'most losthis senses; that girl of Hook's see it, and you know, I suppose, what itdid for _her_; Broom see it; the parson see it; old Frost see it; andlots more. Not one on 'em but 'ud take their Bible oath, if put to it, that it is Fred Massingbird's ghost. "

"But it is not, " said Tynn. "It can't be. Leastways I'll never believeit till I see it with my own eyes. There'd be no reason in its comingnow. If it wanted to come at all, why didn't it come when it was firstburied, and not wait till over two years had gone by?"

"That's the point that I stuck at, " was Roy's answer. "When my wife camehome with the tales, day after day, that Fred Massingbird's spirit waswalking--that this person had seen it, and that person had seenit--'Yah! Rubbish!' I says to her. 'If his ghost had been a-coming, it'ud have come afore now. ' And so it would. "

"Of course, " answered Tynn. "_If_ it had been coming. But I have notlived to these years to believe in ghosts at last. "

"Then, what do you think of the parson, Mr. Tynn?" continued Roy, in astrangely significant tone. "And Broom--he have got his senses abouthim? How d'ye account for their believing it?"

"I have not heard them say that they do believe it, " responded Tynn, with a knowing nod. "Folks may go about and say that I believe it, perhaps; but that wouldn't make it any nearer the fact. And what hasall this to do with Mr. Verner?"

"I am coming to it, " said Roy. He took a step backward, looked carefullyup and down the road, lest listeners might be in ambush; stretched hisneck forward, and in like manner surveyed the field On either side thehedge. Apparently it satisfied him, and he resumed his close proximityto Tynn and his meaning whisper. "Can't you guess the riddle, Mr. Tynn?"

"I can't in the least guess what you mean, or what you are driving at, "was Tynn's response. "I think you must have been having a drop of drink, Roy. I ask what this is to my master, Mr. Verner?"

"Drink be bothered! I've not had a sup inside my mouth since midday, "was Roy's retort. "This secret has been enough drink for me, and meat, too. You'll keep counsel, if I tell it you, Mr. Tynn? Not but what itmust soon come out. "

"Well?" returned Tynn, in some surprise. 

"It's Fred Massingbird fast enough. But it's not his ghost. "

"What on earth do you mean?" asked Tynn, never for a moment glancing atthe fact of what Roy tried to imply. 

"_He_ is come back: Frederick Massingbird. He didn't die, over there. "

A pause, devoted by Tynn to staring and thinking. When the full sense ofthe words broke upon him, he staggered a step or two away from theex-bailiff. 

"Heaven help us, if it's true!" he uttered. "Roy! it _can't_ be!"

"It _is_, " said Roy. 

They stood looking at each other by starlight. Tynn's face had grown hotand wet, and he wiped it. "It can't be, " he mechanically repeated. 

"I tell you it _is_, Mr. Tynn. Now never you mind asking me how I cameto the bottom of it, " went on Roy in a sort of defiant tone. "I did cometo the bottom of it, and I do know it; and Mr. Fred, he knows that Iknow it. It's as sure that he is back, and in the neighbourhood, as thatyou and me is here at this gate. He is alive and he is among us--ascertain as that you are Mr. Tynn, and I be Giles Roy. "

There came flashing over Tynn's thoughts the scene of that very evening. His mistress's shrieks and agitation when she broke from Miss West; thecries and sobs which had penetrated to their ears when she was shutafterwards in the study with her husband. The unusual scene had beenproductive of gossiping comment among the servants and Tynn had believedsomething distressing must have occurred. Not this; he had never glanceda suspicion at this. He remembered the lines of pain which shone out atthe moment from his master's pale face, in spite of its impassiveness;and somehow that very face brought conviction to Tynn now, that Roy'snews was true. Tynn let his arms fall on the gate again with a groan. 

"Whatever will become of my poor mistress?" he uttered. 

"She!" slightingly returned Roy. "She'll be better off than him. "

"Better off than who?"

"Than Mr. Verner. She needn't leave Verner's Pride. He must. "

To expect any ideas but coarse ones from Roy, Tynn could not. But hisattention was caught by the last suggestion. 

"Leave Verner's Pride?" slowly repeated Tynn. "Must he?--good heavens!must my master be turned from Verner's Pride?"

"Where'll be the help for it?" asked Roy, in a confidential tone. "Itell you, Mr. Tynn, my heart's been a-bleeding for him ever since Iheard it. _I_ don't see no help for his turning out. I have beena-weighing it over and over in my mind, and I don't see none. Do you?"

Tynn looked very blank. He was feeling so. He made no answer, and Roycontinued, blandly confidential still. 

"If that there codicil, that was so much talked on, hadn't been lost, he'd have been all right, would Mr. Verner. No come-to-life-again FredMassingbird needn't have tried at turning him out. Couldn't it be huntedfor again, Mr. Tynn?"

Roy turned the tail of his eye on Tynn. Would his pumping take effect?Mrs. Tynn would have told him that her husband might be pumped dry, andnever know it. She was not far wrong. Unsuspicious Tynn went headlonginto the snare. 

"Where would be the good of hunting for it again--when every conceivableplace was hunted for it before?" he asked. 

"Well, it was a curious thing, that codicil, " remarked Roy. "Has it_never_ been heered on?"

Tynn shook his head. "Never at all. What an awful thing this is, if it'strue!"

"It is true, I tell ye, " said Roy. "You needn't doubt it. There was areport a short while agone that the codicil had been found, and Matisshad got it in safe keeping. As I sat here, afore you come up, I wasthinking how well it 'ud have served Mr. Verner's turn just now, if it_was_ true. "

"It is not true, " said Tynn. "All sorts of reports get about. Thecodicil has never been found, and never been heard of. "

"What a pity!" groaned Roy, with a deep sigh. "I'm glad I've told ityou, Mr. Tynn! It's a heavy secret for a man to carry about inside ofhim. I must be going. "

"So must I, " said Tynn. "Roy, are you sure there's no mistake?" headded. "It seems a tale next to impossible. "

"Well, now, " said Roy, "I see you don't half believe me. You must wait afew days, and see what them days 'll bring forth. That Mr. Massingbird'sback from Australia, I'll take my oath to. _I_ didn't believe it atfirst; and when young Duff was a-going on about the porkypine, I shookhim, I did, for a little lying rascal. I know better now. "

"But how do you know it?" debated Tynn. 

"Now, never you mind. It's my business, I say, and nobody else's. Youjust wait a day or two, that's all, Mr. Tynn. I declare I am as glad tohave met with you to-night, and exchanged this intercourse of opinions, as if anybody had counted me out a bag o' gold. "

"Well, good-night, Roy, " concluded Tynn, turning his steps towardsVerner's Pride. "I wish I had been a hundred miles off, I know, before Ihad heard it. "

Roy slipped over the gate; and there, out of sight, he executed a kindof triumphant dance. 

"Then there is no codicil!" cried he. "I thought I could wile it out ofhim! That Tynn's as easy to be run out as is glass when it's hot. "

And, putting his best leg forward, he made his way as fast as he couldmake it towards his home. 

Tynn made _his_ way towards Verner's Pride. But not fast. Theinformation he had received filled his mind with the saddest trouble, and reduced his steps to slowness. When any great calamity fallssuddenly upon us, or the dread of any great calamity, our first naturalthought is, how it may be mitigated or averted. It was the thought thatoccurred to Tynn. The first shock over, digested, as may be said, Tynnbegan to deliberate whether he could do anything to help his master inthe strait; and he went along, turning all sorts of suggestions over inhis mind. Much as Sibylla was disliked by the old servant--and she hadcontrived to make herself very much disliked by them all--Tynn could nothelp feeling warmly the blow that was about to burst upon her head. Wasthere anything earthly he could do to avert it?--to help her or hismaster?

He did not doubt the information. Roy was not a particularly reliableperson; but Tynn could not doubt that this was true. It was the mostfeasible solution of the ghost story agitating Deerham; the onlysolution of it, Tynn grew to think. If Frederick Massingbird----

Tynn's reflections came to a halt. Vaulting over a gate on the otherside the road--the very gate through which poor Rachel Frost had glidedthe night of her death, to avoid meeting Frederick Massingbird andSibylla West--was a tall man. He came, straight across the road, infront of Tynn, and passed through a gap of the hedge, on to the groundsof Verner's Pride. 

But what made Tynn stand transfixed, as if he had been changed into astatue? What brought a cold chill to his heart, a heat to his brow? Why, as the man passed him, he turned his face full on Tynn; disclosing thefeatures, the white, whiskerless cheek, with the black mark upon it, ofFrederick Massingbird. Recovering himself as best he could, Tynn walkedon, and gained the house. 

Mrs. Verner had gone to her room. Mr. Verner was mixing with his guests. Some of the gentlemen were on the terrace smoking, and Tynn made his wayon to it, hoping he might get a minute's interview with his master. Theimpression upon Tynn's mind was that Frederick Massingbird was comingthere and then, to invade Verner's Pride: it appeared to Tynn to be hisduty to impart what he had heard and seen at once to Mr. Verner. 

Circumstances favoured him. Lionel had been talking with Mr. Gordon atthe far end of the terrace, but the latter was called to from thedrawing-room windows and departed in answer to it. Tynn seized theopportunity; his master was alone. 

Quite alone. He was leaning over the outer balustrade of the terrace, apparently looking forth in the night obscurity on his own lands, stretched out before him. "Master!" whispered Tynn, forgetting ceremonyin the moment's absorbing agitation, in the terrible calamity that wasabout to fall, "I have had an awful secret made known to me to-night. Imust tell it you, sir. "

"I know it already, Tynn, " was the quiet response of Lionel. 

Then Tynn told--told all he had heard, and how he had heard it; told howhe had just _seen_ Frederick Massingbird. Lionel started from thebalustrade. 

"Tynn! You saw him! Now?"

"Not five minutes ago, sir. He came right on to these grounds throughthe gap in the hedge. Oh, master! what will be done?" and the man'svoice rose to a wail in its anguish. "He may be coming on now to put inhis claim to Verner's Pride; to--to--to--all that's in it!"

But that Lionel was nerved to self-control, he might have answered withanother wail of anguish. His mind filled up the gap of words, that thedelicacy of Tynn would not speak. "He may be coming to claim Sibylla. "

CHAPTER LXIII. 

LOOKING OUT FOR THE WORST. 

The night passed quietly at Verner's Pride. Not, for all its inmates, pleasantly. Faithful Tynn bolted and barred the doors and windows withhis own hand, as he might have done on the anticipated invasion of aburglar. He then took up his station to watch the approaches to thehouse, and never stirred until morning light. There may have run inTynn's mind some vague fear of violence, should his master and FrederickMassingbird come in contact. 

How did Lionel pass it? Wakeful and watchful as Tynn. He went to bed;but sleep, for him, there was none. His wife, by his side, slept allthrough the night. Better, of course, for her that it should be so; but, that her frame of mind could be sufficiently easy to admit of sleep, wasa perfect marvel to Lionel. Had he needed proof to convince him howshallow was her mind, how incapable she was of depth of feeling, ofthought, this would have supplied it. She slept throughout the night. Lionel never closed his eyes; his brain was at work, his mind wastroubled, his heart was aching. Not for himself. His position wascertainly not one to be envied; but, in his great anxiety for his wife, self passed out of sight. To what conflict might she not be about to beexposed! to what unseemly violence of struggle, outwardly and inwardly, might she not expose herself! He knew quite well that, according to thelaws of God and man, she was Frederick Massingbird's wife; not his. Heshould never think--when the time came--of disputing FrederickMassingbird's claim to her. But, what would she do?--how would she act?He believed in his heart, that Sibylla, in spite of her aggravationsshown to him, and whatever may have been her preference for FrederickMassingbird in the early days, best cared for him, Lionel, now. Hebelieved that she would not willingly return to Frederick Massingbird. Or, if she did, it would be for the sake of Verner's Pride. 

He was right. Heartless, selfish, vain, and ambitious, Verner's Pridepossessed far more attraction for Sibylla than did either Lionel orFrederick Massingbird. Allow her to keep quiet possession of that, andshe would not cast much thought to either of them. If the conflictactually came, Lionel felt, in his innate refinement, that the propercourse for Sibylla to adopt would be to retire from all social ties, partially to retire from the world--as Miss West had suggested sheshould do now in the uncertainty. Lionel did not wholly agree with MissWest. He deemed that, in the uncertainty, Sibylla's place was by hisside, still his wife; but, when once the uncertainty was set at rest bythe actual appearance of Frederick Massingbird, then let her retire. Itwas the only course that he could pursue, were the case his own. Hismind was made up upon one point--to withdraw himself out of the way whenthat time came. To India, to the wilds of Africa--anywhere, far, faraway. Never would he remain to be an eye-sore to Sibylla or FrederickMassingbird--inhabiting the land that they inhabited, breathing the airthat sustained life in them. Sibylla might rely on one thing--that whenFrederick Massingbird did appear beyond doubt or dispute, that very hourhe said adieu to Sibylla. The shock soothed--and he would soothe it forher to the very utmost of his power--he should depart. He would be nomore capable of retaining Sibylla in the face of her husband, than hecould have taken her, knowingly, from that husband in his lifetime. 

But where _was_ Frederick Massingbird? Tynn's opinion had been--he hadtold it to his master--that when he saw Frederick Massingbird steal intothe grounds of Verner's Pride the previous evening, he was coming on tothe house, there and then. Perhaps Lionel himself had entertained thesame conviction. But the night had passed, and no Frederick Massingbirdhad come. What could be the meaning of it? What could be the meaning ofhis dodging about Deerham in this manner, frightening theinhabitants?--of his watching the windows of Verner's Pride? Verner'sPride was his; Sibylla was his; why, then, did he not arrive to assumehis rights?

Agitated with these and many other conflicting thoughts, Lionel lay onhis uneasy bed, and saw in the morning light. He did not rise until hisusual hour; he would have risen far earlier but for the fear ofdisturbing Sibylla. To lie there, a prey to these reflections, to thisterrible suspense, was intolerable to him, but he would not risk wakingher. The day might prove long enough and bad enough for her, withoutarousing her to it before her time. He rose, but she slept on still. Lionel did wonder how she could. 

Not until he was going out of the room, dressed, did she awake. Sheawoke with a start. It appeared as if recollection, or partialrecollection, of the last night's trouble flashed over her. She pushedaside the curtain, and called to him in a sharp tone of terror. 

"Lionel!"

He turned back. He drew the curtain entirely away, and stood by herside. She caught his arm, clasping it convulsively. 

"Is it a dreadful dream, or is it true?" she uttered, beginning totremble. "Oh, Lionel, take care of me! Won't you take care of me?"

"I will take care of you as long as I may, " he whispered tenderly. 

"You will not let him force me away from you? You will not give upVerner's Pride? If you care for me, you will not. "

"I do care for you, " he gently said, avoiding a more direct answer. "Mywhole life is occupied in caring for you, in promoting your happinessand comfort. How I _have_ cared for you, you alone know. "

She burst into tears. Lionel bent his lips upon her hot face. "Dependupon my doing all that I can do, " he said. 

"Are you going to leave me by myself?" she resumed in fear, as he wasturning to quit the room. "How do I know but he may be bursting in uponme?"

"Is that all your faith in me, Sibylla? He shall not intrude upon youhere; he shall not intrude upon you anywhere without warning. When hedoes come, I shall be at your side. "

Lionel joined his guests at breakfast. His wife did not. With smilinglips and bland brow, he had to cover a mind full of intolerablesuspense, an aching heart. A minor puzzle--though nothing compared tothe puzzle touching the movements of Frederick Massingbird--was workingwithin him, as to the movements of Captain Cannonby. What could havebecome of that gentleman? Where could he be halting on his journey? Hadhis halt anything to do with them, with this grievous business?

To Lionel's great surprise, just as they were concluding breakfast, hesaw the close carriage driven to the door, attended by Wigham andBennet. You may remember the latter name. Master Dan Duff had called him"Calves" to Mr. Verner. If Verner's Pride could not keep its masters, itkept its servants. Lionel knew he had not ordered it; and he supposedhis wife to be still in bed. He went out to the men. 

"For whom is the carriage ordered, Bennet?"

"For my mistress, I think, sir. "

And at that moment Lionel heard the steps of his wife upon the stairs. She was coming down, dressed. He turned in, and met her in the hall. "Are you going out?" he cried, his voice betokening surprise. 

"I can't be worried with this uncertainty, " was Sibylla's answer, spokenanything but courteously. "I am going to make Deborah tell me all sheknows, and where she heard it. "

"But----"

"I won't be dictated to, Lionel, " she querulously stopped him with. "Iwill go. What is it to you?"

He turned without a remonstrance, and attended her to the carriage, placing her in it as considerately as though she had met him with awife's loving words. When she was seated, he leaned towards her. "Wouldyou like me to accompany you, Sibylla?"

"I don't care about it. "

He closed the door in silence, his lips compressed. There were timeswhen her fitful moods vexed him above common. This was one. When theyknew not but the passing hour might be the last of their union, the lastthey should ever spend together, it was scarcely seemly to mar itsharmony with ill temper. At least, so felt Lionel. Sibylla spoke as hewas turning away. 

"Of course, I thought you would go with me. I did not expect you wouldgrumble at me for going. "

"Get my hat, Bennet, " he said. And he stepped in and took his seatbeside her. 

Courteously, and smiling as though not a shade of care were within agesof him, Lionel bowed to his guests as the carriage passed thebreakfast-room windows. He saw that curious faces were directed to him;he felt that wondering comments, as to their early and sudden drive, were being spoken; he knew that the scene of the past evening wasaffording food for speculation. He could not help it; but these minorannoyances were as nothing, compared to the great trouble that absorbedhim. The windows passed, he turned to his wife. 

"I have neither grumbled at you for going, Sibylla, nor do I see causefor grumbling. Why should you charge me with it?"

"There! you are going to find fault with me again! Why are you socross?"

Cross! He cross! Lionel suppressed at once the retort that was rising tohis lips; as he had done hundreds of times before. 

"Heaven knows, nothing was further from my thoughts than to be 'cross, '"he answered, his tone full of pain. "Were I to be cross to you, Sibylla, in--in--what may be our last hour together, I should reflect upon myselffor my whole life afterwards. "

"It is not our last hour together!" she vehemently answered. "Who saysit is?"

"I trust it is not. But I cannot conceal from myself the fact that itmaybe so. Remember, " he added, turning to her with a sudden impulse, andclasping both her hands within his in a firm, impressivegrasp--"remember that my whole life, since you became mine, has beenspent for you; in promoting your happiness; in striving to give you morelove than has been given to me. I have never met you with an unkindword; I have never given you a clouded look. You will think of thiswhen we are separated. And, for myself, its remembrance will be to myconscience as a healing balm. "

Dropping her hands, he drew back to his corner of the chariot, his headleaning against the fair, white watered silk, as if heavy withweariness. In truth, it was so; heavy with the weariness caused bycarking care. He had spoken all too impulsively; the avowal was wrungfrom him in the moment's bitter strife. A balm upon his conscience thathe had done his duty by her in love? Ay. For the love of his inmostheart had been another's--not hers. 

Sibylla did not understand the allusion. It was well. In her weak andtrifling manner, she was subsiding into tears when the carriage suddenlystopped. Lionel, his thoughts never free, since a day or two, ofFrederick Massingbird, looked up with a start, almost expecting to seehim. 

Lady Verner's groom had been galloping on horseback to Verner's Pride. Seeing Mr. Verner's carriage, and himself inside it, he had made a signto Wigham, who drew up. The man rode up to the window, a note in hishand. 

"Miss Verner charged me to lose no time in delivering it to you, sir. She said it was immediate. I shouldn't else have presumed to stop yourcarriage. "

He backed his horse a step or two, waiting for the answer, should therebe any. Lionel ran his eyes over the contents of the note. 

"Tell Miss Verner I will call upon her shortly, Philip. "

And the man, touching his hat, turned his horse round, and galloped backtowards Deerham Court. 

"What does she want? What is it?" impatiently asked Sibylla. 

"My mother wishes to see me, " replied Lionel. 

"And what else? I know _that's_ not all, " reiterated Sibylla, her tone aresentful one. "You have always secrets at Deerham Court against me. "

"Never in my life, " he answered. "You can read the note, Sibylla. "

She caught it up, devouring its few lines rapidly. Lionel believed itmust be the doubt, the uncertainty, that was rendering her so irritable;in his heart he felt inclined to make every allowance for her; more, perhaps, than she deserved. There were but a few lines:--

 "Do come to us at once, my dear Lionel! A most strange report has reached us, and mamma is like one bereft of her senses. She wants you here to contradict it; she says she knows it cannot have any foundation. 

 DECIMA. "

Somehow the words seemed to subdue Sibylla's irritation. She returnedthe note to Lionel, and spoke in a hushed, gentle tone. "Is it _this_report that she alludes to, do you think, Lionel?"

"I fear so. I do not know what other it can be. I am vexed that itshould already have reached the ears of my mother. "

"Of course!" resentfully spoke Sibylla. "You would have spared _her_!"

"I would have spared my mother, had it been in my power. I would havespared my wife, " he added, bending his grave, kind face towards her, "that, and all other ill. "

She dashed down the front blinds of the carriage, and laid her head uponhis bosom, sobbing repentantly. 

"You would bear with me, Lionel, if you knew the pain I havehere"--touching her chest. "I am sick and ill with fright. "

He did not answer that he _did_ bear with her--bear with her mostpatiently--as he might have done. He only placed his arm round her thatshe might feel its shelter; and, with his gentle fingers, pushed thegolden curls away from her cheeks, for her tears were wetting them. 

She went into her sister's house alone. She preferred to do so. Thecarriage took Lionel on to Deerham Court. He dismissed it when healighted; ordering Wigham back to Miss West's, to await the pleasure ofhis mistress. 

CHAPTER LXIV. 

ENDURANCE. 

Lionel had probably obeyed the summons sooner than was expected by LadyVerner and Decima; sooner, perhaps, than they deemed he could haveobeyed it. Neither of them was in the breakfast-room: no one was therebut Lucy Tempest. 

By the very way in which she looked at him--the flushed cheeks, theeager eyes--he saw that the tidings had reached her. She timidly heldout her hand to him, her anxious gaze meeting his. Whatever may havebeen the depth of feeling entertained for him, Lucy was toosingle-minded not to express all she felt of sympathy. 

"Is it true?" were her first whispered words, offering no othersalutation. 

"Is what true, Lucy?" he asked. "How am I to know what you mean?"

They stood looking at each other. Lionel waiting for her to speak; shehesitating. Until Lionel was perfectly certain that she alluded to thatparticular report, he would not speak of it. Lucy moved a few steps fromhim, and stood nervously playing with the ends of her waist-band, thesoft colour rising in her cheeks. 

"I do not like to tell you, " she said simply. "It would not be apleasant thing for you to hear, if it be not true. "

"And still less pleasant for me, if it be true, " he replied, the wordsbringing him conviction that the rumour they had heard was correct. "Ifear it is true, Lucy. "

"That--some one--has come back?"

"Some one who was supposed to be dead. "

The avowal seemed to take from her all hope. Her hands fell listlesslyby her side, and the tears rose to her eyes. "I am so sorry!" shebreathed. "I am so sorry for you, and for--for----"

"My wife. Is that what you were going to say?"

"Yes, it is. I did not like much to say it. I am truly grieved. I wish Icould have helped it!"

"Ah! you are not a fairy with an all-powerful wand yet, Lucy, as we readof in children's books. It is a terrible blow, for her and for me. Doyou know how the rumour reached my mother?"

"I think it was through the servants. Some of them heard it, and oldCatherine told her. Lady Verner has been like any one wild; but forDecima, she would have started----"

Lucy's voice died away. Gliding in at the door, with a white face anddrawn-back lips, was Lady Verner. She caught hold of Lionel, her eyessearching his countenance for the confirmation of her fears, or theircontradiction. Lionel took her hands in his. 

"It is true, mother. Be brave, for my sake. "

With a wailing cry she sat down on the sofa, drawing him beside her. Decima entered and stood before them, her hands clasped in pain. LadyVerner made him tell her all the particulars; all he knew, all hefeared. 

"How does Sibylla meet it?" was her first question when she had listenedto the end. 

"Not very well, " he answered, after a momentary hesitation. "Who couldmeet it well?" "Lionel, it is a judgment upon her. She--"

Lionel started up, his brow flushing. 

"I beg your pardon, mother. You forget that you are speaking of my wife. She _is_ my wife, " he more calmly added, "until she shall have beenproved not to be. "

No. Whatever may have been Sibylla's conduct to him personally, neitherbefore her face nor behind her back, would Lionel forget one jot of therespect due to her. Or suffer another to forget it; although that othershould be his mother. 

"What shall you do with her, Lionel?"

"Do with her?" he repeated, not understanding how to take the question. 

"When the man makes himself known?"

"I am content to leave that to the time, " replied Lionel, in a tone thatdebarred further discussion. 

"I knew no good would come of it, " resumed Lady Verner, persistent inexpressing her opinion. "But for the wiles of that girl you might havemarried happily, might have married Mary Elmsley. "

"Mother, there is trouble enough upon us just now without introducingold vexations, " rejoined Lionel. "I have told you before that had Inever set eyes upon Sibylla after she married Frederick Massingbird, Mary Elmsley would not have been my wife. "

"If he comes back, he comes back to Verner's Pride?" pursued Lady Vernerin a low tone, breaking the pause which had ensued. 

"Yes. Verner's Pride is his. "

"And what shall you do? Turned, like a beggar, out on the face of theearth?"

Like a beggar? Ay, far more like a beggar than Lady Verner, in her worstapprehension, could picture. 

"I must make my way on the earth as I best can, " he replied in answer, "I shall leave Europe--probably for India. I may find some means, through my late father's friends, of getting my bread there. "

Lady Verner appeared to appreciate the motive which no doubt dictatedthe suggested course. She did not attempt to controvert it; she onlywrung her hands in passionate wailing. 

"Oh, that you had not married her! that you had not subjected yourselfto this dreadful blight!"

Lionel rose. There were limits of endurance even for his aching heart. Reproaches in a moment of trouble are as cold iron entering the soul. 

"I will come in another time when you are more yourself, mother, " wasall he said. "I could have borne sympathy from you this morning, betterthan complaint. "

He shook hands with her. He laid his hand in silence on Decima'sshoulder with a fond pressure as he passed her; her face was turned fromhim, the tears silently streaming down it. He nodded to Lucy, who stoodat the other end of the room, and went out. But, ere he was half-wayacross the ante-room, he heard hasty footsteps behind him. He turned tobehold Lucy Tempest, her hands extended, her face streaming down withtears. 

"Oh, Lionel, please not to go away thinking nobody sympathises with you!I am so grieved; I am so sorry! If I can do anything for you, or forSibylla, to lighten the distress, I will do it. "

He took the pretty, pleading hands in his, bending his face until it wasnearly on a level with hers. But that emotion nearly over-mastered himin the moment's anguish, the very consciousness that he might be freefrom married obligations, would have rendered his manner cold to LucyTempest. Whether Frederick Massingbird was alive or not, _he_ must be aman isolated from other wedded ties, so long as Sibylla remained on theearth. The kind young face, held up to him in its grief, disarmed hisreserve. He spoke out to Lucy as freely as he had done in that long-agoillness, when she was his full confidante. Nay, whether from her looks, or from some lately untouched chord in his memory reawakened, that oldtime was before him now, rather than the present, as his next wordsproved. 

"Lucy, with one thing and another, my heart is half broken. I wish I haddied in that illness. Better for me! Better--perhaps--for you. "

"Not for me, " said she, through her tears. "Do not think of me. I wish Icould help you in this great sorrow!"

"Help from you of any sort, Lucy, I forfeited in my blind wilfulness, "he hoarsely whispered. "God bless you!" he added, wringing her hands topain. "God bless you for ever!"

She did not loose them. He was about to draw his hands away, but sheheld them still, her tears and sobs nearly choking her. 

"You spoke of India. Should it be that land that you choose for yourexile, go to papa. He may be able to do great things for you. And, if inhis power, he _would_ do them, for Sir Lionel Verner's sake. Papa longsto know you. He always says so much about you in his letters to me. "

"You have never told me so, Lucy. "

"I thought it better not to talk to you too much, " she simply said. "Andyou have not been always at Deerham. "

Lionel looked at her, holding her hands still. She knew how futile itwas to affect ignorance of truths in that moment of unreserve; she knewthat her mind and its feelings were as clear to Lionel as though she hadbeen made of glass, and she spoke freely in her open simplicity. Sheknew, probably, that his deepest love and esteem were given to her. Lionel knew it, if she did not; knew it to his very heart's core. Hecould only reiterate his prayer, as he finally turned from her--"Godbless you, Lucy, for ever, and for ever!"

CHAPTER LXV. 

CAPTAIN CANNONBY. 

Deerham abounded in inns. How they all contrived to get a living, nobodycould imagine. That they did jog along somehow, was evident; but theyappeared to be generally as void of bustle as were their lazysign-boards, basking in the sun on a summer's day. The best in theplace, one with rather more pretension to superiority than the rest, wasthe Golden Fleece. It was situated at the entrance to Deerham, not farfrom the railway station; not far either from Deerham Court; in fact, between Deerham Court and the village. 

As Lionel approached it, he saw the landlord standing at itsentrance--John Cox. A rubicund man, with a bald head, who evidently didjustice to his own good cheer, if visitors did not. Shading his eyeswith one hand, he had the other extended in the direction of thevillage, pointing out the way to a strange gentleman who stood besidehim. 

"Go as straight as you can go, sir, through the village, and for agoodish distance beyond it, " he was saying, as Lionel drew withinhearing. "It will bring you to Verner's Pride. You can't mistake it;it's the only mansion thereabouts. "

The words caused Lionel to cast a rapid glance at the stranger. He saw aman of some five-and-thirty or forty years, fair of complexion once, butbronzed now by travel, or other causes. The landlord's eyes fell onLionel. 

"Here is Mr. Verner!" he hastily exclaimed. "Sir"--salutingLionel--"this gentleman was going up to you at Verner's Pride. "

The stranger turned, holding out his hand in a free and pleasant mannerto Lionel. "My name is Cannonby. "

"I could have known it by the likeness to your brother, " said Lionel, shaking him by the hand. "I saw him yesterday. I was in town, and hetold me you were coming. But why were you not with us last night?"

"I turned aside on my journey to see an old military friend--whom, bythe way, I found to be out--and did not get to Deerham until past ten, "explained Captain Cannonby. "I thought it too late to invade you, so putup here until this morning. "

Lionel linked his arm within Captain Cannonby's, and drew him onwards. The moment of confirmation was come. His mind was in too sad a state toallow of his beating about the bush; his suspense had been too sharp andurgent for him to prolong it now. He plunged into the matter at once. 

"You have come to bring me some unpleasant news, Captain Cannonby. Unhappily, it will be news no longer. But you will give me theconfirming particulars. "

Captain Cannonby looked as if he did not understand. "Unpleasant news?"he repeated. 

"I speak"--and Lionel lowered his voice--"of Frederick Massingbird. Youknow, probably, what I would ask. How long have you been cognisant ofthese unhappy facts?"

"I declare, Mr. Verner, I don't know what you mean, " was CaptainCannonby's answer, given in a hearty tone. "To what do you allude?"

Lionel paused. Was it possible that he--Captain Cannonby--was inignorance? "Tell me one thing, " he said. "Your brother mentioned thatyou had heard, as he believed, some news connected with me and--and mywife, in Paris, which had caused you to hurry home, and come down toVerner's Pride. What was that news?"

"The news I heard was, that Mrs. Massingbird had become Mrs. Verner. Ihad intended to find her out when I got to Europe, if only to apologisefor my negligence in not giving her news of John Massingbird or hisproperty--which news I could never gather for myself--but I did not knowprecisely where she might be. I heard in Paris that she had married you, and was living at Verner's Pride. "

Lionel drew a long breath. "And that was all?"

"That was all. "

Then he was in ignorance of it! But, to keep him in ignorance wasimpossible. Lionel must ask confirmation or non-confirmation of thedeath. With low voice and rapid speech he mentioned the fears and thefacts. Captain Cannonby gathered them in, withdrew his arm fromLionel's, and stood staring at him. 

"Fred Massingbird alive, and come back to England!" he uttered, inbewildered wonder. 

"We cannot think otherwise, " replied Lionel. 

"Then, Mr. Verner, I tell you that it cannot be. It _cannot_ be, youunderstand. I saw him die. I saw him laid in the grave. "

They had not walked on. They stood there, looking at each other, absorbed in themselves, oblivious to the attention that might be fixedon them from any stray passers-by. At that moment there were nopassers-by to fix it; the bustle of Deerham only began with the houses, and those they had not yet reached. 

"I would give all my future life to believe you, " earnestly spokeLionel; "to believe that there can be no mistake--for my wife's sake. "

"There is no mistake, " reiterated Captain Cannonby. "I saw him dead; Isaw him buried. A parson, in the company halting there, read the burialservice over him. "

"You may have buried him, fancying he was dead, " suggested Lionel, giving utterance to some of the wild thoughts of his imaginings. "And--forgive me for bringing forward such pictures--the mistake mayhave been discovered in time--and--"

"It could not be, " interrupted Captain Cannonby. "I am quite certain hewas dead. Let us allow, if you will, for argument's sake, that he wasnot dead when he was put into the ground. Five minutes' lying there, with the weight of earth upon him, would have effectually destroyedlife; had any been left in him to destroy. There was no coffin, you mustremember. "

"No?"

"Parties to the gold-fields don't carry a supply of coffins with them. If death occurs _en route_, it has to be provided for in the simplestand most practical form. At least, I can answer that such was the casewith regard to Fred Massingbird. He was buried in the clothes he worewhen he died. "

Lionel was lost in abstraction. 

"He died at early dawn, just as the sun burst out to illumine theheavens, and at midday he was buried, " continued Captain Cannonby. "Isaw him buried. I saw the earth shovelled in upon him; nay, I helped toshovel it. I left him there; we all left him, covered over; at rest forgood in this world. Mr. Verner, dismiss this great fear; rely upon itthat he was, and is, dead. "

"I wish I could rely upon it!" spoke Lionel. "The fear, I may say thecertainty, has been so unequivocally impressed upon my belief, that adoubt must remain until it is explained who walks about, bearing hisoutward appearance. He was a very remarkable-looking man, you know. Theblack mark on his cheek alone would render him so. "

"And that black mark is visible upon the cheek of the person who is seenat night?"

"Conspicuously so. This ghost--as it is taken for--has nearly frightenedone or two lives away. It is very strange. "

"Can it be anybody got up to personate Fred Massingbird?"

"Unless it be himself, that is the most feasible interpretation, "observed Lionel. "But it does not alter the mystery. It is not only inthe face and the black mark that the likeness is discernible, but inthe figure also. In fact, in all points this man bears the greatestresemblance to Frederick Massingbird--at least, if the eyes of those whohave seen him may be trusted. My own butler saw him last night; the manpassed close before him, turning his face to him in the moment ofpassing. He says there can be no doubt that it is FrederickMassingbird. "

Captain Cannonby felt a little staggered. "If it should turn out to beFrederick Massingbird, all I can say is that I shall never believeanybody's dead again. It will be like an incident in a drama. I shouldnext expect my old father to come to life, who has lain these twelveyears past at Kensal Green Cemetery. Does Mrs. Verner know of this?"

"She does, unfortunately. She was told of it during my absenceyesterday. I could have wished it kept from her, until we were at somecertainty. "

"Oh, come, Mr. Verner, take heart!" impulsively cried Captain Cannonby, all the improbabilities of the case striking forcibly upon him. "Thething is not possible; it is not indeed. "

"At any rate, your testimony will be so much comfort for my wife, "returned Lionel gladly. "It has comforted me. If my fears are notentirely dispelled, there's something done towards it. "

Arrived at the Belvedere Road, Lionel looked about for his carriage. Hecould not see it. At that moment Jan turned out of the surgery. Lionelasked him if he had seen Sibylla. 

"She is gone home, " replied Jan. "She and Miss Deb split upon some rock, and Sibylla got into her carriage, and went off in anger. "

He was walking away with his usual rapid strides, on his way to somepatient, when Lionel caught hold of him. "Jan, this is Captain Cannonby. The friend who was with Frederick Massingbird when he died. He assuresme that he is dead. Dead and buried. My brother, Captain Cannonby. "

"There cannot be a doubt of it, " said Captain Cannonby, alluding to thedeath. "I saw him die; I helped to bury him. "

"Then who _is_ it that walks about, dressed up as his ghost?" debatedJan. 

"I cannot tell, " said Lionel, a severe expression arising to his lips. "I begin to think with Captain Cannonby; that there can be no doubt thatFrederick Massingbird is dead; therefore, he, it is not. But that itwould be undesirable, for my wife's sake, to make this doubt public, Iwould have every house in the place searched. Whoever it may be, he isconcealed in one of them. "

"Little doubt of that, " nodded Jan. "I'll pounce upon him, if I get thechance. "

Lionel and Captain Cannonby continued their way to Verner's Pride. Therevived hope in Lionel's mind strengthened with every step they took. Itdid seem impossible, looking at it from a practical, matter-of-factpoint of view, that a man buried deep in the earth, and supposed to bedead before he was placed there, could come to life again. 

"What a relief for Sibylla!" he involuntarily cried, drawing a long, relieved breath on his own score. "This must be just one of those cases, Captain Cannonby, when good Catholics, in the old days, made a vow tothe Virgin of so many valuable offerings, should the dread be removedand turn out to have been no legitimate dread at all. "

"Ay. I should like to be in at the upshot. "

"I hope you will be. You must not run away from us immediately. Where'syour luggage?"

Captain Cannonby laughed. "Talk to a returned gold-digger of his'luggage'! Mine consists of a hand portmanteau, and that is at theGolden Fleece. I can order it up here if you'd like me to stay with youa few days. I should enjoy some shooting beyond everything. "

"That is settled, then, " said Lionel. "I will see that you have yourportmanteau. Did you get rich at the diggings?"

The captain shook his head. "I might have made something, had I stuck atit. But I grew sick of it altogether. My brother, the doctor, makes asight of money, and I can get what I want from him, " was the candidconfession. 

Lionel smiled. "These rich brothers in reserve are a terrible drag uponself-exertion. Here we are!" he added, as they turned in at the gates. "This is Verner's Pride. "

"What a fine place!" exclaimed Captain Cannonby, bringing his steps to ahalt as he gazed at it. 

"Yes, it is. Not a pleasant prospect, was it, to contemplate the beingturned out of it by a dead man. "

"A dead--You do not mean to say that Frederick Massingbird--if inlife--would be the owner of Verner's Pride?"

"Yes, he would be. I was its rightful heir, and why my uncle willed itaway from me, to one who was no blood relation, has remained a mysteryto this day. Frederick Massingbird succeeded, to my exclusion. I onlycame into it at his death. "

Captain Cannonby appeared completely thunderstruck at the revelation. "Why, then, " he cried, after a pause, "this may supply the verymotive-power that is wanting, for one to personate Fred Massingbird. "

"Scarcely, " replied Lionel. "No ghost, or seeming ghost, walking aboutin secret at night, could get Verner's Pride resigned to him. He mustcome forward in the broad face of day, and establish his identity byindisputable proof. "

"True, true. Well, it is a curious tale! I should like, as I say, towitness the winding-up. "

Lionel looked about for his wife. He could not find her. But few oftheir guests were in the rooms; they had dispersed somewhere or other. He went up to Sibylla's dressing-room, but she was not there. Mademoiselle Benoite was coming along the corridor as he left it again. 

"Do you know where your mistress is?" he asked. 

"_Mais certainement_, " responded mademoiselle. "Monsieur will find madamat the archerie. "

He bent his steps to the targets. On the lawn, flitting amidst the otherfair archers, in her dress of green and gold, was Sibylla. All traces ofcare had vanished from her face, her voice was of the merriest, her stepof the fleetest, her laugh of the lightest. Truly, Lionel marvelled. There flashed into his mind the grieving face of another, whom he hadnot long ago parted from; grieving for their woes. Better for his mind'speace that these contrasts had not been forced so continually upon him. 

Could she, in some unaccountable manner, have heard the consoling newsthat Cannonby brought? In the first moment, he thought it must be so: inthe next, he knew it to be impossible. Smothering down a sigh, he wentforward, and drew her apart from the rest; choosing that covered walkwhere he had spoken to her a day or two previously, regarding Mrs. Duff's bill. Taking her hands in his, he stood before her, looking witha reassuring smile into her face. 

"What will you give me for some good news, Sibylla?"

"What about?" she rejoined. 

"Need you ask? There is only one point upon which news could greatlyinterest either of us, just now. I have seen Cannonby. He is here, and--"

"Here! At Verner's Pride?" she interrupted. "Oh, I shall like to seeCannonby; to talk over old Australian times with him. "

Who was to account for her capricious moods? Lionel remembered theevening, during the very moon not yet dark to the earth, when Sibyllahad made a scene in the drawing-room, saying she could not bear to hearthe name of Cannonby, or to be reminded of the past days in Melbourne. She was turning to fly to the house, but Lionel caught her. 

"Wait, wait, Sibylla! Will you not hear the good tidings I have for you?Cannonby says there cannot be a doubt that Frederick Massingbird isdead. He left him dead and buried, as he told you in Melbourne. We havebeen terrified and pained--I trust--for nothing. "

"Lionel, look here, " said she, receiving the assurance in the sameequable manner that she might have heard him assert it was a fine day, or a wet one, "I have been making up my mind not to let this botherworry me. That wretched old maid Deborah went on to me with such rubbishthis morning about leaving you, about leaving Verner's Pride, that shevexed me to anger. I came home and cried; and Benoite found me lyingupon the sofa; and when I told her what it was, she said the best planwas, not to mind, to meet it with a laugh, instead of tears--"

"Sibylla!" he interposed in a tone of pain. "You surely did not make aconfidante of Benoite!"

"Of course I did, " she answered, looking as if surprised at hisquestion, his tone. "Why not? Benoite cheered me up, I can tell you, better than you do. 'What matter to cry?' she asked. 'If he does comeback, you will still be the mistress of Verner's Pride. ' And so Ishall. "

Lionel let go her hands. She sped off to the house, eager to findCaptain Cannonby. He--her husband--leaned against the trunk of a tree, bitter mortification in his face, bitter humiliation in his heart. Wasthis the wife to whom he had bound himself for ever? Well could he echoin that moment Lady Verner's reiterated assertion, that she was notworthy of him. With a stifled sigh that was more like a groan, he turnedto follow her. 

"Be still, be still!" he murmured, beating his hand upon his bosom, thathe might still its pain. "Let me bear on, doing my duty by her always inlove!"

That pretty Mrs. Jocelyn ran up to Lionel, and intercepted his path. Mrs. Jocelyn would have liked to intercept it more frequently than shedid, if she had but received a little encouragement. She tried hard forit, but it never came. One habit, at any rate, Lionel Verner had notacquired, amid the many strange examples of an artificial age--that ofnot paying considerate respect, both in semblance and reality, to othermen's wives. 

"Oh, Mr. Verner, what a truant you are! You never come to pick up ourarrows. "

"Don't I?" said Lionel, with his courteous smile. "I will come presentlyif I can. I am in search of Mrs. Verner. She is gone in to welcome afriend who has arrived. "

And Mrs. Jocelyn had to go back to the targets alone. 

CHAPTER LXVI. 

"DON'T THROTTLE ME, JAN!"

There was a good deal of sickness at present in Deerham: there generallywas in the autumn season. Many a time did Jan wish he could be master ofVerner's Pride just for twelve months, or of any other "Pride" whoserevenues were sufficient to remedy the evils existing in the poordwellings: the ill accommodation, inside; the ill draining, out. Jan, had that desirable consummation arrived, would not have wasted time inthinking over it; he would have commenced the work in the same hour withhis own hands. However, Jan, like most of us, had not to do with thingsas they might be, but with things as they were. The sickness was great, and Jan, in spite of his horse's help, was, as he often said, nearlyworked off his legs. 

He had been hastening to a patient when encountered by Lionel andCaptain Cannonby. From that patient he had to hasten to others, in asuccession of relays, as it were, all day long; sometimes his own legsin requisition, sometimes the horse's. About seven o'clock he got hometo tea, at which Miss Deborah made him comfortable. Truth to say, MissDeborah felt rather inclined to pet Jan as a son. He had gone there aboy, and Miss Deb, though the years since had stolen on and on, and hadchanged Jan into a man, had not allowed her ideas to keep pace withthem. So do we cheat ourselves! There were times when a qualm ofconscience came over Miss Deb. Remembering how hard Jan worked, and thather father took more than the lion's share of the profits, it appearedto her scarcely fair. Not that she could alter it, poor thing! All shecould do was to be as economical as possible, and to study Jan'scomforts. Now and again she had been compelled to go to Jan for money, over and above the stipulated sum paid to her. Jan gave it as freely andreadily as he would have filled Miss Amilly's glass pot with castor oil. But Deborah West knew that it came out of Jan's own pocket; and, to askfor it, went terribly against her feelings and her sense of justice. 

The tea was over. But she took care of Jan's--some nice tea, and toastedtea-cakes, and a plate of ham. Jan sat down by the fire, and, as MissDeb said, took it in comfort. Truth to say, had Jan found only theremains of the teapot, and stale bread-and-butter, he might have thoughtit comfortable enough for him; he would not have grumbled had he foundnothing. 

"Any fresh messages in, do you know, Miss Deb?" he inquired. 

"Now, do pray get your tea in peace, Mr. Jan, and don't worry yourselfover 'fresh messages, '" responded Miss Deb. "Master Cheese was calledout to the surgery at tea-time, but I suppose it was nothing particular, for he was back again directly. "

"Of course!" cried Jan. "_He'd_ not lose his tea without a fight forit. "

Jan finished his tea and departed to the surgery, catching sight of thecoat-tails of Mr. Bitterworth's servant leaving it. Master Cheese wasseated with the leech basin before him. It was filled with Orleansplums, of which he was eating with uncommon satisfaction. Likingvariations of flavour in fruit, he occasionally diversified the plumswith a sour codlin apple, a dozen or so of which he had stowed away inhis trousers' pockets. Bob stood at a respectful distance, his eyeswandering to the tempting collation, and his mouth watering. Amongst theapples Master Cheese had come upon one three parts eaten away by thegrubs, and this he benevolently threw to Bob. Bob had disposed of it, and was now vainly longing for more. 

"What did Bitterworth's man want?" inquired Jan of Master Cheese. 

"The missis is took bad again, he says, " responded that gentleman, asdistinctly as he could speak for the apples and the plums: "croup, orsomething. Not as violent as it was before. Can wait. "

"You had better go up at once, " was Jan's reply. 

Master Cheese was taken aback. "_I_ go up!" he repeated, pulling a faceas long as his arm. "All that way! I had to go to Baker's and to Flint'sbetween dinner and tea. "

"And to how many Bakers and Flints do I have to go between dinner andtea?" retorted Jan. "You know what to give Mrs. Bitterworth. So start. "

Master Cheese felt aggrieved beyond everything. For one thing, it mightbe dangerous to leave those cherished plums in the leech basin, Bobbeing within arm's length of them; for another, Master Cheese liked hisease better than walking. He cast some imploring glances at Jan, butthey produced no effect, so he had to get his hat. Vacillating betweenthe toll that might be taken of the plums if he left them, and thedamage to his hair if he took them, he finally decided on the lattercourse. Emptying the plums into his hat, he put it on his head. Jan waslooking over what they termed the call-book. 

"Miss Deb says you were called out at tea-time, " observed Jan, as MasterCheese was departing. "Who was it?"

"Nobody but old Hook. The girl was worse. "

"What! Alice? Why have you not got it down here?" pointing to the book. 

"Oh, they are nobody, " grumbled Master Cheese. "I wonder the paupers arenot ashamed to come here to our faces, asking for attendance and physic!I They know they'll never pay. "

"That's my business, " said Jan, "Did he say she was very ill?"

"'Took dangerous, ' _he_ said, " returned Master Cheese. "Thought she'dnot live the night out. "

Indefatigable Jan put on his hat, and went out with Master Cheese. Master Cheese turned leisurely towards Mr. Bitterworth's; Jan cut acrossthe road at a strapping pace, and took the nearest way to Hook'scottage. It led him past the retired spot where he and the Reverend Mr. Bourne had found Alice lying that former night. 

Barely had Jan gained it when some tall, dark form came pushing throughthe trees at right angles, and was striding off to the distance. Onesingle moment's indecision--for Jan was not sure at first in theuncertain light--and then he put his long legs to their utmost speed, bore down, and pinned the intruder. 

"Now, then!" said Jan, "ghost or no ghost, who are you?"

He was answered by a laugh, and some joking words--

"Don't throttle me quite, Jan. Even a ghost can't stand that. "

The tone of the laugh, the tone of the voice, fell upon Jan Verner'sears with the most intense astonishment. He peered into the speaker'sface with his keen eyes, and gave vent to an exclamation. In spite ofthe whiskerless cheeks, the elaborate black mark, in spite of thestrange likeness to his brother, Jan recognised the features, not ofFrederick, but of John Massingbird. 

CHAPTER LXVII. 

DRESSING UP FOR A GHOST. 

And so the mystery was out. And the ghost proved to be no ghost atall--to be no husband of Sibylla--come to disturb the peace of her andof Lionel; but _John_ Massingbird in real flesh and blood. 

There was so much explanation to ask and to be given, that Jan wassomewhat hindered on his way to Hook's. 

"I can't stop, " said he, in the midst of a long sentence of John's. "Alice Hook may be dying. Will you remain here until I come back?"

"If you are not long, " responded John Massingbird. "I intend this to bethe last night of my concealment, and I want to go about, terrifying thenatives. The fun it has been!"

"Fun, you call it?" remarked Jan. "If Hook's girl does die, it will lieat your door. "

"_She_ won't die, " lightly answered John. "I'll send her a ten-poundnote to make amends. Make you haste, Jan, if I am to wait. "

Jan sped off to Hook's. He found the girl very ill, but not so much soas Cheese had intimated. Some unseemly quarrel had taken place in thecottage, which had agitated her. 

"There's no danger, " mentally soliloquised Jan, "but it has thrown herback a good two days. "

He found John Massingbird--restless John!--restless as ever!--pacingbefore the trees with hasty strides, and bursting into explosions oflaughter. 

"Some woman was coming along from one of the cottages by Broom's and Iappeared to her, and sent her on, howling, " he explained to Jan. "Ithink it was Mother Sykes. The sport this ghost affair has been!"

He sat down on a bench, held his sides, and let his laughter have vent. Laughter is contagious, and Jan laughed with him, but in a quieter way. 

"Whatever put it into your head to personate Frederick?" inquired Jan. "Was it done to frighten the people?"

"Not at first, " answered John Massingbird. 

"Because, if to frighten had been your motive, you need only haveappeared in your own person, " continued Jan. "You were thought to bedead, you know, as much as Fred was. Fred _is_ dead, I suppose?"

"Fred is dead, poor fellow, safe enough. I was supposed to be dead, butI came to life again. "

"Did you catch Fred's star when he died?" asked Jan, pointing to thecheek. 

"No, " replied John Massingbird, with another burst of laughter, "I getthat up with Indian-ink. "

Bit by bit, Jan came into possession of the details. At least, of asmuch of them as John Massingbird deemed it expedient to furnish. Itappeared that his being attacked and robbed and left for dead, whentravelling down to Melbourne, was perfectly correct. Luke Roy quittedhim, believing he was dead. Luke would not have quitted him so hastily, but that he wished to be on the track of the thieves, and he hastened toMelbourne. After Luke's departure, John Massingbird came, as he phrasedit, to life again. He revived from the suspended animation, or swoon, which, prolonged over some hours, had been mistaken for death. Thebullet was extracted from his side, and he progressed pretty rapidlytowards recovery. 

Luke meanwhile had reached Melbourne; and had come in contact with afamily of the name of Eyre. Luke--if you have not forgotten--had said toMr. Eyre that he had obtained a clue to the men who robbed his master;such, at least, was the information given by that gentleman to SibyllaMassingbird, on her subsequent sojourn at his house. He, Mr. Eyre, hadsaid that Luke had promised to return the following day and inform himhow he sped in the search, but that Luke never did return; that he hadnever seen him afterwards. All true. Luke found the clue, which hethought he had gained, to be no clue at all; but he heard news thatpleased him better than fifty clues would have done--that his master, Mr. Massingbird, was alive. One who had travelled down to Melbourne fromwhere John was lying, gave him the information. Without waiting to breakbread or draw water, without giving another thought to Mr. Eyre, Lukestarted off there and then, to retrace his steps to John Massingbird. John was nearly well then, and they returned at once to the diggings. Inhis careless way, he said the loss must be given up for a bad job; theyshould never find the fellows, and the best plan was to pick up moregold to replace that gone. Luke informed him he had written home toannounce his death. John went into a fit of laughter, forbade Luke tocontradict it, and anticipated the fun he should have in surprisingthem, when he went home on the accumulation of his fortune. Thus hestopped at the diggings, remaining in complete ignorance of the changeswhich had taken place; the voyage of Frederick and his wife toMelbourne, the death of Mr. Verner, the subsequent death of Frederick;and above all--for that would have told most on John--of the strangewill left by Mr. Verner, which had constituted him the inheritor ofVerner's Pride. 

But fortune did not come in the rapid manner fondly expected by John. The nuggets seemed shy. He obtained enough to rub along with, and thatwas all. The life did not ill suit him. To such a man as Lionel Verner, of innate refinement, just and conscientious, the life would have beenintolerable, almost worse than death. John was not overburdened with anyone of those qualities, and he rather liked the life than not. One thingwas against him: he had no patience. Roving about from place to place, he was satisfied nowhere long. It was not only that he perpetuallychanged the spot, or bed, of work, but he changed from one settlementto another. This was the reason probably that Captain Cannonby had nevermet with him; it was more than probable that it was the cause of hisnon-success. Luke Roy was not so fond of roving. He found a place likelyto answer his expectations, and he remained at it; so that the twoparted early, and did not again meet afterwards. 

Suddenly John Massingbird heard that he had been left heir to Verner'sPride. He had gone down to Melbourne; and some new arrival fromEngland--from the county in which Verner's Pride was situated--mentionedthis in his hearing. The stranger was telling the tale of theunaccountable will of Mr. Verner, of the death of John and FrederickMassingbird, and of the _consequent_ accession of Lionel Verner; tellingit as a curious bit of home gossip, unconscious that one of hislisteners was the first-named heir--the veritable John Massingbird. 

Too much given to act upon impulse, allowing himself no time toascertain or to inquire whether the story might be correct or not, JohnMassingbird took a berth in the first ship advertised for home. Hepossessed very little more money than would pay for his passage; he gavehimself no concern how he was to get back to Australia, or how exist inEngland, should the news prove incorrect, but started away off-hand. Providing for the future had never been made a trouble by JohnMassingbird. 

He sailed, and he arrived safely. But, once in England, it was necessaryto proceed rather cautiously; and John, careless and reckless though hewas, could not ignore the expediency of so acting. There were certainreasons why it would not be altogether prudent to show himself in theneighbourhood of Verner's Pride, unless his pocket were weighty enoughto satisfy sundry claims which would inevitably flock in upon him. Werehe sure that he was the legitimate master of Verner's Pride, he wouldhave driven up in a coach-and-six, with flying flags and streamers tothe horses' heads, and so have announced his arrival in triumph. _Not_being sure, he preferred to feel his way, and this could not be done byarriving openly. 

There was one place where he knew he could count upon being sheltered, while the way was "felt;" and this was Giles Roy's. Roy would be true tohim; would conceal him if need were; and help him off again, didVerner's Pride, for him, prove a myth. This thought John Massingbirdput in practice, arriving one dark night at Roy's, and startling Mrs. Roy nearly to death. Whatever fanciful ghosts the woman may have seenbefore, she never doubted that she saw a real ghost now. 

His first question, naturally, was about the will. Roy told him it wasperfectly true that a will had been made in his favour; but the will hadbeen superseded by a codicil. And he related the circumstance of thatcodicil's mysterious loss. Was it found? John eagerly asked. Ah! thereRoy could not answer him; he was at a nonplus; he was unable to saywhether the codicil had been found or not. A rumour had gone aboutDeerham, some time subsequently to the loss, that it _had_ been found, but Roy had never come to the rights of it. John Massingbird stared ashe heard him say this. Then, couldn't he tell whether he was the heir ornot? whether Lionel Verner held it by established right or by wrong? heasked. And Roy shook his head--he could not. 

Under these uncertainties, Mr. John Massingbird did not see his wayparticularly clear. Either to stop, or to go. If he stopped, and showedhimself, he might be unpleasantly assured that the true heir of Verner'sPride inhabited Verner's Pride; if he went back to Australia, the noless mortifying fact might come out afterwards, that he was the heir toVerner's Pride, and had run away from his own. 

What was to be done? Roy suggested perhaps the best plan that could bethought of--that Mr. Massingbird should remain in his cottage inconcealment, while he, Roy, endeavoured to ascertain the truth regardingthe codicil. And John Massingbird was fain to adopt it. He took up hisabode in the upper bedroom, which had been Luke's, and Mrs. Roy, lockingher front door, carried his meals up to him by day, Roy setting himselfto ferret out--as you may recollect--all he could learn about thecodicil. The "all" was not much. Ordinary gossipers knew no more thanRoy, whether the codicil had been found or not; and Roy tried to pumpMatiss, by whom he was baffled--he even tried to pump Mr. Verner. Hewent up to Verner's Pride, ostensibly to ask whether he might paperLuke's old room at his own cost. In point of fact, the paper was in adilapidated state, and he did wish to put it decent for JohnMassingbird; but he could have done it without speaking to Mr. Verner. It was a great point with Roy to find favour in the sight of Mr. Massingbird, his possible future master. Lionel partially saw throughthe man; he believed that he had some covert motive in seeking theinterview with him, and that Roy was trying to pry into his affairs. ButRoy found himself baffled also by Mr. Verner, as he had been by Matiss, in so far as that he could learn nothing certain of the existence ornon-existence of the codicil. 

Two days of the condemned confinement were sufficient to tire out JohnMassingbird. To a man of active, restless temperament, who had livedalmost day and night under the open skies, the being shut up in a small, close room was well-nigh unbearable. He could not stamp on its floor(there was no space to _walk_ on it), lest any intrusive neighbourbelow, who might have popped in, unwanted, should say, "Who have ye gotup aloft?" He could not open the window and put his head out, to catch abreath of fresh air, lest prying eyes might be cast upon him. 

"I can't stand this, " he said to Roy. "A week of it would kill me. Ishall go out at night. "

Roy opposed the resolve so far as he dared--having an eye always to thenot displeasing his future master. He represented to John Massingbirdthat he would inevitably be seen; and that he might just as well be seenby day as by night. John would not listen to reason. That very night, assoon as dark came on, he went out, and _was_ seen. Seen by Robin Frost. 

Robin Frost, whatever superstitions or fond feelings he may havecherished regarding the hoped-for reappearance of Rachel's spirit, wasno believer in ghosts in a general point of view. In fact, that it wasJohn Massingbird's ghost never once entered Robin's mind. He came atonce to the more sensible conclusion that some error had occurred withregard to his reported death, and that it was John Massingbird himself. 

His deadly enemy. The only one, of all the human beings upon earth, withwhom Robin was at issue. For he believed that it was John Massingbirdwho had worked the ill to Rachel. Robin, in his blind vengeance, took tolying in wait with a gun: and Roy became cognisant of this. 

"You must not go out again, sir, " he said to John Massingbird; "he mayshoot you dead. "

Curious, perhaps, to say, John Massingbird had himself come to the sameconclusion--that he must not go out again. He had very narrowly escapedmeeting one who would as surely have known him, in the full moonlight, as did Robin Frost; one whom it would have been nearly as inconvenientto meet, as it was Robin. And yet, stop in perpetual confinement by dayand by night, he could not; he persisted that he should be dead--almostbetter go back, unsatisfied, to Australia. 

A bright idea occurred to John Massingbird. He would personate hisbrother. Frederick, so far as he knew, had neither creditors nor enemiesround Deerham; and the likeness between them was so great, both in faceand form, that there would be little difficulty in it. When they were athome together, John had been the stouter of the two: but his wanderingshad fined him down, and his figure now looked exactly as Frederick's didformerly. He shaved off his whiskers--Frederick had never worn any; or, for the matter of that, had had any to wear--and painted an imitationstar on his cheek with Indian-ink. His hair, too, had grown long on thevoyage, and had not yet been cut; just as Frederick used to wear his. John had favoured a short crop of hair; Frederick a long one. 

These little toilette mysteries accomplished, so exactly did he looklike his brother Frederick, that Roy started when he saw him; and Mrs. Roy went into a prolonged scream that might have been heard at thebrick-fields. John attired himself in a long, loose dark coat which hadseen service at the diggings, and sallied out; the coat which had beenmistaken for a riding habit. 

He enjoyed himself to his heart's content, receiving more fun than hehad bargained for. It had not occurred to him to personate Frederick's_ghost_; he had only thought of personating Frederick himself; but tohis unbounded satisfaction, he found the former climax arrived at. Hemet old Matthew Frost; he frightened Dan Duff into fits; he frightenedMaster Cheese; he startled the parson; he solaced himself by taking uphis station under the yew-tree on the lawn at Verner's Pride, tocontemplate that desirable structure, which perhaps was his, and thegaiety going on in it. He had distinctly seen Lionel Verner leave thelighted rooms and approach him; upon which he retreated. Afterwards, itwas rather a favourite night-pastime of his, the standing under theyew-tree at Verner's Pride. He was there again the night of the storm. 

All this, the terrifying people into the belief that he was Frederick'sveritable ghost, had been the choicest sport to John Massingbird. Thetrick might not have availed with Robin Frost, but they had found adifferent method of silencing him. Of an easy, good-tempered nature, thethought of any real damage from consequences had been completely passedover by John. If Dan Duff did go into fits, he'd recover from them; ifAlice Hook was startled into something worse, she was not dead. It wasall sport to free-and-easy John; and, but for circumstances, there's noknowing how long he might have carried this game on. These circumstancestouched upon a point that influences us all, more or less--pecuniaryconsideration. John was minus funds, and it was necessary that somethingshould be done; he could not continue to live upon Roy. 

It was Roy himself who at length hit upon the plan that brought forththe certainty about the codicil. Roy found rumours were gaining groundabroad that it was not Frederick Massingbird's ghost, but Frederickhimself; and he knew that the explanation must soon come. He determinedto waylay Tynn and make an apparent confidant of him; by these means heshould, in all probability, arrive at the desired information. Roy didso; and found that there was no codicil. He carried his news to JohnMassingbird, advising that gentleman to go at once and put in his claimto Verner's Pride. John, elated with the news, protested he'd have onemore night's fun first. 

Such were the facts. John Massingbird told them to Jan, suppressing anylittle bit that he chose, here and there. The doubt about the codicil, for instance, and its moving motive in the affair, he did not mention. 

"It has been the best fun I ever had in my life, " he remarked. "I nevershall forget the parson's amazed stare, the first time I passed him. Orold Tynn's, either, last night. Jan, you should have heard Dan Duffhowl!"

"I have, " said Jan. "I have had the pleasure of attending him. My onlywonder is that he did not put himself into the pool, in his fright: asRachel Frost did, time back. "

John Massingbird caught the words up hastily, "How, do you know thatRachel put herself in? She may have been put in. "

"For all I know, she may. Taking circumstances into consideration, however, I should say it was the other way. "

"I say, Jan, " interrupted John Massingbird, with another explosion, "didn't your Achates, Cheese, arrive at home in a mortal fright onenight?"

Jan nodded. 

"I shall never forget him, never. He was marching up, all bravely, tillhe saw my face. Didn't he turn tail! There has been one person above allothers, Jan, that I have wanted to meet, and have not--your brotherLionel. "

"He'd have pinned you, " said Jan. 

"Not he. You would not have done it to-night, but that I _let_ you doit. No chance of anybody catching me, unless I chose. _I_ was on thelook-out for all I met, for all to whom I chose to show myself: _they_met me unawares. Unprepared for the encounter, while they wererecovering their astonishment, I was beyond reach. Last night I had beenwatching over the gate ever so long, when I darted out in front of Tynn, to astonish him. Jan"--lowering his voice--"has it put Sibylla in afright?"

"I think it has put Lionel in a worse, " responded Jan. 

"For fear of losing her?" laughed John Massingbird. "Wouldn't it havebeen a charming prospect for some husbands, who are tired of theirwives! Is Lionel tired of his?"

"Can't say, " replied Jan. "There's no appearance of it. "

"I should be, if Sibylla had been my wife for two years, " candidlyavowed John Massingbird. "Sibylla and I never hit it off well ascousins. I'd not own her as wife, if she were dowered with all the goldmines in Australia. What Fred saw in her was always a puzzle to me. _I_knew what was going on between them, though nobody else did. But, Jan, I'll tell you what astonished me more than everything else when Ilearned it--that Lionel should have married her subsequently. I nevercould have imagined Lionel Verner taking up with another man's wife. "

"She was his widow, " cried literal Jan. 

"All the same. 'Twas another man's leavings. And there's something aboutLionel Verner, with his sensitive refinement, that does not seem toaccord with the notion. Is she healthy?"

"Who? Sibylla? I don't fancy she has much of a constitution. "

"No, that she has not! There are no children, I hear. Jan, though, youneed not have pinched so hard when you pounced upon me, " he continued, rubbing his arm. "I was not going to run away. "

"How did I know that?" said Jan. 

"It's my last night of fun, and when I saw YOU I said to myself, 'I'llbe caught. ' How are old Deb and Amilly?"

"Much as usual. Deb's in a fever just now. She has heard that FredMassingbird's back, and thinks Sibylla ought to leave Lionel on thestrength of it. "

John laughed again. "It must have put others in a fever, I know, besidespoor old Deb. Jan, I can't stop talking to you all night, I should getno more fun. I wish I could appear to all Deerham collectively, and sendit into fits after Dan Duff! To-morrow, as soon as I genteelly can afterbreakfast, I go up to Verner's Pride and show myself. One can't go atsix in the morning. "

He went off in the direction of Clay Lane as he spoke, and Jan turned tomake the best of his way to Verner's Pride. 

CHAPTER LXVIII. 

A THREAT TO JAN. 

They had dined unusually late at Verner's Pride that evening, and LionelVerner was with his guests, making merry with the best heart he had. Now, he would rely upon the information given by Captain Cannonby; thenext moment he was feeling that the combined testimony of so manyeye-witnesses must be believed, and that it could be no other thanFrederick Massingbird. Tynn had been with the man face to face only theprevious night; Roy had distinctly asserted that he was back, in life, from Australia. Whatever _his_ anxiety may have been, his wife seemed atrest. Full of smiles and gaiety, she sat opposite to him, glitteringgems in her golden hair, shining forth from her costly robes. 

"Not out from dinner!" cried Jan, in his astonishment, when he arrived, and Tynn denied him to Lionel. "Why, it's my supper-time! I must seehim, whether he's at dinner or not. Go and say so, Tynn. Somethingimportant, tell him. "

The message brought Lionel out. Thankful, probably, to get out. Theplaying the host with a mind ill at ease, how it jars upon the troubledand fainting spirit! Jan, disdaining the invitation to the drawing-room, had hoisted himself on the top of an old carved ebony cabinet that stoodin the hall, containing curiosities, and sat there with his legsdangling. He jumped off when Lionel appeared, wound his arm within his, and drew him out on the terrace. 

"I have come to the bottom of it, Lionel, " said he, without furthercircumlocution. "I dropped upon the ghost just now and pinned him. It isnot Fred Massingbird. "

Lionel paused, and then drew a deep breath; like one who has beenrelieved from some great care. 

"Cannonby said it was not!" he exclaimed. "Cannonby is here, Jan, and heassures me Frederick Massingbird is dead and buried. Who is it, then?Have you found it out?"

"I pinned him, I say, " said Jan. "I was going down to Hook's, and hecrossed my path. He--"

"It is somebody who has been doing it for a trick?" interrupted Lionel. 

"Well--yes--in one sense. It is not Fred Massingbird, Lionel; he isdead, safe enough; but it is somebody from a distance; one who willcause you little less trouble. Not any less, in fact, putting Sibyllaout of the question. "

Lionel stopped in his walk--they were pacing the terrace--and looked atJan with some surprise; a smile, in his new security, lightening hisface. 

"There is nobody in the world, Jan, dead or alive, who could bringtrouble to me, save Frederick Massingbird. Anybody else may come, solong as he does not. "

"Ah! You are thinking only of Sibylla. "

"Of whom else should I think?"

"Yourself, " replied Jan. 

Lionel laughed in his gladness. _How_ thankful he was for his wife'ssake ONE alone knew. "I am nobody, Jan. Any trouble coming to me I canbattle with. "

"Well, Lionel, the returned man is John Massingbird. "

"John--Mass--ingbird!"

Of all the birds in the air and the fishes in the sea--as the childrensay--he was the very last to whom Lionel Verner had cast a thought. Thatit was John who had returned, had not entered his imagination. He hadnever cast a doubt on the fact of his death. Bringing the name outslowly, he stared at Jan in very astonishment. 

"Well, " said he presently, "John is not Frederick. "

"No, " assented Jan. "He can put in no claim to your wife. But he can toVerner's Pride. "

The words caused Lionel's heart to go on with a bound. A great evil forhim; there was no doubt of it; but still slight, compared to the one hehad dreaded for Sibylla. 

"There is no mistake, I suppose, Jan?"

"There's no mistake, " replied Jan. "I have been talking to him thishalf-hour. He is hiding at Roy's. "

"Why should he be in hiding at all?" inquired Lionel. 

"He had two or three motives he said;" and Jan proceeded to give Lionela summary of what he had heard. "He was not very explicit to me, "concluded Jan. "Perhaps he will be more so to you. He says he is comingto Verner's Pride to-morrow morning at the earliest genteel hour afterbreakfast. "

"And what does he say to the fright he has caused?" resumed Lionel. 

"Does nothing but laugh over it. Says it's the primest fun he ever hadin his life. He has come back very poor, Lionel. "

"Poor? Then, were Verner's Pride and its revenues not his, I could haveunderstood why he should not like to show himself openly. Well! well!compared to what I feared, it is a mercy. Sibylla is free; and I--I mustmake the best of it. He will be a more generous master of Verner'sPride--as I believe--than Frederick would ever have been. "

"Yes, " nodded Jan. "In spite of his faults. And John Massingbird used tohave plenty. "

"I don't know who amongst us is without them, Jan. Unless--upon my word, old fellow, I mean it!--unless it is you. "

Jan opened his great eyes with a wondering stare. It never occurred tohumble-minded Jan that there was anything in _him_ approaching togoodness. He supposed Lionel had spoken in joke. 

"What's that?" cried he. 

Jan alluded to a sudden burst of laughter, to a sound of many voices, tofair forms that were flitting before the windows. The ladies had goneinto the drawing-room. "What a relief it will be for Sibylla!"involuntarily uttered Lionel. 

"She'll make a face at losing Verner's Pride, " was the less poeticalremark of Jan. 

"Will he turn us out at once, Jan?"

"He said nothing to me on that score, nor I to him, " was the answer ofJan. "Look here, Lionel. Old West's a screw, between ourselves; but whatI do earn is my own; so don't get breaking your rest, thinking you'llnot have a pound or two to turn to. If John Massingbird does send youout, I can manage things for you, if you don't mind living quietly. "

Honest Jan! His notions of "living quietly" would have comprised acouple of modest rooms, cotton umbrellas like his own, and a mutton chopa day. And Jan would have gone without the chop himself, to give it toLionel. To Sibylla, also. Not that he had any great love for that lady, in the abstract; but, for Jan to eat chops, while anybody, no matter howremotely connected with him, wanted them, would have been completely outof Jan's nature. 

A lump was rising in Lionel's throat. _He_ loved Jan, and knew hisworth, if nobody else did. While he was swallowing it down, Jan went on, quite eagerly. 

"Something else might be thought of, Lionel. I don't see why you andSibylla should not come to old West's. The house is large enough; andDeb and Amilly couldn't object to it for their sister. In point ofright, half the house is mine: West said so when I became his partner;and I paid my share for the furniture. He asked if I'd not like tomarry, and said there was the half of the house; but I told him I'drather be excused. I might get a wife, you know, Lionel, who'd be forgrumbling at me all day, as my mother does. Now, if you and Sibyllawould come there, the matter as to your future would be at rest. I'ddivide what I get between you and Miss Deb. Half to her for the extracost you'd be to the housekeeping; the other half for pocket-money foryou and Sibylla. I think you might make it do, Lionel: my share is quitetwo hundred a year. My own share I mean; besides what I hand over toMiss Deb, and transmit to the doctor, and other expenses. Could youmanage with it?"

"Jan!" said Lionel, from between his quivering lips. "Dear Jan, there's--"

They were interrupted. Bounding out at the drawing-room window, the verywindow at which Lucy Tempest had sat that night and watched theyew-tree, came Sibylla, fretfulness in the lines of her countenance, complaint in the tones of her voice. 

"Mr. Jan Verner, I'd like to know what right you have to send for Lionelfrom the room when he is at dinner? If he _is_ your brother, you have nobusiness to forget yourself in that way. He can't help your being hisbrother, I suppose; but you ought to know better than to presume uponit. "

"Sibylla!--"

"Be quiet, Lionel. I _shall_ tell him of it. Never was such a thingheard of, as for a gentleman to be called out for nothing, from histable's head! You do it again, Jan, and I shall order Tynn to shut thedoors to you of Verner's Pride. "

Jan received the lecture with the utmost equanimity, with imperturbablegood nature. Lionel wound his arms about his wife, gravely and gently;whatever may have been the pain caused by her words, he suppressed it. 

"Jan came here to tell me news that quite justified his sending for me, wherever I might be, or however occupied, Sibylla. He has succeeded insolving to-night the mystery which has hung over us; he has discoveredwho it is that we have been taking for Frederick Massingbird. "

"It is not Frederick Massingbird, " cried Sibylla, speaking sharply. "Captain Cannonby says that it cannot be. "

"No, it is not Frederick Massingbird--God be thanked!" said Lionel. "With that knowledge, we can afford to hear who it is bravely; can wenot, Sibylla?"

"But why don't you tell me who it is?" she retorted, in an impatient, fretful tone, not having the discernment to see that he wished toprepare her for what was coming. "Can't you speak, Jan, if he won't?People have no right to come, dressed up in other people's clothes andfaces, to frighten us to death. He ought to be transported! Who is it?"

"You will be startled, Sibylla, " said Lionel. "It is one whom we havebelieved to be dead; though it is not Frederick Massingbird. "

"I _wish_ you'd tell--beating about the bush like that! You need notstare so, Jan. I don't believe you know. "

"It is your cousin, Sibylla; John Massingbird. "

A moment's pause. And then, clutching at the hand of Lionel--

"Who?" she shrieked. 

"Hush, my dear. It is John Massingbird. "

"Not dead! Did he not die?"

"No. He recovered, when left, as was supposed, for dead. He is cominghere to-morrow morning, Jan says. "

Sibylla let fall her hands. She staggered back to a pillar and leanedagainst it, her upturned face white in the starlight. 

"Is--is--is Verner's Pride yours or his?" she gasped in a low tone. 

"It is his. "

"His! Neither yours nor mine?"

"It is only his, Sibylla. "

She raised her hands again; she began fighting with the air, as if shewould beat off an imaginary John Massingbird. Another minute, and herlaughter and her cries came forth together, shriek upon shriek. She wasin strong hysterics. Lionel supported her, while Jan ran for water; andthe gay company came flocking out of the lighted rooms to see. 

CHAPTER LXIX. 

NO HOME. 

People talk of a nine days' wonder. But no nine days' wonder has everbeen heard or known, equal to that which fell on Deerham; which wentbooming to the very extremity of the county's boundaries. Lionel Verner, the legitimate heir--it may so be said--the possessor of Verner's Pride, was turned out of it to make room for an alien, resuscitated from thesupposed dead. 

Sailors tell us that the rats desert a sinking ship. Pseudo friendsdesert a falling house. You may revel in these friends in prosperity, but when adversity sets in, how they fall away! On the very day thatJohn Massingbird arrived at Verner's Pride, and it became known that nothe, but Mrs. And Mr. Verner must leave it, the gay company gatheredthere dispersed. Dispersed with polite phrases, which went for nothing. They were so very sorry for the calamity, for Mr. And Mrs. Verner; ifthey could do anything to serve them they had only to be commanded. Andthen they left; never perhaps to meet again, even as acquaintances. Itmay be asked, what could they do? They could not invite them to apermanent home; saddle themselves with a charge of that sort; neitherwould such an invitation stand a chance of acceptance. It did not appearthey could do anything; but their combined flight from the house, oneafter the other, did strike with a chill of mortification upon thenerves of Lionel Verner and his wife. 

His wife! Ah, poor Lionel had enough upon his hands, looking on one sideand another. _She_ was the heaviest weight. Lionel had thanked God inhis true heart that they had been spared the return of FrederickMassingbird; but there was little doubt that the return of Frederickwould have been regarded by her as a light calamity, in comparison withthis. She made no secret of it. Ten times a day had Lionel to curb hisoutraged feelings, and compress his lips to stop the retort that wouldrise bubbling up within them. She would openly lament that it was notFrederick who had returned, in which case she might have remained atVerner's Pride!

"You'll not turn them out, Massingbird?" cried Jan, in hisstraightforward way, drawing the gentleman into the fruit-garden to aprivate conference. "_I_ wouldn't. "

John Massingbird laughed good-humouredly. He had been in the sunniesthumour throughout; had made his first appearance at Verner's Pride inbursts of laughter, heartily grasping the hands of Lionel, of Sibylla, and boasting of the "fun" he had had in playing the ghost. CaptainCannonby, the only one of the guests who remained, grew charmed withJohn, and stated his private opinion in the ear of Lionel Verner that hewas worth a hundred such as Frederick. 

"How can I help turning them out?" answered he. "_I_ didn't make thewill--it was old Daddy Verner. "

"You need not act upon the will, " said Jan. "There was a codicil, youknow, superseding it, though it can't be found. Sibylla's yourcousin--it would be a cruel thing to turn her from her home. "

"Two masters never answered in a house yet, " nodded John. "I'm not goingto try it. "

"Let them stop in Verner's Pride, and you go elsewhere, " suggested Jan. 

John Massingbird laughed for five minutes. "How uncommon _young_ youare, Jan!" said he. "Has Lionel been putting you up to try this on?"

Jan swung himself on a tolerably strong branch of the mulberry-tree, regardless of any damage the ripe fruit might inflict on his nethergarments, as he answered--

"Knowing Lionel, you needn't ask it, Massingbird. There'd be adifficulty in getting him to stop in Verner's Pride now, but he might becoaxed to do it for the sake of his wife. She'll have a fit of illnessif she has to go out of it. Lionel is one to stand by his own to thelast; while Verner's Pride was his, he'd have fought to retain itspossession, inch by inch; but let ever so paltry a quibble of the lawtake it from him, and he'd not lift up his finger to keep it. But, Isay, I think he might be got to do it for Sibylla. "

"I'll tell you a secret, Jan, " cried John Massingbird. "I'd not haveSibylla stop in Verner's Pride if she paid me ten thousand a year forthe favour. There! And as to resigning Verner's Pride the minute I comeinto it, nobody but a child or Jan Verner could ever have started soabsurd an idea. If anything makes me feel cross, it is the thought of myhaving been knocking about yonder, when I might have been living inclover here. I'd get up an Ever-perpetual PhilanthropicBenefit-my-fellow-creature Society, if I were you, Jan, and holdmeetings at Exeter Hall!"

"Not in my line, " said Jan, swaying himself about on the bough. 

"Isn't it! I should say it was. Why don't you invite Sibylla to yourhouse, if you are so fond of her?"

"She won't come, " said Jan. 

"Perhaps you have not asked her!"

"I was beginning to ask her, but she flew at me and ordered me to holdmy tongue. No, I see it, " Jan added, in self-soliloquy, "she'll nevercome there. I thought she might: and I got Miss Deb to think so. She'll--she'll--"

"She'll what?" asked John Massingbird. 

"She'll be a thorn in Lionel's side, I'm afraid. "

"Nothing more likely, " acquiesced easy John. "Roses and thorns gotogether. If gentlemen will marry the one, they must expect to get theirshare of the other. "

Jan jumped off his bough. His projects all appeared to be failing. Themore he had dwelt upon his suddenly-thought-of scheme, that Dr. West'shouse might afford an asylum for Lionel and his wife, the more he hadbecome impressed with its desirability. Jan Verner, though the mostunselfish, perhaps it may be said the most improvident of mortals, withregard to himself, had a considerable amount of forethought for the restof the world. It had struck him, even before it struck Lionel, that, ifturned out of Verner's Pride, Lionel would _want_ a home; want it in thebroadest acceptation of the word. It would have been Jan's delight togive him one. He, Jan, went home, told Miss Deb the news that it wasJohn Massingbird who had returned, not Frederick, and imparted his viewsof future arrangements. 

Miss Deb was dubious. For Mr. Verner of Verner's Pride to become aninmate of their home, dependent on her housekeeping, looked a formidableaffair. But Jan pointed out that, Verner's Pride _gone_, it appeared tobe but a choice of cheap lodgings; their house would be an improvementupon that. And Miss Deb acquiesced; and grew to contemplate the additionto her family, in conjunction with the addition Jan proposed to add toher income, with great satisfaction. 

_That_ failed. Failed upon Jan's first hint of it to Mrs. Verner. She--to use his own expression--flew out at him, at the bare hint; andSibylla Verner could fly out in an unseemly manner when she chose. 

Jan's next venture had been with John Massingbird. That was failure thesecond. "Where are they to go?" thought Jan. 

It was a question that Lionel Verner may also have been asking in hisinmost heart. As yet he could not look his situation fully in the face. Not from any want of moral courage, but because of the inextricableconfusion that his affairs seemed to be in. And, let his moral couragebe what it would, the aspect they bore might have caused a more hardyheart than Lionel's to shrink. _How much he owed he could not tell_;nothing but debt stared him in the face. He had looked to the autumnrents of Verner's Pride to extricate him from a portion of hisdifficulties; and now those rents would be received by John Massingbird. The furniture in the house, the plate, the linen, none of it was his; ithad been left by the will with Verner's Pride. The five hundred pounds, all that he had inherited by that will, had been received at thetime--and was gone. One general sinking fund seemed to have swallowed upeverything; that, and all else; leaving a string of debts a yard long inits place. 

Reproaches now would be useless; whether self-reproach, or reproach tohis wife. The latter Lionel would never have given. And yet, when helooked back, and thought how free from debt he might have been, nothingbut reproach, however vaguely directed, reproach of the past generally, seemed to fill his heart. To turn out in the world, a free man, thoughpenniless, would have been widely different from turning out, plungedover head and ears in difficulties. 

In what quarter did he not owe money? He could not say. He had not beenvery provident, and Sibylla had not been provident at all. But this muchmight be said for Lionel: that he had not wasted money on uselessthings, or self-indulgence. The improvements he had begun on the estatehad been the chief drain, so far as he went; and the money they took hadcaused him to get backward with the general expenses. He had also beenover liberal to his mother. Money was owing on all sides; for largethings and for small; how much, Lionel did not yet know. He did notknow--he was afraid to guess--what private debts might have beencontracted by his wife. There had been times lately, when, incontemplating the embarrassment growing so hopelessly upon him, Lionelhad felt inclined to wish that some climax would come and end it; but hehad never dreamt of such a climax as this. A hot flush dyed his cheeksas he remembered there was nearly a twelvemonth's wages owing to most ofhis servants; and he had not the means now of paying them. 

"Stop on a bit if you like, " said John Massingbird, in a hearty tone;"stop a month, if you will. You are welcome. It will be only changingyour place from master to guest. "

From master to guest! That same day John Massingbird assumed his ownplace, unasked, at the head of the dinner-table. Lionel went to the sidewith a flushed face. John Massingbird had never been remarkable fordelicacy, but Lionel could not help thinking that he might have waiteduntil he was gone, before assuming the full mastership. Captain Cannonbymade the third at the dinner, and he, by John Massingbird's request, took the foot of the table. It was not the being put out of his placethat hurt Lionel so much, as the feeling of annoyance that JohnMassingbird could behave so unlike a gentleman. He felt ashamed for him. Dinner over, Lionel went up to his wife, who was keeping her room, partly from temper, partly from illness. 

"Sibylla, I'll not stop here another day, " he said. "I see that JohnMassingbird wants us to go. Now, what shall I do? Take lodgings?"

Sibylla looked up from the sofa, her eyes red with crying, her cheeksinflamed. 

"Anybody but you, Lionel, would never allow him to turn you out. Whydon't you dispute the right with him? Turn _him_ out, and defy him!"

He did not tell Sibylla that she was talking like a child. He only saidthat John Massingbird's claim to Verner's Pride was indisputable--thatit had been his all along; that, in point of fact, he himself had beenthe usurper. 

"Then you mean, " she said, "to give him up quiet possession?"

"I have no other resource, Sibylla. To attempt any sort of resistancewould be foolish as well as wrong. "

"_I_ shan't give it up. I shall stay here in spite of him. You may do asyou like, but he is not going to get me out of my own home. "

"Sibylla, will you try and be rational for once? If ever a time calledfor it, it is the present. I ask you whether I shall seek afterlodgings. "

"And I wonder that you are not ashamed to ask me, " retorted Sibylla, bursting into tears. "Lodgings, after Verner's Pride! No. I'd rather diethan go into lodgings. I dare say I shall die soon, with all thisaffliction. "

"I do not see what else there is for us but lodgings, " resumed Lionel, after a pause. "You will not hear of Jan's proposition. "

"Go back to my old home!" she shrieked. "Like--as poor Fred used tosay--bad money returned. No! that I never will. You are wrapt up in Jan;if he proposed to give me poison, you'd say yes. I wish Fred had notdied!"

"Will you be so good as tell me what _you_ think ought to be done?"inquired Lionel. 

"How can I think? Where's the good of asking me? I think the least youcan do in this wretchedness, is to take as much worry off me as you can, Lionel. "

"It is what I wish to do, " he gently said. "But I can see only one planfor us, Sibylla--lodgings. Here we cannot stay; it is out of thequestion. To take a house is equally so. We have no furniture--no money, in short, to set up a house, or to keep it on. Jan's plan, until I canturn myself round and see what's to be done, would be the best. Youwould be going to your own sisters, who would take care of you, should Ifind it necessary to be away. "

"Away! Where?" she quickly asked. 

"I must go somewhere and do something. I cannot lead an idle life, living upon other people's charity, or let you live upon it. I must findsome way of earning a livelihood: in London, perhaps. While I am lookingout, you would be with your sisters. "

"Then, Lionel, hear me!" she cried, her throat working, her blue eyesflashing with a strange light. "I will _never_ go home to my sisters! Iwill never, so long as I live, enter that house again, to reside! Youare no better than a bear to wish me to do it. "

What was he to do? She was his wife, and he must provide for her; butshe would go neither into lodgings, nor to the proposed home. Lionel sethis wits to work. 

"I wonder--whether--my mother--would invite us there, for a shortwhile?" The words were spoken slowly, reluctantly, as if there were anundercurrent of strong doubt in his mind. "Would you go to Deerham Courtfor a time, Sibylla, if Lady Verner were agreeable?"

"Yes, " said Sibylla, after a minute's consideration. "I'd go there. "

Deeming it well that something should be decided, Lionel wentdownstairs, caught up his hat, and proceeded to Deerham Court. He didnot say a word about his wife's caprice; or that two plans, proposed toher, had been rejected. He simply asked his mother whether she wouldtemporarily receive him and his wife, until he could look round anddecide on the future. 

To his great surprise, Lady Verner answered that she would; and answeredreadily. Lionel, knowing the light in which she regarded his wife, hadanticipated he knew not what of objection, if not of positive refusal. 

"I wish you to come here, Lionel; I intended to send for you and tellyou so, " was the reply of Lady Verner. "You have no home to turn to, and I could not have it said that my son in his strait was at fault forone. I never thought to receive your wife inside my doors, but for yoursake I will do so. No servants, you understand, Lionel. "

"Certainly not, " he answered. "I cannot afford servants now as a matterof luxury. "

"I can neither afford them for you, nor is there room in my house toaccommodate them. This applies to that French maid of yours, " LadyVerner pointedly added. "I do not like the woman; nothing would induceme to admit her here, even were circumstances convenient. Any attendancethat your wife may require, she shall have. "

Lionel smiled a sad smile. "Be easy, mother. The time for my wife tokeep a French maid has gone by. I thank you very sincerely. "

And so Lionel Verner was once more to be turned from Verner's Pride, totake up his abode with his wife in his mother's home. When were hiswanderings to be at rest?

CHAPTER LXX. 

TURNING OUT. 

The battle that there was with Mrs. Verner! She cried, she sobbed, sheprotested, she stormed, she raved. Willing enough, was she, to go toLady Verner's; indeed the proposed visit appeared to be exceedinglypalatable to her; but she was not willing to go without MademoiselleBenoite. She was used to Benoite; Benoite dressed her, and waited onher, and read to her, and took charge of her things; Benoite was in herconfidence, kept her purse; she could not do without Benoite, and it wasbarbarous of Lionel to wish it. How could she manage without a maid?

Lionel gravely laid his hand upon her shoulder. Some husbands might havereminded her that until she married him she had never known the servicesof a personal attendant; that she had gone all the way to Melbourne, had--as John Massingbird had expressed it with regard to himself--beenknocking about there, and had come back home again alone, all without somuch as thinking of one. Not so Lionel. He laid his hand upon hershoulder in his grave kindness. 

"Sibylla, do you forget that we have no longer the means to keepourselves? I must find a way to do that, before I can afford you alady's maid. My dear, I am very sorry; you know I am; for that, and allthe other discomforts that you are meeting with; but there is no helpfor it. I trust that some time or other I shall be able to remedy it. "

"We should not have to keep her, " argued Sibylla. "She'd live with LadyVerner's servants. "

Neither did he remind her that Lady Verner would have sufficient tax, keeping himself and her. One would have thought her own delicacy offeeling might have suggested it. 

"It cannot be, Sibylla. Lady Verner has no accommodation for Benoite. "

"She must make accommodation. When people used to come here to visit us, they brought their servants with them. "

"Oh, Sibylla! can you not see the difference? But--what do you oweBenoite?" he added in a different tone. 

"I don't owe her anything, " replied Sibylla eagerly, quite mistaking themotive of the question. "I have always paid her every month. She'd neverlet it go on. "

"Then there will be the less trouble, " thought Lionel. 

He called Benoite to him, then packing up Sibylla's things for DeerhamCourt, inquired into the state of her accounts, and found Sibylla hadtold him correctly. He gave Benoite a month's wages and a month's boardwages, and informed her that as soon as her mistress had left the house, she would be at liberty to leave it. A scene ensued with Sibylla, butfor once Lionel was firm. 

"You will have every attendance provided for you, Sibylla, my mothersaid. But I cannot take Benoite; neither would Lady Verner admit her. "

John Massingbird had agreed to keep on most of the old servants. Thesuperfluous ones, those who had been engaged when Verner's Pride grewgay, Lionel found the means of discharging; paying them as he had paidBenoite. 

Heavy work for him, that day! the breaking up of his home, the turningforth to the world. And, as if his heart were not sufficiently heavy, hehad the trouble of Sibylla. The arrangements had been three or four daysin process. It had taken that time to pack and settle things, since hefirst spoke to Lady Verner. There were various personal trifles of hisand Sibylla's to be singled out and separated from what was now JohnMassingbird's. But all was done at last, and they were ready to depart. Lionel went to John Massingbird. 

"You will allow me to order the carriage for Sibylla? She will like itbetter than a hired one. "

"Certainly, " replied John, with much graciousness. "But what's the goodof leaving before dinner?"

"My mother is expecting us, " simply answered Lionel. 

Just the same innate refinement of feeling which had characterised himin the old days. It so happened that Lionel had never bought a carriagesince he came into Verner's Pride. Stephen Verner had been prodigal inhis number of carriages, although the carriages had a sinecure of it, and Lionel had found no occasion to purchase. Of course they belonged toJohn Massingbird; everything else belonged to him. He, for the lasttime, ordered the close carriage for his wife. His carriage, it mightsurely be said, more than John Massingbird's. Lionel did not deem it so, and asked permission ere he gave the order. 

Sibylla had never seen her husband quietly resolute in opposing herwhims, as he had been with regard to Benoite. She scarcely knew what tomake of it; but she had deemed it well to dry her tears, and withdrawher opposition. She came down dressed at the time of departure, andlooked about for John Massingbird. That gentleman was in the study. Itslarge desk, a whole mass of papers crowded above it and underneath it, pushed into the remotest corner. Lionel had left things connected withthe estate as straight as he could. He wished to explain affairs to JohnMassingbird, and hand over documents and all else in due form, but hewas not allowed. Business and John had never agreed. John was sittingnow before the window, his elbows on the sill, a rough cap on his head, and a short clay pipe in his mouth. Lionel glanced with dismay at theconfusion reigning amid the papers. 

"Fare you well, John Massingbird, " said Sibylla. 

"Going?" said John, coolly turning round. "Good-day. "

"And let me tell you, John Massingbird, " continued Sibylla, "that ifever you had got turned out of your home as you have turned us, youwould know what it was. "

"Bless you! I've never had anything of my own to be turned out of, except a tent, " said John, with a laugh. 

"It is to be hoped that you may, then, some time, and that you will beturned out of it! That's my best wish for you, John Massingbird. "

"I'd recommend you to be polite, young lady, " returned Johngood-humouredly. "If I sue your husband for back rents, you'd not bequite so independent, I calculate. "

"Back rents!" repeated she. 

"Back rents, " assented John. "But we'll leave that discussion to anothertime. Don't you be saucy, Sibylla. "

"John, " said Lionel, pointing to the papers, "are you aware that somevaluable leases and other agreements are amongst those papers? You mightget into inextricable confusion with your tenants, were you to mislay, or lose them. "

"They are safe enough, " said careless John, taking his pipe from hismouth to speak. 

"I wish you had allowed me to put things in order for you. You will bewanting me to do it later. "

"Not a bit of it, " said John Massingbird. "I am not going to upset myequanimity with leases, and bothers of that sort. Good-bye, old fellow. Lionel!"

Lionel turned round. He had been going out. 

"We part friends, don't we?"

"I can answer for myself, " said Lionel, a frank smile rising to hislips. "It would be unjust to blame you for taking what you have a rightto take. "

"All right. Then, Lionel, you'll come and see me here?"

"Sometimes. Yes. "

They went out to the carriage, Lionel conducting his wife, and John inattendance, smoking his short pipe. The handsome carriage, with its coatof ultra-marine, its rich white lining, its silver mountings, and itsarms on the panels. The Verner arms. Would John paint them out? Likelynot. One badge on the panels of his carriages was as good to JohnMassingbird as another. He must have gone to the Herald's College had hewanted to set up arms on his own account. 

And that's how Lionel and his wife went out of Verner's Pride. It seemedas if Deerham pavement and Deerham windows were lined on purpose towatch the exodus. The time of their departure had got wind. 

"I have done a job that goes again the grain, sir, " said Wigham to hislate master, when the carriage had deposited its freight at DeerhamCourt, and was about to go back again. "I never thought, sir, to driveyou out of Verner's Pride for the last time. "

"I suppose not, Wigham. I thought it as little as you. "

"You'll not forget, sir, that I should be glad to serve you, should youever have room for me. I'd rather live with you, sir, than with anybodyelse in the world. "

"Thank you, Wigham. I fear that time will be very far off. "

"Or, if my lady should be changing her coachman, sir, perhaps she'dthink of me. It don't seem nateral to me, sir, to drive anybody but aVerner. Next to yourself, sir, I'd be proud to serve her ladyship. "

Lionel, in his private opinion, believed that Lady Verner would soon becompelled to part with her own coachman, to lay down her carriage. Failing the income she had derived from his revenues, in addition to herown, he did not see how she was to keep up many of her present expenses. He said farewell to Wigham and entered the Court. 

Decima had hastened forward to welcome Sibylla. Decima was one who, inher quiet way, was always trying to make the best of surroundingcircumstances--not for herself, but for others. Let things be ever sodark, she would contrive to extract out of them some little ray ofbrightness. Opposite as they were in person, in disposition she and Janwere true brother and sister. She came forward to the door, a glad smileupon her face, and dressed rather more than usual. It was one of herways, the unwonted dress, of showing welcome and consideration toSibylla. 

"You are late, Mrs. Verner, " she said, taking her cordially by the hand. "We have been expecting you some time. Catherine! Thérèse, see to thesepackages. "

Lady Verner had actually come out also. She was too essentially the ladyto show anything but strict courtesy to Sibylla, now that she was aboutto become an inmate under her roof. What the effort cost her, she bestknew. It was no light one; and Lionel felt that it was not. She stood inthe hall, just outside the door of the ante-room, and took Sibylla'shand as she approached. 

"I am happy to see you, Mrs. Verner, " she said, with stately courtesy. "I hope you will make yourself at home. "

They all went together into the drawing-room, in a crowd, as it were. Lucy was there, dressed also. She came up with a smile on her young andcharming face, and welcomed Sibylla. 

"It is nearly dinner-time, " said Decima to Sibylla. "Will you come withme upstairs, and I will show you the arrangements for your rooms. Lionel, will you come?"

She led the way upstairs to the pretty sitting-room with its blue-andwhite furniture, hitherto called "Miss Decima's room"; the one thatLionel had sat in when he was growing convalescent. 

"Mamma thought you would like a private sitting-room to retire to whenyou felt disposed, " said Decima. "We are only sorry it is not larger. This will be exclusively yours. "

"It is small, " was the not very gracious reply of Sibylla. 

"And it is turning you out of it, Decima!" added Lionel. 

"I did not use it much, " she answered, proceeding to another room on thesame floor. "This is your bedroom, and this the dressing-room, " sheadded, entering a spacious apartment and throwing open the door of asmaller one which led out of it. "We hope that you will find everythingcomfortable. And the luggage that you don't require to use can becarried upstairs. "

Lionel had been looking round, somewhat puzzled. "Decima! was not thisLucy's room?"

"Lucy proposed to give it up to you, " said Decima. "It is the largestroom we have; the only one that has a dressing-room opening from it, except mamma's. Lucy has gone to the small room at the end of thecorridor. "

"But it is not right for us to turn out Lucy, " debated Lionel. "I do notlike the idea of it. "

"It was Lucy herself who first thought of it, Lionel. I am sure she isglad to do anything she can to render you and Mrs. Verner comfortable. She has been quite anxious to make it look nice, and moved nearly allthe things herself. "

"It does look comfortable, " acquiesced Lionel as he stood before theblaze of the fire, feeling grateful to Decima, to his mother, to Lucy, to all of them. "Sibylla, this is one of your fires; yea like a blaze. "

"And Catherine will wait upon you, Mrs. Verner, " continued Decima. "Sheunderstands it. She waited on mamma for two years before Thérèse came. Should you require your hair done, Thérèse will do that; mamma thinksCatherine would not make any hand at it. "

She quitted the room as she spoke, and closed the door, saying that shewould send up Catherine then. Lionel had his eyes fixed on the room andits furniture; it was really an excellent room--spacious, lofty, andfitted up with every regard to comfort as well as to appearance. In theold days it was Jan's room, and Lionel scarcely remembered to have beeninside it since; but it looked very superior now to what it used to lookthen. Lady Verner had never troubled herself to improvise superfluousdecorations for Jan. Lionel's chief attention was riveted on the bed, anArabian, handsomely carved, mahogany bed, with white muslin hangings, lined with pink, matching with the window-curtains. The hangings werenew; but he felt certain that the bed was the one hitherto used by hismother. 

He stepped into the dressing-room, feeling more than he could haveexpressed, feeling that he could never repay all the kindness theyseemed to be receiving. Equally inviting looked the dressing-room. Thefirst thing that caught Lionel's eye were some delicate paintings on thewalls, done by Decima. 

His gaze and his ruminations were interrupted. Violent sobs had struckon his ear from the bed-chamber; he hastened back, and found Sibyllaextended at full length on the sofa, crying. 

"It is such a dreadful change after Verner's Pride!" she querulouslycomplained. "It's not half as nice as it was there! Just this oldbedroom and a mess of a dressing-room, and nothing else! And only thatstupid Catherine to wait upon me!"

It _was_ ungrateful. Lionel's heart, in its impulse, resented it assuch. But, ever considerate for his wife, ever wishing, in the line ofconduct he had laid down for himself, to find excuses for her, hereflected the next moment that it _was_ a grievous thing to be turnedfrom a home as she had been. He leaned over her; not answering as hemight have answered, that the rooms were all that could be wished, andfar superior they, and all other arrangements made for them, to anythingenjoyed by Sibylla until she had entered upon Verner's Pride; but hetook her hand in his, and smoothed the hair from her brow, and softlywhispered--

"Make the best of it, Sibylla, for my sake. "

"There's no 'best' to be made, " she replied, with a shower of tears, asshe pushed his hand and his face away. 

Catherine knocked at the door. Miss Decima had sent her and bade her saythat dinner was on the point of being served. Sibylla sprang up from thesofa, and dried her tears. 

"I wonder whether I can get at my gold combs?" cried she, all her griefflying away. 

Lionel turned to Catherine; an active little woman with a high colourand a sensible countenance, looking much younger than her real age. _That_ was not far off fifty; but in movement and lissomeness, she wasyoung as she had been at twenty. Nothing vexed Catherine so much as forLady Verner to allude to her "age. " Not from any notions of vanity, butlest she might be thought growing incapable of her work. 

"Catherine, is not that my mother's bed?"

"To think that you should have found it out, Mr. Lionel!" echoedCatherine, with a broad smile. "Well, sir, it is, and that's the truth. We have been making all sorts of changes. Miss Lucy's bed has gone infor my lady, and my lady's has been brought here. See, what a big, widebed it is!" she exclaimed, putting her arm on the counterpane. "MissLucy's was a good-sized bed, but my lady thought it would be hardly bigenough for two; so she said hers should come in here. "

"And what's Miss Lucy sleeping on?" asked Lionel, amused. "The boards?"

Catherine laughed. "Miss Lucy has got a small bed now, sir. Not, upon myword, that I think she'd mind if we did put her on the boards. She isthe sweetest young lady to have to do with, Mr. Lionel! I don't believethere ever was one like her. She's as easy satisfied as ever Mr. Janwas. "

"Lionel! I can't find my gold combs!" exclaimed Sibylla, coming from thedressing-room, with a face of consternation. "They are not in thedressing-case. How am I to know which box Benoite has put them in?"

"Never mind looking for the combs now, " he answered. "You will have timeto search for things to-morrow. Your hair looks nice without combs. _I_think nicer than with them. "

"But I wanted to wear them, " she fractiously answered. "It is all yourfault! You should not have forced me to discharge Benoite. "

Did she wish him to look for the gold combs? Lionel did not take thehint. Leaving her in the hands of Catherine, he quitted the room. 

CHAPTER LXXI. 

UNPREMEDITATED WORDS. 

Lucy was in the drawing-room alone when Lionel entered it. "LadyVerner, " she said to him, "has stepped out to speak to Jan. "

"Lucy, I find that our coming here has turned you out of your room, " hegravely said. "I should earnestly have protested against it, had I knownwhat was going to be done. "

"Should you?" said she, shaking her head quite saucily. "We should nothave listened to you. "

"We! Whom does the 'we' include?"

"Myself and Decima. We planned everything. I like the room I have now, quite as much as that. It is the room at the end, opposite the one Mrs. Verner is to have for her sitting-room. "

"The sitting-room again! What shall you and Decima do without it?"exclaimed Lionel, looking as he felt--vexed. 

"If we never have anything worse to put up with than the loss of asitting-room that was nearly superfluous, we shall not grieve, " answeredLucy, with a smile. "How did we do without it before--when you weregetting better from that long illness? We had to do without it then. "

"I think not, Lucy. So far as _my_ memory serves me, you were sitting init a great portion of your time--cheering me. I have not forgotten it, if you have. "

Neither had she--by her heightened colour. 

"I mean that we had to do without it for our own purposes, our drawingsand our work. It is but a little matter, after all. I wish we could domore for you and Mrs. Verner. I wish, " she added, her voice betrayingher emotion, "that we could have prevented your being turned fromVerner's Pride. "

"Ay, " he said, speaking with affected carelessness, and turning about anornament in his fingers, which he had taken from the mantel-piece, "itis not an every-day calamity. "

"What shall you do?" asked Lucy, going a little nearer to him, anddropping her voice to a tone of confidence. 

"Do? In what way, Lucy?"

"Shall you be content to live on here with Lady Verner? Not seeking toretrieve your--your position in any way?"

"My living on here, Lucy, will be out of the question. That would neverdo, for more reasons than one. "

Did Lucy Tempest divine what one of these reasons might be? She did notintend to look at him, but she caught his eyes in the pier-glass. Lionelsmiled. 

"I am thinking what a trouble you must find me--you and Decima. "

She did not speak at first. Then she went quite close to him, herearnest, sympathising eyes cast up to his. 

"If you please, you need not pretend to make light of it to me, " shewhispered. "I don't like you to think that I do not know all you mustfeel, and what a blow it is. I think I feel it quite as much as you cando--for your sake and for Mrs. Verner's. I lie awake at night, thinkingof it; but I do not say so to Decima and Lady Verner. I make light of itto them, as you are making light of it to me. "

"I know, I know!" he uttered in a tone that would have been a passionateone, but for its wailing despair. "My whole life, for a long while, hasbeen one long scene of acting--to you. I dare not make it otherwise. There's no remedy for it. "

She had not anticipated the outburst; she had simply wished to expressher true feeling of sympathy for their great misfortunes, as she mighthave expressed it to any other gentleman who had been turned from hishome with his wife. She could not bear for Lionel not to know that hehad her deepest, her kindliest, her truest sympathy, and this hadnothing to do with any secret feeling she might, or might not, entertainfor him. Indeed, but for the unpleasant, latent consciousness of thatvery feeling, Lucy would have made her sympathy more demonstrative. Theoutbreak seemed to check her; to throw her friendship back upon herself;and she stood irresolute; but she was too single-minded, too full ofnature's truth, to be angry with what had been a genuine outpouring ofhis inmost heart, drawn from him in a moment of irrepressible sorrow. Lionel let the ornament fall back on the mantel-piece, and turned toher, his manner changing. He took her hands, clasping them in one ofhis; he laid his other hand lightly on her fair young head, reverentlyas any old grandfather might have done. 

"Lucy!--my dear friend!--you must not mistake me. There are times whensome of the bitterness within me is drawn forth, and I say more than Iought: what I never should say, in a calmer moment. I wish I _could_talk to you; I wish I could give you the full confidence of all mysorrows, as I gave it you on another subject once before. I wish I coulddraw you to my side, as though you were my sister, or one of my dearestfriends, and tell you of the great trouble at my heart. But it cannotbe, I thank you, I _thank_ you for your sympathy. I know that you wouldgive me your friendship in all single-heartedness, as Decima might giveit me; and it would be to me a green spot of brightness in life's ariddesert. But the green spot might for me grow too bright, Lucy; and myonly plan is to be wise in time, and to forego it. "

"I did but mean to express my sorrow for you and Mrs. Verner, " shetimidly answered; "my sense of the calamity which has fallen upon you. "

"Child, I know it; and I dare not say how I feel it; I dare not thankyou as I ought. In truth it is a terrible calamity. All its consequencesI cannot yet anticipate; but they may be worse than anybody suspects, orthan I like to glance at. It is a deep and apparently an irremediablemisfortune. I cannot but feel it keenly; and I feel it for my wife morethan for myself. Now and then, something like a glimpse of consolationshows itself--that it has not been brought on by any fault of mine; andthat, humanly speaking, I have done nothing to deserve it. "

"Mr. Cust used to tell us that however dark a misfortune might be, however hopeless even, there was sure to be a way of looking at it, bywhich we might see that it might have been darker, " observed Lucy. "_This_ would have been darker for you, had it proved to be FrederickMassingbird, instead of John; very sadly darker for Mrs. Verner. "

"Ay; so far I cannot be too thankful, " replied Lionel. The remembranceflashed over him of his wife's words that day--in her temper--she wishedit had been Frederick. It appeared to be a wish that she had alreadythrown out frequently; not so much that she did wish it, as to annoyhim. 

"Mr. Cust used to tell us another thing, " resumed Lucy, breaking thesilence: "that these apparently hopeless misfortunes sometimes turn outto be great benefits in the end. Who knows but in a short time, throughsome magic or other, you and Mrs. Verner may be back at Verner's Pride?Would not that be happiness?"

"I don't know about happiness, Lucy; sometimes I feel tired ofeverything, " he wearily answered. "As if I should like to run away forever, and be at rest. My life at Verner's Pride was not a bed ofrose-leaves. "

He heard his mother's voice in the ante-room, and went forward to openthe door for her. Lady Verner came in, followed by Jan. Jan was going todine there; and Jan was actually in orthodox dinner costume. Decima hadinvited him, and Decima had told him to be sure to dress himself; thatshe wanted to make a little festival of the evening to welcome Lioneland his wife. So Jan remembered, and appeared in black. But the gloss ofthe whole was taken off by Jan having his shirt fastened down the frontwith pins, where the buttons ought to be. Brassy-looking, ugly, bentpins, as big as skewers, stuck in horizontally. 

"Is that a new fashion coming in, Jan?" asked Lady Verner, pointing withsome asperity to the pins. 

"It's to be hoped not, " replied Jan. "It took me five minutes to stickthem in, and there's one of the pins running into my wrist now. It's anew shirt of mine come home, and they have forgotten the buttons. MissDeb caught sight of it, when I went in to tell her I was coming here, and ran after me to the gate with a needle and thread, wanting to sewthem on. "

"Could you not have fastened it better than that, Jan?" asked Decima, smiling as she looked at the shirt. 

"I don't see how, " replied Jan. "Pins were the readiest to hand. "

Sibylla had been keeping them waiting dinner. She came in now, radiantin smiles and in her gold combs. None, to look at her, would suppose shehad that day lost a home. A servant appeared and announced dinner. 

Lionel went up to Lady Verner. Whenever he dined there, unless therewere other guests besides himself, he had been in the habit of takingher in to dinner. Lady Verner drew back. 

"No, Lionel. I consider that you and I are both at home now. Take MissTempest. "

He could only obey. He held out his arm to Lucy, and they went forward. 

"Am I to take anybody?" inquired Jan. 

That was just like Jan! Lady Verner pointed to Sibylla, and Jan marchedoff with her. Lady Verner and Decima followed. 

"Not there, not there, Lucy, " said Lady Verner, for Lucy was taking theplace she was accustomed to, by Lady Verner. "Lionel, you will take thefoot of the table now, and Lucy will sit by you. "

Lady Verner was rather a stickler for etiquette, and at last they fellinto their appointed places. Herself and Lionel opposite each other, Lucy and Decima on one side the table, Jan and Sibylla on the other. 

"If I am to have you under my wing as a rule, Miss Lucy, take care thatyou behave yourself, " nodded Lionel. 

Lucy laughed, and the dinner proceeded. But there was very probably anundercurrent of consciousness in the heart of both--at any rate, therewas in his--that it might have been more expedient, all thingsconsidered, that Lucy Tempest's place at dinner had not been fixed bythe side of Lionel Verner. 

Dinner was half over when Sibylla suddenly laid down her knife and fork, and burst into tears. They looked at her in consternation. Lionel rose. 

"That horrid John Massingbird!" escaped her lips. "I always dislikedhim. "

"Goodness!" uttered Jan, "I thought you were taken ill, Sibylla. What'sthe good of thinking about it?"

"According to you, there's no good in thinking of anything, " tartlyresponded Sibylla. "You told me yesterday not to think about Fred, whenI said I wished he had come back instead of John--if one must have comeback. "

"At any rate, don't think about unpleasant things now, " was Jan'sanswer. "Eat your dinner. "

CHAPTER LXXII. 

JAN'S SAVINGS. 

Lionel Verner looked his situation full in the face. It was not adesirable one. When he had been turned out of Verner's Pride before, itis probable he had thought _that_ about the extremity of all humancalamity; but that, looking back upon it, appeared a position to becoveted, as compared with this. In point of fact it was. He was freethen from pecuniary liabilities; he did not owe a shilling in the world;he had five hundred pounds in his pocket; nobody but himself to look to;and--he was a younger man. In the matter of years he was not so verymuch older now; but Lionel Verner, since his marriage, had bought someexperience in human disappointment, and nothing ages a man's inwardfeelings like it. 

He was now, with his wife, a burden upon his mother; a burden she couldill afford. Lady Verner was somewhat embarrassed in her own means, andshe was preparing to reduce her establishment to the size that it usedto be in her grumbling days. If Lionel had but been free! free from debtand difficulty! he would have gone out into the world and put hisshoulder to the wheel. 

Claims had poured in upon him without end. Besides the obligations healready knew of, not a day passed but the post brought him from Londonoutstanding accounts, for debts contracted by his wife, with demands fortheir speedy settlement. Mr. Verner of Verner's Pride might not havebeen troubled with these accounts for years, had his wife so managed:but Mr. Verner, turned from Verner's Pride, a--it is an ugly word, butexpressive of the truth--a pauper, found the demands come pouring thickand threefold upon his head. It was of no _use_ to reproach Sibylla; ofno use even to speak, save to ask "Is such-and-such a bill a justclaim?" Any approach to such topics was the signal for an unseemly burstof passion on her part; or for a fit of hysterics, in which fashionableaffectation Sibylla had lately become an adept. She _tried_ Lionelterribly--worse than tongue can tell or pen can write. There was nosocial confidential intercourse. Lionel could not go to her forsympathy, for counsel, or for comfort. If he attempted to talk over anyplans for the future, for the immediate future; what they could do, whatthey could not; what might be best, what worst; she met him with thefrivolousness of a child, or with a sullen reproach that he "did nothingbut worry her. " For any purposes of companionship, his wife was anonentity; far better that he had been without one. She made his wholelife a penance; she betrayed the frivolous folly of her nature ten timesa day; she betrayed her pettish temper, her want of self-control, dyeingLionel's face of a blood-red. He felt ashamed for her; he felt doublyashamed for himself--that his mother, that Lucy Tempest should at lastbecome aware what sort of a wife he had taken to his bosom, whatdescription of wedded life was his. 

What was he to do for a living? The only thing that appeared to be opento him was to endeavour to get some sort of a situation, where, by meansof the hands or the head, he might earn a competence. And yet, to dothis, it was necessary to be free from the danger of arrest. He wentabout in dread of it. Were he to show himself in London he felt surethat not an hour would pass, but he would be sued and taken. If hiscountry creditors accorded him forbearance, his town ones would not. Anyfond hope that he had formerly entertained of studying for the Bar, wasnot available now. He had neither the means nor the time to give toit--the time for study ere remuneration should come. Occasionally athought would cross him that some friend or other of his prosperitymight procure for him a government situation. A consulship, orvice-consulship abroad, for instance. _Any_ thing abroad. Not to avoidthe payment of his creditors, for whether abroad or at home, Lionelwould be sure to pay them, if by dint of pinching himself he could findthe means; but that he might run away from home and mortification, takehis wife and make the best of her. But consulships and other governmentappointments are more easily talked of than obtained; as any body whohas tried for them under difficulties knows. Moreover, although Lionelhad never taken a prominent part in politics, the Verner interest hadalways been given against the government party, then in power. He didnot see his way at all clear before him; and he found that it was to bestill further obstructed on another score. 

After thinking and planning and plotting till his brain was nearlybewildered, he at length made up his mind to go to London, and seewhether anything could be done. With regard to his creditors there, hemust lay the state of the case frankly before them, and say: "Will youleave me my liberty, and wait? You will get nothing by putting me inprison, for I have no money of my own, and no friend to come forward andadvance it to clear me. Give me time, accord me my liberty, and I willendeavour to pay you off by degrees. " It was, at any rate, astraightforward mode of going to work, and Lionel determined to adoptit. Before mentioning it to his wife, he spoke to Lady Verner. 

And then occurred the obstruction. Lady Verner, though she did notoppose the plan, declined to take charge of Sibylla, or to retain her inher house during Lionel's absence. 

"I could not take her with me, " said Lionel. "There would be moreobjections to it than one. In the first place, I have not the means; inthe second--"

He came to an abrupt pause, and turned the words off. He had been aboutincautiously to say, "She would most likely, once in London, run me intodeeper debt. " But Lionel had kept the fact of her having run him intodebt at all, a secret in his own breast. Whatever may have been hiswife's faults and failings, he did not make it his business to proclaimthem to the world. She proclaimed enough herself, to his grievouschagrin, without his helping to do it. 

"Listen, Lionel, " said Lady Verner. "You know what my feeling always waswith regard to your wife. A closer intercourse has not tended to changethat feeling, or to lessen my dislike of her. Now you must forgive mysaying this; it is but a passing allusion. Stay on with me as long asyou like; stay on for ever, if you will, and she shall stay; but if youleave, she must leave. I should be sorry to have her here, even for aweek, without you. In fact, I would not. "

"It would be quite impossible for me to take her to London, " deliberatedLionel. "I can be there alone at a very trifling cost; but a ladyinvolves so much expense. There must be lodgings, which are dear; andliving, which is dear; and attendance; and--and--many other sources ofoutlay. "

"And pray, what should you do, allowing that you went alone, withoutlodgings and living and attendance, and all the rest of it?" asked LadyVerner. "Take a room at one of their model lodging-houses, at half acrown a week, and live upon the London air?"

"Not very healthy air for fastidious lungs, " observed Lionel, with asmile. "I don't quite know how I should manage for myself, mother;except that I should take care to condense my expenses into the verynarrowest compass that man ever condensed them yet. "

"Not you, Lionel. You were never taught that sort of close economy. "

"True, " he answered. "But the most efficient of all instructors has cometo me now--necessity. I wish you would increase my gratitude and myobligation to you by allowing Sibylla to remain here. In a little time, if I have luck, I may make a home for her in London. "

"Lionel, _it cannot be_, " was the reply of Lady Verner. And he knew whenshe spoke in that quiet tone of emphasis, that it could not be. "Whyshould you go to London?" she resumed. "My opinion is that you will dono good by going; that it is a wild-goose scheme altogether which youhave got in your head. I think I could tell you a better. "

"What is yours?"

"Remain contentedly here with me until the return of Colonel Tempest. Hemay even now be on his road. He will no doubt be able to get you somecivil appointment in one of the Presidencies; he has influence here withthe people that have to do with India. That will be the best plan, Lionel. You are always wishing you could go abroad. Stay here quietlyuntil he comes; I should like you to stay, and I will put up with yourwife. "

Some allusion, or allusions, in the words brought the flush to Lionel'scheeks. "I cannot reconcile it to my conscience, mother, to remain onhere, a burden, upon your small income. "

"But it is not a burden, Lionel, " she said. "It is rather a help. "

"How can that be?" he asked. 

"So long as Jan pays. "

"So long as Jan pays!" echoed Lionel, in astonishment. "Does Jan--pay?"

"Yes he does. I thought you knew it? Jan came here the day youarrived--don't you remember it, when he had the pins in his shirt?Decima had invited him to dinner, and he came in ten minutes before it, and called me out of the room here, where I was with Lucy. The firstthing he did was to tumble into my lap a roll of bank-notes, which hehad been to Heartburg to get. A hundred and forty pounds, it was; theresult of his savings since he joined Dr. West in partnership. The nextthing he said was that all his own share of the profits of the practice, he should bring to me to make up for the cost of you and Sibylla. Jansaid he had proposed that you should go to him; but Sibylla would notconsent to it. "

Lionel's blood coursed on with a glow. Jan slaving and working for him!

"I never knew this, " he cried. 

"I am sure I thought you did, " said Lady Verner. "I supposed it to havebeen a prearranged thing between you and Jan. Lionel, " looking up intohis face with an expression of care, and lowering her voice, "but forthat hundred and forty pounds, I don't see how I could have gone on. Youhad been very liberal to me, but somehow debt upon debt seemed to comein, and I was growing quite embarrassed. Jan's money set me partiallystraight. My dear--as you see you are no 'burden, ' as you call it, youwill give up this London scheme, will you not, and remain on?"

"I suppose I must, " mechanically answered Lionel, who seemed buried inthought. 

He did suppose he must. He was literally without money, and hisintention had been to ask the loan of a twenty-pound note from generousJan, to carry him to London, and keep him there while he turned himselfabout, and saw what could be done. How could he ask Jan now? There waslittle doubt that Jan had left himself as void of ready cash as he, Lionel, was. Dr. West's was not a business where patients went and paidtheir guinea fee, two or three dozen patients a day. Dr. West (or Janfor him) had to doctor his patients for a year, and send in his modestbill at the end of it, very often waiting for another year before thebill was paid. Sibylla on his hands, and no money, he did not see how hewas to get to London. 

"But just think of it, " resumed Lady Verner. "Jan's savings for nearlythree years of practice to amount only to a hundred and forty pounds! Iquestioned him pretty sharply, asking him what on earth he could havedone with his money, and he acknowledged that he had given a good dealaway. He said Miss West had borrowed some, the doctor kept her so short;then Jan, it seems, forgot to put down the expenses of the horse to thegeneral account, and that had to come out of his pocket. Another thinghe acknowledged having done. When he finds the poor can't convenientlypay their bills, he crosses it off in the book, and furnishes the moneyhimself. He has not common-sense, you know, Lionel; and never had. "

Lionel caught up his hat, and went out in the moment's impulse, seekingJan. Jan was in the surgery alone, making up pills, packing upmedicines, answering callers; doing, in fact, Master Cheese's work. Master Cheese had a headache, and was groaning dismally in consequencein an arm-chair, in front of Miss Deb's sitting-room fire, and sippingsome hot elder wine, with sippets of toast in it, which he had assuredMiss Deb was a sovereign specific, though it might not be generallyknown, to keep off the sickness. 

"Jan, " said Lionel, going straight up, and grasping him by the hand;"what am I to say to you? I did not know, until ten minutes ago, what itis that you are doing for me. "

Jan put down a pill-box he held, and looked at Lionel. "What am I doingfor you?" he asked. 

"I speak of this money that I find you have handed to my mother. Of themoney you have undertaken to hand to her. "

"Law, is that all?" said Jan, taking up the pill-box again, and bitingone of the pills in two to test its quality. "I thought you were goingto tell me I had sent you poison, or something; coming in like that. "

"Jan, I can never repay you. The money I may, some time; I hope I shall:the debt of gratitude, never. "

"There's nothing to repay, " returned Jan, with composure. "As long as Ihave meat and drink and clothes, what do I want with extra money? Youare heartily welcome to it, Lionel. "

"You are working your days away, Jan, and for no benefit to yourself. Iam reaping it. "

"A man can but work, " responded Jan. "I like work, for my part; Iwouldn't be without it. If old West came home and said he'd take all thepatients for a week, and give me a holiday, I should only set on andpound. Look here, " pointing to the array on the counter, "I have donemore work in two hours than Cheese gets through in a week. "

Lionel could not help smiling. Jan went on--

"I don't work for the sake of accumulating money, but because work islife's business, and I like work for its own sake. If I got no money byit, I should work. Don't think about the money, Lionel. While it lay inthat bank where was the use of it? Better for my mother to have it, thanfor me to be hoarding it. "

"Jan, did it never strike you that it might be well to make someprovision for contingencies? Old age, say; or sudden deprivation ofstrength, through accident or other cause? If you give away all youmight save for yourself, what should you do were the evil day to come?"

Jan looked at his arms. "I am tolerably strong, " said he; "feel me. Myhead's all right, and my limbs are all right. If I should be deprived ofstrength before my time, I dare say, God, in taking it, would find somemeans just to keep me from want. "

The answer was delivered in the most straightforward simplicity. Lionellooked at him until his eyes grew moist. 

"A pretty fellow I should be, to hoard up money while anybody elsewanted it!" continued Jan. "You and Sibylla make yourselves comfortable, Lionel, that's all. "

They were interrupted by the entrance of John Massingbird and his pipe. John appeared to find his time hang rather heavily on his hands: _he_could not say that work was the business of his life. He might be seenlounging about Deerham at all hours of the day and night, smoking andgossiping. Jan was often honoured with a visit. Mr. Massingbird ofVerner's Pride was not a whit altered from Mr. Massingbird of nowhere:John favoured the tap-rooms as much as he had used to favour them. 

"The very man I wanted to see!" cried he, giving Lionel a hearty slap onthe shoulder. "I want to talk to you a bit on a matter of business. Willyou come up to Verner's Pride?"

"When?" asked Lionel. 

"This evening, if you will. Come to dinner: only our two selves. "

"Very well, " replied Lionel. And he went out of the surgery, leavingJohn Massingbird talking to his brother. 

"On business, " John Massingbird had said. Was it to ask him about themesne profits?--when he could refund them?--to tell him he would besued, unless he did refund them? Lionel did not know; but he had beenexpecting John Massingbird to take some such steps. 

In going back home, choosing the near cross-field way, as Jan often did, Lionel suddenly came upon Mrs. Peckaby, seated on the stump of a tree, in a very disconsolate fashion. To witness her thus, off the watch forthe white animal that might be arriving before her door, surprisedLionel. 

"I'm a'most sick of it, sir, " she said. "I'm sick to the heart withlooking and watching. My brain gets weary and my eyes gets tired. Thewhite quadruple don't come, and Peckaby, he's a-rowing at meeverlastin'. I'm come out here for a bit o' peace. "

"Don't you think it would be better to give the white donkey up for abad job, Mrs. Peckaby?"

"Give it up!" she uttered, aghast. "Give up going to New Jerusalem on awhite donkey! No, sir, that would be a misfortin' in life!"

Lionel smiled sadly as he left her. 

"There are worse misfortunes in life, Mrs. Peckaby, than not going toNew Jerusalem on a white donkey. "

CHAPTER LXXIII. 

A PROPOSAL. 

Lionel Verner was seated in the dining-room at Verner's Pride. Not itsmaster. Its master, John Massingbird, was there, opposite to Lionel. They had just dined, and John was filling his short pipe as anaccompaniment to his wine. During dinner, he had been regaling Lionelwith choice anecdotes of his Australian life, laughing ever; but not asyllable had he broached yet about the "business" he had put forth asthe plea for the invitation to Lionel to come. The anecdotes did notraise the social features of that far-off colony in Mr. Verner'sestimation. But he laughed with John; laughed as merrily as his heavyheart would allow him. 

It was quite a wintry day, telling of the passing autumn. The skies wereleaden-gray; the dead leaves rustled on the paths; and the sighing windswept through the trees with a mournful sound. Void of brightness, ofhope, it all looked, as did Lionel Verner's fortunes. But a few shortweeks ago he had been in John Massingbird's place, in the very chairthat _he_ now sat in, never thinking to be removed from it during life. And now!--what a change!

"Why don't you smoke, Lionel?" asked John, setting light to his pipe bythe readiest way--that of thrusting it between the bars of the grate. "You did not care to smoke in the old days, I remember. "

"I never cared for it, " replied Lionel. 

"I can tell you that you would have cared for it, had you been knockedabout as I have. Tobacco's meat and drink to a fellow at the diggings;as it is to a sailor and a soldier. "

"Not to all soldiers, " observed Lionel. "My father never smoked an ounceof tobacco in his life. I have heard them say so. And he saw someservice. "

"Every man to his liking, " returned John Massingbird. "Folks preachabout tobacco being an acquired taste! It's all bosh. Babies come intothe world with a liking for it, I know. Talking about your father, wouldyou like to have that portrait of him that hangs in the largedrawing-room? You can if you like. I'm sure you have more right to itthan I. "

"Thank you, " replied Lionel. "I should very much like it, if you willgive it me. "

"What a fastidious chap you are, Lionel!" cried John Massingbird, pulling vigorously; for the pipe was turning refractory, and would notkeep alight. "There are lots of things you have left behind you here, that I, in your place, should have marched off without asking. "

"The things are yours. That portrait of my father belonged to my UncleStephen, and he made no exception in its favour when he willed Verner'sPride, and all it contained, away from me. In point of legal right, Iwas at liberty to touch nothing, beyond my personal effects. "

"Liberty be hanged!" responded John. "You are over fastidious; alwayswere. Your father was the same, I know; can see it in his likeness. Ishould say, by the look of that, he was too much of a gentleman for asoldier. "

Lionel smiled. "Some of our soldiers are the most refined gentlemen inthe world. "

"I can't tell how they retain their refinement, then, amid the rough andready of camp life. I know I lost all I had at the diggings. "

Lionel laughed outright at the notion of John Massingbird's losing hisrefinement at the diggings. He never had any to lose. John joined in thelaugh. 

"Lionel, old boy, do you know I always liked you, with all yourrefinement; and it's a quality that never found great favour with me. Iliked you better than I liked poor Fred; and that's the truth. "

Lionel made no reply, and John Massingbird smoked for a few minutes insilence. Presently he began again. 

"I say, what made you go and marry Sibylla?"

Lionel lifted his eyes. But John Massingbird resumed, before he had timeto speak. 

"She's not worth a button. Now you need not fly out, old chap. I am notpassing my opinion on your wife; wouldn't presume to do such a thing;but on my cousin. Surely I may find fault with my cousin, if I like! Whydid you marry her?"

"Why does anybody else marry?" returned Lionel. 

"But why did you marry _her_? A sickly, fractious thing! I saw enough ofher in the old days. There! be quiet! I have done. If it hadn't been forher, I'd have asked you to come here to your old home; you and I shouldjog along together first-rate. But Sibylla bars it. She may be a modelof a wife; I don't insinuate to the contrary, take you note, Mr. Verner;but she's not exactly a model of temper, and Verner's Pride wouldn't bebig enough to hold her and me. Would you have taken up your abode withme, had you been a free man?"

"I cannot tell, " replied Lionel. "It is a question that cannot arisenow. "

"No. Sibylla stops it. What are you going to do with yourself?"

"That I cannot tell. I should like an appointment abroad, if I could getone. I did think of going to London, and looking about me a bit; but Iam not sure that I shall do so just yet. "

"I say, Lionel, " resumed John Massingbird, sinking his voice, butspeaking in a joking sort of way, "how do you mean to pay your debts? Ihear you have a few. "

"I have a good many, one way or another. "

"Wipe them off, " said John. 

"I wish I could wipe them off. "

"There's nothing more easy, " returned John in his free manner. "Get thewhitewash brush to work. The insolvent court has its friendly doors everopen. "

The colour came into the face of Lionel. A Verner _there!_ He quietlyshook his head. "I dare say I shall find a way of paying some time, ifthe people will only wait. "

"Sibylla helped you to a good part of the score, didn't she? People aresaying so. Just like her!"

"When I complain of my wife, it will be quite time enough for otherpeople to begin, " said Lionel. "When I married Sibylla, I took her withher virtues and her faults; and I am quite ready to defend both. "

"All right. I'd rather you had the right of defending them than I, " saidincorrigible John. "Look here, Lionel, I got you up here to-day to talkabout the estate. Will you take the management of it?"

"Of this estate?" replied Lionel, scarcely understanding. 

"Deuce a bit of any other could I offer you. Things are all at sixes andsevens already. They are chaos; they are purgatory. That's our word outyonder, Lionel, to express the ultimatum of badness. Matiss comes andbothers; the tenants, one and another, come and bother; Roy comes andbothers. What with it all, I'm fit to bar the outer doors. Roy, youknow, thought I should put him into power again! No, no, Mr. Roy; Fredmight have done it, but I never will. I have paid him well for theservices he rendered me; but put him into power--no. Altogether, thingsare getting into inextricable confusion; I can't look to them, and Iwant a manager. Will you take it, Lionel? I'll give you five hundred ayear. "

The mention of the sum quite startled Lionel. It was far more than heshould have supposed John Massingbird would offer to any manager. Matisswould do it for a fourth. _Should_ he take it?

He sat, twirling his wine-glass in his fingers. There was a soreness ofspirit to get over, and it could not be done all in a moment. To becomea servant (indeed it was no better) on the land that had once been his;that ought to be his now, by the law of right--a servant to JohnMassingbird! Could he bend to it? John smoked, and sat watching him. 

He thought of the position of his wife; he thought of the encumbrance onhis mother: he thought of his brother Jan, and what _he_ had done; hethought of his own very unsatisfactory prospects. Was _this_ putting hisshoulder to the wheel, as he had resolved to do, thus to hesitate on aquibble of pride? Down, down with his rebellious spirit! Let him be aman in the sight of Heaven!

He turned to John Massingbird, his brow clear, his eye serene. "I willtake it, and thank you, " he said in a steady, cheerful tone. 

"Then let's have some grog on the strength of it, " was that gentleman'sanswer. "Tynn says the worry nearly took my mother's life out of herduring the time she managed the estate; and it would take it out ofmine. If I kept it in my own hands, it would go to the dogs in atwelvemonth. And you'd not thank me for that, Lionel. You are the nextheir. "

"You may take a wife yet. "

"A wife for me!" he shouted. "No, thank you. I know the value of 'em toowell for that. Give me my liberty, and you may have the wives. Lionel, the office had better be in the study as it used to be: you can come uphere of a day. I'll turn the drawing-room into my smoke-shop. If thereare any leases or other deeds missing, you must get them drawn outagain. I'm glad it's settled. "

Lionel declined the grog; but he remained on, talking things over. JohnMassingbird sat in a cloud of smoke, drinking Lionel's share as well ashis own, and listening to the rain, which had begun to patter againstthe window-panes. 

CHAPTER LXXIV. 

GOING TO NEW JERUSALEM ON A WHITE DONKEY. 

And now we must pay a visit to Mrs. Peckaby; for great events werehappening to her on that night. 

When Lionel met her in the day, seated on the stump, all disconsolate, she had thrown out a hint that Mr. Peckaby was not habitually in quiteso social a mood as he might be. The fact was, Peckaby's patience hadrun out; and little wonder, either. The man's meals made ready for himin any careless way, often not made ready at all, and his wife spendingher time in sighing, and moaning, and looking out for the white donkey!You, my readers, may deem this a rather far-fetched episode in thestory; you may deem it next to impossible that any woman should be soridiculously foolish, or could be so imposed upon; but I am onlyrelating to you the strict truth. The facts occurred precisely as theyare being narrated, and not long ago. I have neither added to the storynor taken from it. 

Mrs. Peckaby finished out her sitting on the stump under the gray skies. The skies were grayer when she rose to go home. She found on her arrivalthat Peckaby had been in to his tea, that is, he had been in, hoping topartake of that social meal; but finding no preparation made for it, hehad a little relieved his mind by pouring a pail of water over thekitchen fire, thereby putting the fire out and causing considerabledamage to the fire-irons and appurtenances generally, which would causeMrs. Peckaby some little work to remedy. 

"The brute!" she ejaculated, putting her foot into the slop on thefloor, and taking a general view of things. "Oh, if I was but off!"

"My patience, what a mess!" exclaimed Polly Dawson, who happened to begoing by, and turned in for a gossip. "Whatever have done it?"

"Whatever have done it? why that wretch Peckaby, " retorted the aggrievedwife. "Don't you never get married, Polly Dawson, if you want to keep onthe right side of the men. They be the worst animals in all creation. Many a poor woman's life has been aggrivated out of her. "

"If I do get married, I shan't begin the aggrivation by wanting to beoff to them saints at New Jerusalem, " impudently returned Polly Dawson. 

Mrs. Peckaby received it meekly. What with the long-continueddisappointment, the perpetual "aggrivations" of Peckaby, and theprospect of work before her, arising from the gratuitous pail of water, she was feeling unusually cowed down. 

"I wish I was a hundred mile off, " she cried. "Nobody's fate was neverso hard as mine. "

"It'll take you a good two hours to redd up, " observed Polly Dawson. "I'd rather you had to do it nor me. "

"I'd see it further--afore it should take me two hours--and Peckaby withit, " retorted Mrs. Peckaby, reviving to a touch of temper. "I shall butgive it a lick and a promise; just mop up the wet, and dry the grate, and get a bit of fire alight. T'other things may go. "

Polly Dawson departed, and Mrs. Peckaby set to her work. By dint of sometrouble, she contrived to obtain a cup of tea for herself after awhile, and then she sat on disconsolately as before. Night came on, and shehad ample time to indulge her ruminations. 

Peckaby had not been in. Mrs. Peckaby concluded he was solacing himselfat that social rendezvous, the Plough and Harrow, and would come home ina state of beer. Between nine and ten he entered--hours were early inDeerham--and to Mrs. Peckaby's surprise, he was not only sober, butsocial. 

"It have turned out a pouring wet night, " cried he. And the mood was sounwonted, especially after the episode of the wet grate, that Mrs. Peckaby was astonished into answering pleasantly. 

"Will ye have some bread and cheese?" asked she. 

"I don't mind if I do. Chuff, he gave me a piece of his bread and baconat eight o'clock, so I ain't over hungry. "

Mrs. Peckaby brought forth the loaf and the cheese, and Peckaby cuthimself some and ate it. Then he went upstairs. She stayed to put theeatables away, raked out the fire, and followed. Peckaby was already inbed. To get into it was not a very ceremonious proceeding with him, asit is not with many others. There was no superfluous attire to throwoff, there was no hindering time with ablutions, there were no prayers. Mrs. Peckaby favoured the same convenient mode, and she had just put thecandle out, when some noise struck upon her ear. 

It came from the road outside. They slept back, the front room havingbeen the one let to Brother Jarrum; but in those small houses, at thatquiet hour noises in the road were heard as distinctly back as front. There was a sound of talking, and then came a modest knock at Peckaby'sdoor. 

Mrs. Peckaby went to the front room, opened the casement, and lookedout. To say that her heart leaped into her mouth would be a mostimperfect figure of speech to describe the state of feeling that rushedover her. In the rainy obscurity of the night she could discernsomething white drawn up to the door, and the figures of two menstanding by it. The only wonder was that she did not leap out; she mighthave done it, had the window been large enough. 

"Do Susan Peckaby live here?" inquired a gruff voice, that seemed as ifit were muffled. 

"Oh, dear good gentlemen, yes!" she responded, in a tremble ofexcitement. "Please what is it?"

"The white donkey's come to take her to New Jerusalem. "

With a shrieking cry of joy that might have been heard all the way upClay Lane, Mrs. Peckaby tore back to her chamber. 

"Peckaby, " she cried, "Peckaby, the thing's come at last! The blessedanimal that's to bear me off. I always said it would. "

Peckaby--probably from drowsiness--made no immediate response. Mrs. Peckaby stooped down to the low bed, and shook him well by the shoulder. 

"It's the white quadruple, Peckaby, come at last!"

Peckaby growled out something that she was in a state of too greatexcitement to hear. She lighted the candle; she flung on some of thethings she had taken off; she ran back to the front before they werefastened, lest the messengers, brute and human, should have departed, and put her head out at the casement again, all in the utmost fever ofagitation. 

"A minute or two yet, good gentlemen, please! I'm a'most ready. I'ma-waiting to get out my purple gownd. "

"All right, missus, " was the muffled answer. 

The "purple gownd" was kept in this very ex-room of Brother Jarrum's hidin a safe place between some sheets of newspaper. Had Mrs. Peckaby keptit open to the view of Peckaby, there's no saying what grief the robemight not have come to, ere this. Peckaby, in his tantrums, would nothave been likely to spare it. She put it on, and hooked it down thefront, her trembling fingers scarcely able to accomplish it. That it wasfull loose for her she was prepared to find; she had grown thin withfretting. Then she put on a shawl; next, her bonnet; last some greenleather gloves. The shawl was black, with worked coloured corners--athin small shawl that hardly covered her shoulders; and the bonnet was astraw, trimmed with pink ribbons--the toilette which had long beenprepared. 

"Good-bye, Peckaby, " said she, going in when she was ready, "You've saidmany a time as you wished I was off, and now you have got your wish. ButI don't want to part nothing but friends. "

"Good-bye, " returned Peckaby, in a hearty tone, as he turned himselfround on his bed. "Give my love to the saints. "

To find him in this accommodating humour was more than she had bargainedfor. A doubt had crossed her sometimes, whether, when the white donkeydid come, there might not arise a battle with Peckaby, ere she shouldget off. This apparently civil feeling on his part awoke a more socialone on hers; and a qualm of conscience darted across her, suggestingthat she might have made him a better wife had she been so disposed. "Hemight have shook hands with me, " was her parting thought, as sheunlocked the street door. 

The donkey was waiting outside with all the patience for which donkeysare renowned. It had been drawn up under a sheltering ledge at a door ortwo's distance, to be out of the rain. Its two conductors were muffledup, as befitted the inclemency of the night, something like their voicesappeared to have been. Mrs. Peckaby was not in her sober sensessufficiently to ask whether they were brothers from the New Jerusalem, or whether the style of costume they favoured might be the prevailingmode in that fashionable city; if so, it was decidedly more useful thanelegant, consisting apparently of hop sacks, doubled over the head andover the back. 

"Ready, missus?"

"I be quite ready, " she answered, in a tremble of delight. "There ain'tno saddle!" she called out, as the donkey was trotted forward. 

"You won't want a saddle; these New Jerusalem animals bain't like theord'nary uns. Jump on him, missus. "

Mrs. Peckaby was so exceedingly tall, that she had not far to jump. Shetook her seat sideways, settled her gown, and laid hold of the bridle, which one of the men put into her hands. He turned the donkey round, andset it going with a smack; the other helped by crying "Gee-ho!"

Up Clay Lane she proceeded in triumph. The skies were dark, and the raincame soaking down; but Mrs. Peckaby's heart was too warm to dwell on anytemporary inconvenience. If a thought crossed her mind that the beautyof the pink ribbons might be marred by the storm, so as somewhat to dimthe glory of her entrance into the city and introduction to the saints, she drove it away again. Trouble had no admission in her present frameof mind. The gentlemen in the hop sacks continued to attend her; the oneleading the donkey, the other walking behind and cheering the animal onwith periodical gee-ho's. 

"I suppose as it's a long way, sir?" asked Mrs. Peckaby, breaking thesilence, and addressing the conductor. 

"Middlin', " replied he. 

"And how do we get over the sea, please, sir?" asked she again. 

"The woyage is pervided for, missus, " was the short and satisfactoryresponse. "Brother Jarrum took care of that when he sent us. "

Her heart went into a glow at the name. And them envious disbelievers inDeerham had cast all sorts of disparaging accusations to the brother, openly expressing their opinion that he had gone off purposely withouther, and that she'd never hear of him again!

Arrived at the top of Clay Lane, the road was crossed, and the donkeywas led down a turning towards the lands of Sir Rufus Hautley. It mayhave occurred to Mrs. Peckaby to wonder that the highway was not taken, instead of an unfrequented bye-path, that only led to fields and a wood;but, if so, she said nothing. Had the white donkey taken her to agravel-pit, and pitched headlong in with her, she would have deemed, inher blind faith, that it was the right road to New Jerusalem. 

A long way it was, over those wet fields. If the brothers and the donkeypartook of the saintly nature of the inhabitants of Salt Lake City, possibly they did not find it a weary one. Mrs. Peckaby certainly didnot. She was rapt in a glowing vision of the honours and delights thatwould welcome her at her journey's end;--so rapt, that she and thedonkey had been for some little time in one of the narrow paths of thewood before she missed her two conductors. 

It caused Mrs. Peckaby to pull the bridle, and cry "Wo-ho!" to thedonkey. She had an idea that they might have struck into the wrong path, for this one appeared to be getting narrower and narrower. The wood wasintersected with paths, but only a few of them led right through it. Shepulled up, and turned her head the way she had come, but was unable todistinguish anything, save that she was in the heart of the wood. 

"Be you behind, gentlemen?" she called out. 

There was no reply. Mrs. Peckaby waited a bit, thinking they might havelagged unwittingly, and then called out again, with the like result. 

"It's very curious!" thought Mrs. Peckaby. 

She was certainly in a dilemma. Without her conductors, she knew no morehow to get to New Jerusalem than she did how to get to the new moon. Shemight find her way through the wood, by one path or another; but, onceon the other side, she had no idea which road to turn the donkeyto--north, south, east, or west. She thought she would go back and lookafter them. 

But there was some difficulty in doing this. The path had grown sonarrow that the donkey could not easily be turned. She slipped off him, tied the bridle to a tree, and ran back as fast as the obscurity of thepath allowed her, calling out to the gentlemen. 

The more she ran and the more she called, the less did there appear tobe anybody to respond to it. Utterly at a nonplus, she at lengthreturned to the donkey--that is, to the spot, so far as she could judge, where she had left it. But the donkey was gone. 

Was Mrs. Peckaby awake or asleep? Was the past blissful dream--when shewas being borne in triumph to New Jerusalem--only an imaginary one? Washer present predicament real! Which _was_ imagination and which wasreal? For the last hour she had been enjoying the realisation of all herhopes; now she seemed no nearer their fruition than she had been a yearago. The white donkey was gone, the conducting brothers were gone, andshe was alone in the middle of a wood, two miles from home, on a wetnight. Mrs. Peckaby had heard of enchantments, and began to think shemust have been subjected to something of the sort. 

She rubbed her eyes; she pinched her arms. Was she in her senses or not?Sure never was such a situation heard of! The cup of hope presentedpalpably to her lips, only to vanish again--she could not tell how--andleave no sign. A very disagreeable doubt--not yet a suspicion--began todawn over Mrs. Peckaby. Had she been made the subject of a practicaljoke?

She might have flung the doubt from her, but for a distant sound thatcame faintly on her ears--the sound of covert laughter. Her doubt turnedto conviction. Her face became hot; her heart, but for the anger at it, would have grown sick with the disappointment. Her conductors and thedonkey were retreating, having played their joke out! Two certaintiesforced themselves upon her mind. One, that Peckaby and his friends hadplanned it; she felt sure now that the biggest of the "brothers" hadbeen nobody but Chuff, the blacksmith: the other certainty was, that sheshould never be sent for to New Jerusalem in any way. Why it should havebeen, Mrs. Peckaby could not have told, then or afterwards; but thepositive conviction that Brother Jarrum _had_ been false, that the storyof sending for her on a white donkey had only been invented to keep herquiet, fixed itself in her mind in that moment in the lonely wood. Shesunk down amidst the trees and sobbed bitterly. 

But all the tears combined that the world ever shed could not bring hernearer to New Jerusalem, or make her present situation better. Afterawhile she had the sense to remember that. She rose from the ground, turned her gown up over her shoulders, found her way out of the wood, and set off on her walk back again in a very humble frame of mind, arriving home as the clock was striking two. 

She could make nobody hear. She knocked at the door, she knocked at thewindow, gently at first, then louder; she called and called, but therecame no answer. Some of the neighbours, aroused by the unwonteddisturbance, came peeping at their windows. At length Peckaby openedhis; thrusting his head out at the very casement from which Mrs. Peckabyhad beheld the deceitful vision earlier in the night. 

"Who's there?" called out Peckaby. 

"It's me, Peckaby, " was the answer, delivered in a forlorn tone. "Comedown and open the door. "

"Who's 'me'?" asked Peckaby. 

"It's me, " repeated Mrs. Peckaby, looking up. 

And what with her height and the low casement, their faces were reallynot many inches apart; but yet Peckaby appeared not to know her. 

"You be off, will you!" retorted he. "A pretty thing if tramps be tocome to decent folks' doors and knock 'em up like this. Who's door didyou take it for?"

"It's me!" screamed Mrs. Peckaby. "Don't you know me? Come and undo thedoor, and let me come in. I be sopping. "

"Know you! How should I know you? Who be you?"

"Good heavens, Peckaby! you must know me. Ain't I your wife?"

"My wife! Not a bit on't. You needn't come here with that gammon, missis, whoever you be. My wife's gone off to New Jerusalem on a whitedonkey. "

He slammed to the casement. Mrs. Peckaby, what with the rain and whatwith the disappointment, burst into tears. In the same moment, sundryother casements opened, and all the heads in the vicinity--including theblacksmith Chuffs, and Mrs. Chuff's--were thrust out to condole withtheir neighbour, Mrs. Peckaby. 

"Had she been and come back a'ready?" "Did she get tired of the saintsso soon as this--or did they get tired of her?" "What sort of a city, was it?" "Which was most plentiful--geese or sage?" "How many wives, besides herself, had the gentleman that _she_ chose?" "Who took care ofthe babies?" "Did they have many public dances?" "Was veils for thebonnets all the go?" "Was it a paradise or warn't it?" "And how wasBrother Jarrum?"

Amongst the many questions asked, those came prominently, tingling onthe ears of the unhappy Mrs. Peckaby. Too completely prostrate withevents to retort, she suddenly let drop her gown, that she had kept socarefully turned, and clapped both her hands upon her face. Then came areal, genuine question from the next door casement--Mrs. Green's. 

"Ain't that your plum-coloured gownd? What's come to it?"

Mrs. Peckaby, somewhat aroused, looked at the gown in haste. What _had_come to it? Patches of dead-white, looking not unlike paint, covered itabout on all sides, especially behind. The shawl had caught some white, too, and the green leather gloves looked, inside, as though they had hada coat of whitewash put on them. Her beautiful gownd! laid by solong!--what on earth had ruined it like that?

Chuff, the blacksmith, gave a great grin from his window. "Sure thatthere donkey never was painted down white!" quoth he. 

That it had been painted down white and with exceedingly wet paint too, there could be little doubt. Some poor donkey humble in his coat ofgray, converted into a fine white animal for the occasion, by Peckabyand Chuff and their cronies. Mrs. Peckaby shrieked and sobbed withmortification, and drummed frantically on her house door. A chorus oflaughter echoed from all sides, and Peckaby's casement flew open again. 

"Will you stop that there knocking, then?" roared Peckaby, "Disturbing aman's night's rest. "

"I _will_ come in then, Peckaby, " she stormed, plucking up a littlespirit in her desperation. "I be your wife, you know I be, and I willcome in. "

"My good woman, what's took you?" cried Peckaby, in a tone ofcompassionating suavity. "You ain't no wife of mine. My wife's miles onher road by this time. She's off to New Jerusalem on a white donkey. "

A new actor came up to the scene--no other than Jan Verner. Jan had beensitting up with some poor patient, and was now going home. To describehis surprise when he saw the windows alive with nightcapped heads, andMrs. Peckaby in her dripping discomfort, in her paint, in her statealtogether, outward and inward, would be a long task. Peckaby himselfundertook the explanation, in which he was aided by Chuff; and Jan sathimself down on the public pump, and laughed till he was hoarse. 

"Come, Peckaby, you'll let her in, " cried he, before he went away. 

"Let her in!" echoed Peckaby, "That would be a go, that would! What 'udthe saints say? They'd be for prosecuting of her for bigamy. If she'sgone over to them, sir, she can't belong legal to me. "

Jan laughed so that he had to hold his sides, and Mrs. Peckaby shriekedand sobbed. Chuff began calling out that the best remedy for white paintwas turpentine. 

"Coma along, Peckaby, and open the door, " said Jan, rising. "She'llcatch an illness if she stops here in her wet clothes, and I shall havea month's work, attending on her. Come!"

"Well, sir, to oblige you, I will, " returned the man. "But let me evercatch her snivelling after them saints again, that's all! They shouldhave her if they liked; I'd not. "

"You hear, Mrs. Peckaby, " said Jan in her ear. "I'd let the saints alonefor the future, if I were you. "

"I mean to, sir, " she meekly answered, between her sobs. 

Peckaby in his shirt and nightcap, opened the door, and she bounded in. The casements closed to the chorus of subsiding laughter, and the echoesof Jan's footsteps died away in the distance. 

CHAPTER LXXV. 

AN EXPLOSION OF SIBYLLA'S. 

Sibylla Verner sat at the window of her sitting-room in the twilight--acold evening in early winter. Sibylla was in an explosive temper. It wasnothing unusual for her to be in an explosive temper now; but she was ina worse than customary this evening. Sibylla felt the difference betweenVerner's Pride and Deerham Court. She lived but in excitement; she caredbut for gaiety. In removing to Deerham Court she had gone readily, believing that she should there find a large portion of the gaiety shehad 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 agreat deal with Lady Verner. She had not bargained for Lady Verner'sestablishment being reduced to simplicity and quietness, for her layingdown her carriage and discharging her men-servants and selling herhorses, and living again the life of a retired gentlewoman. Yet allthese changes had come to pass, and Sibylla's inward spirit turnedrestive. She had everything that any reasonable mind could possiblydesire, every comfort; but quiet comfort and Sibylla's taste did notaccord. Her husband was out a great deal at Verner's Pride and on theestate. 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 lookedafter things as he was looking now. To be the master of Verner's Pridewas one thing, to be the hired manager of Verner's Pride was another;and Lionel found every hour of his time occupied. His was noeye-service; his conscience was engaged in his work and he did itefficiently. 

Sibylla still sat at the window, looking out into the twilight. Decimastood near the fire in a thoughtful mood. Lucy was downstairs in thedrawing-room at the piano. They could hear the faint echo of her softplaying as they sat there in silence. Sibylla was in no humour to talk:she had repulsed Decima rudely--or it may rather be saidfractiously--when the latter had ventured on conversation. Lady Vernerhad 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 afriendly dinner with her. "Bring any of them that you like with you, "had been her careless words in parting. But Lady Verner had not chosento take "any of them. " She had dressed and driven off in the hired flyalone; and this it was that was exciting the anger of Sibylla. Shethought 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 thefire go out. Some time after Lady Verner went up to dress, I turnedround 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 passedthrough the hall, the reflection of the blaze came out of thedining-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 themisfortunes which had come upon Mrs. Verner, went to her side. "Shall Iget you a little of your aromatic vinegar?" she asked. 

"You need not trouble to get anything for me, " was the ungraciousanswer. 

Lucy, thus repulsed, stood in silence at the window. The window on thisside 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 thedusk, its coachman and footman attending it, was bowling rapidly downtowards the village. 

"There's Sir Rufus Hautley's carriage, " said Lucy. "I suppose he isgoing out to dinner. "

Decima drew to the window and looked out. The carriage came sweepinground the point, and turned on its road to the village, as theysupposed. In the still silence of the room, they could hear its wheelson the frosty road, after they lost sight of it; could hear it bowlbefore 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 toLucy that she, Decima, had turned unusually pale. Was it so?--or was itfancy? If it was fancy, why should the fancy have arisen? Ghastly paleher face certainly looked, as the blaze played upon it. 

A few minutes, and one of the servants came in, handing a note toDecima. 

"Bring lights, " said Decima, in a low tone. 

The lights were brought; and then Decima's agitation was apparent. Herhands 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 fingerswould allow her, and left the room. What could have occurred, thus toagitate calm and stately Decima? Before Lucy and Mrs. Verner hadrecovered 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 onceentertain 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 forher. Mrs. Verner and Lucy heard it drive away again as quickly as it haddriven up. As it turned the corner and pursued its way up the road, pastthe window they were looking from, but at some distance from it, theyfancied 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 itwithout him. His non-appearance was no improvement to the temper of hiswife. It had occurred lately that Lionel did not always get home todinner. 

Sometimes, when detained at Verner's Pride, he would take it with JohnMassingbird; if out on the estate, and unable to reach home in time, hewould eat something when he came in. Her fractious state of mind did nottend to soothe the headache she had complained of earlier in the day. Every half-hour that passed without her husband's entrance, made herworse in all ways, head and temper; and about nine o'clock she went upto her sitting-room and lay down on the sofa, saying that her templeswere splitting. 

Lucy followed her. Lucy thought she must really be ill. She could notunderstand that any one should be so fractious, except from wearingpain. "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 outone and placing it on Mrs. Verner's head and forehead, kneeling to hertask. That her temples were throbbing and her head hot, there was noquestion; the handkerchief was no sooner on, than it was warm, and Lucyhad 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 youremember, Mr. Verner said when he came in, that he could not help beinglate sometimes now?"

"_You_ need not defend him, " said Sibylla. "It seems to me that you areall ready to take his part against me. "

Lucy made no reply. An assertion more unfounded could not have beenspoken. At that moment the step of Lionel was heard on the stairs. Hecame in, looking jaded and tired. 

"Up here this evening!" he exclaimed, laying down a paper or parchmentwhich 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, androse up, speaking vehemently. The sight of her husband appeared to havebrought 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 goodpurpose. "

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 youare 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 wastempted to answer her in her own spirit. 

"Pleasure and I have not been very close friends of late, Sibylla, " hegravely 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 toVerner's Pride. Something has arisen on which I must see Mr. Massingbird. "

"It is false, it is false, " reiterated Sibylla. "You are not going toVerner's Pride; you are not going to see Mr. Massingbird. You know bestwhere you are going; but it is not there. It is the old story of RachelFrost over again. "

The words confounded Lionel; both that they were inexplicable and spokenin 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 nearfor the man who did the injury to Rachel, they little thought they mighthave 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?" hesaid, in a wonderfully calm tone, considering the provocation he wasreceiving. Then he closed the door on Lucy, and turned to his wife. 

"Sibylla, allow me to request, nay, to insist, that when you have faultto find, or reproach to cast to me, you choose a moment when we arealone. 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 Prideto-night, " she reiterated with strange inconsistency, considering thatshe had just insinuated he did _not_ want to go there. 

"I must go there, Sibylla. I have told you why; and I have told youtruth. Again I ask you what you meant about Rachel Frost. "

Sibylla flung up her hands petulantly. "I won't tell you, I say. And youcan'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, togive her all possible token of respect and affection ever, whatevermight be her provocation--and all the more true to it from the veryconsciousness that the love of his inmost heart grew less hers, moreanother's, day by day, bent over her and spoke kindly. She flung backher hand in a repelling manner towards him, and maintained an obstinatesilence. Lionel, sick and weary, at length withdrew, taking up theparchment. 

_How_ sick and weary, none, save himself, could know. Lucy Tempest hadthe tea before her, apparently ready, when he looked into thedrawing-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. "Youasked 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 thismorning. "

"Oh!" She was hastening to the bell. Lionel stopped her, laying his handupon 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 itstanding. 

"Shall I take Mrs. Verner up a cup?" asked Lucy. "Will she drink it, doyou think?"

"Thank you, Lucy. It may do her head good. I think it aches muchto-night. "

He turned, and departed. Lucy noticed that he had left the parchmentbehind him, and ran after him with it, catching him as he was about toclose the hall door. She knew that all such business-looking papers wentup 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 amoment. "Lucy, _you_ will not misjudge me?" he said, in a strange toneof pain. 

Lucy looked up at him with a bright smile and a very emphatic shake ofthe head. She knew by instinct that he alluded to the accusation of hiswife, touching Rachel Frost. Lucy misjudge _him!_

"You should have waited to eat some dinner, " she gaily said. "Take careyou don't faint by the way, as that sick patient of Jan's did the othermorning. "

Lionel went on. At any rate there was peace outside, if not within; thepeace of outward calm. He lifted his hat; he bared his brow, aching withits weight of trouble, to the clear night air; he wondered whether heshould have this to bear his whole life long. At the moment of passingthe outer gates, the carriage of Sir Rufus Hautley drew up, bearingDecima. 

Lionel waited to receive her. He helped her out, and gave her his arm tothe 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 ofthe sudden illness. 

"It is so, " she replied, breaking into sobs. "Spasms at the heart, theysay. Jan and Dr. Hayes were there, but they could not save him. "

CHAPTER LXXVI. 

AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL. 

Deborah and Amilly West were sitting over the fire In the growing duskof a February evening. Their sewing lay on the table; some home dressesthey were making for themselves, for they had never too much superfluouscash for dressmakers, with fashionable patterns and fashionable prices. It had grown too dark to work, and they had turned to the fire for achat, before the tea came in, and the gas was lighted. 

"I tell you, Amilly, it is of no use playing at concealment, or tryingto suppress the truth, " Deborah was saying. "She is as surely going asthat the other two went; as sure as sure can be. I have always felt thatshe would go. Mr. Lionel was talking to me only yesterday. He was notsatisfied with his brother; at least, he thought it as well to act asthough he were not satisfied with him; and he was about to ask Dr. Hayes----"

Her voice died away. Master Cheese had come in with a doleful face. 

"Miss Deb, I'm sent up to Deerham Hall. There's a bothering note comefrom Miss Hautley to Jan, about one of the servants, and he says I am togo up and see what it is. "

"Well?" returned Miss Deb, wondering why Master Cheese should come in togive the information to her. "You couldn't expect Mr. Jan to go up, after being out all day, as he has. "

"Folks are sure to go and fall ill at the most untoward hour of thetwenty-four, " grumbled Master Cheese. "I was just looking for a goodtea. I feel as empty as possible, after my short dinner. I wish----"

"Short dinner!" echoed Miss Deb, in amazement; at least, it would havebeen in amazement, but that she was accustomed to these little episodesfrom the young gentleman. "We had a beautiful piece of roast beef; andI'm sure you ate as much as you chose!"

"There was no pudding or pie, " resentfully retorted Master Cheese. "Ihave felt all the afternoon just as if I should sink; and I couldn't getout to buy anything for myself, because Jan never came in, and the boystopped out. I wish, Miss Deb, you'd give me a thick piece ofbread-and-jam, as I have to go off without my tea. "

"The fact is, Master Cheese, you have the jam so often, in one way oranother, that there's very little left. It will not last the seasonout. "

"The green gooseberries'll be coming on, Miss Deb, " was Master Cheese'sinsinuating reply. "And there's always apples, you know. With plenty oflemon and a clove or two, apples make as good a pudding as anythingelse. "

Miss Deb, always good-natured, went to get him what he had asked for, and Master Cheese took his seat in front of the fire, and toasted histoes. 

"There was a great mistake made when you were put to a surgeon, " saidMiss Amilly, laughing. "You should have gone apprentice to apastry-cook. "

"She's a regular fidgety old woman, that Miss Hautley, " broke out MasterCheese with temper, passing over Miss Amilly's remark. "It's not twomonths yet that she has been at the Hall, and she has had one or theother of us up six times at least. I wonder what business she had tocome to it? The Hall wouldn't have run away before Sir Edmund could gethome. "

Miss Deb came back with the bread-and-jam; a good thick slice, as thegentleman had requested. To look at him eating, one would think he hadhad nothing for a week. It disappeared in no time, and Master Cheesewent out sucking his fingers and his lips. Deborah West folded up thework, and put things straight generally in the room. Then she sat downagain, drawing her chair to the side of the fire. 

"I do think that Cheese has got a wolf inside him, " cried Amilly, with alaugh. 

"He is a great gourmand. He said this morning----" began Miss Deb, andthen she stopped. 

Finding what she was about to say thus brought to an abrupt conclusion, Amilly West looked at her sister. Miss Deb's attention was riveted onthe room door. Her mouth was open, her eyes seemed starting from herhead with a fixed stare, and her countenance was growing white. Amillyturned her eyes hastily to the same direction, and saw a dark, obscureform filling up the doorway. 

Not obscure for long. Amilly, more impulsive than her sister, rose upwith a shriek, and darted forward with outstretched arms of welcome;Deborah followed, stretching out hers. 

"My dear father!"

It was no other than Dr. West. He gave them each a cool kiss, walked tothe fire and sat down, bidding them not smother him. For some littlewhile they could not get over their surprise or believe their senses. They knew nothing of his intention to return, and had deemed himhundreds of miles away. Question after question they showered down uponhim, the result of their amazement. He answered just as much as hechose. He had only come home for a day or so, he said, and did not carethat it should be known he was there, to be tormented with a shoal ofcallers. 

"Where's Mr. Jan?" asked he. 

"In the surgery, " said Deborah. 

"Is he by himself?"

"Yes, dear papa. Master Cheese has just gone up to Deerham Hall, and theboy is out. "

Dr. West rose, and made his way to the surgery. The surgery was empty. But the light of a fire from the half-opened door, led him to Jan'sbedroom. It was a room that would persist in remaining obstinately damp, and Jan, albeit not over careful of himself, judged it well to have anoccasional fire lighted. The room, seen by this light, lookedcomfortable. The small, low, iron bed stood in the far corner; in theopposite corner the bureau, as in Dr. West's time, the door opening tothe garden (never used now) between them, at the end of the room. Thewindow was on the side opposite the fire, a table in the middle. Jan wasthen occupied in stirring the fire into a blaze, and its cheerful lightflickered on every part of the room. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Jan. "

Jan turned round, poker in hand, and stared amiably. "Law!" cried he. "Who'd have thought it?"

The old word; the word he had learned at school--law. It was Jan'sfavourite mode of expressing surprise still, and Lady Verner never couldbreak him of it. He shook hands cordially with Dr. West. 

The doctor shut the door, slipping the bolt, and sat down to the fire. Jan cleared a space on the table, which was covered with jars and glassvases, cylinders, and other apparatus, seemingly for chemical purposes, and took his seat there. 

The doctor had taken a run home, "making a morning call, as it might bemetaphorically observed, " he said to Jan. Just to have a sight of homefaces, and hear a little home news. Would Mr. Jan recite to him somewhatof the latter?

Jan did so; touching upon all he could recollect. From JohnMassingbird's return to Verner's Pride, and the consequent turning outof Mr. Verner and his wife, down to the death of Sir Rufus Hautley; notforgetting the pranks played by the "ghost, " and the foiled expeditionof Mrs. Peckaby to New Jerusalem. Some of these items of intelligencethe doctor had heard before, for Jan periodically wrote to him. Thedoctor looked taller, and stouter, and redder than ever, and as heleaned thoughtfully forward, and the crimson blaze played upon his face, Jan thought how like he was growing to his sister, the late Mrs. Verner. 

"Mr. Jan, " said the doctor, "it is not right that my nephew, JohnMassingbird, should enjoy Verner's Pride. "

"Of course it's not, " answered Jan. "Only things don't go by rightsalways, you know. It's but seldom they do. "

"He ought to give it up to Mr. Verner. "

"So I told him, " said Jan. "I should, in his place. "

"What did he say?"

"Say? Laughed at me, and called me green. "

Dr. West sat thoughtfully pulling his great dark whiskers. Dark as theywere, they had yet a tinge of red in the fire-light. "It was a curiousthing; a very curious thing, that both brothers should die, as wassupposed, in Australia, " said he. "Better--as things have turnedout--that Fred should have turned up afterwards, than John. "

"I don't know that, " spoke Jan with his accustomed truth-tellingfreedom. "The pair were not good for much, but John was the best ofthem. "

"I was thinking of Sibylla, " candidly admitted the doctor. "It wouldhave been better for her. "

Jan opened his eyes considerably. 

"Better for her!--for it to turn out that she had two husbands living?That's logic, that is. "

"Dear me, to be sure!" cried the doctor. "I was not thinking of thatphase of the affair, Mr. Jan. Is she in spirits?"

"Who? Sibylla? She's fretting herself into her grave. "

Dr. West turned his head with a start. "What at? The loss of Verner'sPride?"

"Well, I don't know, " said Jan, ever plain-spoken. "She puzzles me. Whenshe was at Verner's Pride, she never seemed satisfied. She wasperpetually hankering after excitement--didn't seem to care for Lionel, or for anybody else, and kept the house full of people from top tobottom. She has a restless, dissatisfied temper, and it keeps her on theworry. Folks with such tempers know no peace, and let nobody else knowany that's about them. A nice life she leads Lionel! Not that _he'd_drop a hint of it. He'd cut out his tongue before he'd speak a wordagainst his wife; he'd rather make her out to be an angel. "

"Are they pretty comfortably off for money?" inquired Dr. West, after apause. "I suppose Mr. Verner must have managed to feather his nest alittle, before leaving?"

"Not a bit of it, " returned Jan. "He was over head and ears in debt. Sibylla helped him to a good portion of it. She went the pace. JohnMassingbird waives the question of the mesne profits, or Lionel would bein worse embarrassment than he is. "

Dr. West looked crestfallen. "What do they live on?" he asked. "DoesLady Verner keep them? She can't have too much for herself now. "

"Oh! it's managed somehow, " said Jan. 

Dr. West sat for some time in ruminating silence; pulling his whiskersas before, running his hands through his hair, the large clear bluesapphire ring, which he always wore on his finger, conspicuous. Janswayed his legs about, and waited to afford any further information. Presently the doctor turned to him, a charming expression of openconfidence on his countenance. 

"Mr. Jan, I am in great hopes that you will do me a little favour. Ihave temporary need of a trifle of pecuniary aid--some slight debtswhich have grown upon me abroad, " he added carelessly, with a shortcough--"and, knowing your good heart, I have resolved to apply to you. If you can oblige me with a couple of hundred pounds or so, I'll giveyou my acknowledgment, and return it punctually as soon as I am able. "

"I'd let you have it with all the pleasure in life, if I had got it, "heartily replied Jan; "but I have not. "

"My dear Mr. Jan! Not got it! You must have quite a nice little nest ofsavings laid by in the bank! I know you never spend a shilling onyourself. "

"All I had in the bank, and what I have drawn since, has been handed tomy mother. I wanted Lionel and Sibylla to come here: I and Miss Debarranged it all; and in that case I should have given the money to MissDeb. But Sibylla refused; she would not come here, she would not goanywhere but to Lady Verner's. So I handed the money to my mother. "

The confession appeared to put the doctor out considerably. "How veryimprudent, Mr. Jan! To give away all you possessed, leaving nothing foryourself! I never heard of such a thing!"

"Lionel and his wife were turned out of everything, and had nobody tolook to. I don't see that I could have put the money to better use, "stoutly returned Jan. "It was not much, there's such a lot of the ClayLane folks always wanting things when they are ill. And Miss Deb, shehad had something. You keep her so short, doctor. "

"But you pay her the sum that was agreed upon for housekeeping?" saidDr. West. 

"What should hinder me?" returned Jan. "Of course I do. But she cannotmake both ends meet, she says, and then she has to come to me. _I_'mwilling: only I can't give money away and put it by, you see. "

Dr. West probably did see it. He saw beyond doubt, that all hope ofready money from easy Jan was gone--from the simple fact that Jan'scoffers were just now empty. The fact did not afford him satisfaction. 

"I'll tell you what, Mr. Jan, " said he, brightening up, "you shall giveme your signature to a little bill--a bill at two months, let us say. Itwill be the same as money. "

"Can't, " said Jan. 

"You _can't!_" replied Dr. West. 

"No!" said Jan resolutely. "I'd give away all I had in hand to give, andwelcome; but I'd never sign bills. A doctor has no business with 'em. Don't you remember what they did for Jones at Bartholomew's?"

"I don't remember Jones at Bartholomew's, " frigidly returned the doctor. 

"No! Why, what's gone with your memory?" innocently asked Jan. "If youthink a bit, you'll recollect about him, and what his end was. Billsdid it; the signing of bills to oblige some friend. I'll never sign abill, doctor. I wouldn't do it for my own mother. "

Thus the doctor's expectations were put a final end to, so far as Janwent--and very certain expectations they had, no doubt, been. As to Jan, a thought may have crossed him that the doctor and his daughter Sibyllaappeared to have the same propensity for getting out of money. Dr. Westrecovered his equanimity, and magnanimously waived the affair as atrifle not worth dwelling on. 

"How does Cheese get on?" he asked. 

"First rate--in the eating line, " replied Jan. 

"Have you got him out of his idleness yet?"

"It would take a more clever man than I to do that, doctor. It'sconstitutional. When he goes up to London, in the autumn, I shall takean assistant: unless you should be coming home yourself. "

"I have no intention of it at present, Mr. Jan. Am I to understand youthat Sibylla has serious symptoms of disease?"

"There's no doubt of it, " said Jan. "You always prophesied it for her, you know. When she was at Verner's Pride she was continually ailing: nota week passed but I was called in to attend her. She was so imprudenttoo--she _would_ be. Going out and getting her feet wet; sitting up halfthe night. We tried to bring her to reason; but it was of no use. Shedefied Lionel; she would not listen to me--as well speak to a post. "

"Why should she defy her husband? Are they on bad terms?"

"They are on as good terms as any man and wife could be, Sibylla beingthe wife, " was Jan's rejoinder. "You know something of her temper anddisposition, doctor--it is of no use to mince matters--you remember howit had used to be with her here at home. Lionel's a husband in athousand. How he can possibly put up with her, and be always patient andkind, puzzles me more than any problem ever did in Euclid. If Fred hadlived--why, he'd have broken her spirit or her heart long before this. "

Dr. West rose and stretched himself. The failings of Sibylla were not apleasant topic, thus openly mentioned by Jan; but none knew better thanthe doctor how true were the grounds on which he spoke. None knewbetter, either, that disease for her was to be feared. 

"Her sisters went off about this age, or a little later, " he saidmusingly. "I could not save them. "

"And Sibylla's as surely going after them, doctor, as that I am here, "returned Jan. "Lionel intends to call in Dr. Hayes to her. "

"Since when has she been so ill?"

"Not since any time in particular. There appears to be no real illnessyet--only symptoms. She coughs, and gets as thin as a skeleton. Sometimes I think, if she could call up a cheerful temper, she'd keepwell. You will see what you think of her. "

The doctor walked towards the bureau at the far corner. "Have you everopened it, Mr. Jan?"

"It's not likely, " said Jan. "Didn't you tell me not to open it? Yourown papers are in it, and you hold the key. "

"It's not inconvenient to your room, my retaining it I hope?" asked thedoctor. "I don't know where else I should put my papers. "

"Not a bit of it, " said Jan. "Have another in here as well, if you like. It's safe here. "

"Do you know, Mr. Jan, I feel as if I'd rather sleep in your little bedto-night than indoors, " said the doctor looking at Jan's bed. "The roomseems like an old friend to me: I feel at home in it. "

"Sleep in it, if you like, " returned Jan, in his easy good nature. "MissDeb can put me into some room or other. I say, doctor, it's pasttea-time. Wouldn't you like some refreshment?"

"I had a good dinner on my road, " replied Dr. West; which Jan might haveguessed, for Dr. West was quite sure to take care of himself. "We willgo in, if you like; Deb and Amilly will wonder what has become of me. How old they begin to look!"

"I don't suppose any of us look younger, " answered Jan. 

They went into the house. Deborah and Amilly were in a flutter ofhospitality, lading the tea-table with good things that it would havegladdened Master Cheese's heart to see. They had been upstairs to smoothout their curls, to put on clean white sleeves and collars, a goldchain, and suchlike little additions, setting themselves off as theywere now setting off the tea-table, all in their affectionate welcome totheir father. And Dr. West, who liked eating as well as ever did MasterCheese, surveyed the table with complacency as he sat down to it, ignoring the dinner he had spoken of to Jan. Amilly sat by him, heapinghis plate with what he liked best, and Deborah made the tea. 

"I have been observing to Mr. Jan that you are beginning to look veryold, Deb, " remarked the doctor; "Amilly also. "

It was a cruel shaft. A bitter return for their loving welcome. Perhapsthey _were_ looking older, but he need not have said it so point blank, and before Jan. They turned crimson, poor ladies, and bent to sip theirtea, and tried to turn the words off with a laugh, and did not knowwhere to look. In true innate delicacy of feeling, Dr. West and hisdaughter, Sibylla, rivalled each other. 

The meal over, the doctor proposed to pay a visit to Deerham Court, anddid so, Jan walking with him, first of all mentioning to Deborah thewish expressed by Dr. West as to occupying Jan's room for the night, that she might see the arrangement carried out. 

Which she did. And Jan, at the retiring hour--though this is a littleanticipating, for the evening is not yet over--escorted the doctor tothe door of the room, and wished him a good night's rest, neverimagining but that he enjoyed one. But had fire, or any other accident, burst open the room to public gaze in the lone night hours, Dr. Westwould have been seen at work, instead of asleep. Every drawer of thebureau was out, every paper it contained was misplaced. The doctor wasevidently searching for something, as sedulously as he had once searchedfor that lost prescription, which at the time appeared so much todisturb his peace. 

CHAPTER LXXVII. 

AN EVENING AT LADY VERNER'S. 

In the well-lighted drawing-room at Deerham Court was its mistress, LadyVerner. Seated with her on the same sofa was her son, Lionel. Decima, ata little distance, was standing talking to Lord Garle. Lucy Tempest satat the table cutting the leaves of a new book; and Sibylla was bendingover the fire in a shivering attitude, as if she could not get enough ofits heat. Lord Garle had been dining with them. 

The door opened and Jan entered. "I have brought you a visitor, Sibylla, " said he, in his unceremonious fashion, without any sort ofgreeting to anybody. "Come in, doctor. "

It caused quite a confusion, the entrance of Dr. West. All weresurprised. Lionel rose, Lucy rose; Lord Garle and Decima came forward, and Sibylla sprang towards him with a cry. Lady Verner was the only onewho retained entire calmness. 

"Papa! it cannot be you! When did you come?"

Dr. West kissed her, and turned to Lady Verner with some courtly words. Dr. West was an adept at such. Not the courtly words that springgenuinely from a kindly and refined nature; but those that are put on tohide a false one. All people, true-hearted ones, too, cannot distinguishbetween them; the false and the real. Next, the doctor grasped the handof Lionel. 

"My son-in-law!" he exclaimed in a very demonstrative manner. "The lasttime you and I had the pleasure of meeting, Mr. Verner, we littleanticipated that such a relationship would ensue. I rejoice to welcomeyou in it, my dear sir. "

"True, " said Lionel, with a quiet smile. "Coming events do not alwayscast their shadows before. "

With Decima, with Lord Garle, with Lucy Tempest, the doctor severallyshook hands; he had a phrase of suavity for them all. 

"I should not have known you, " he said to the latter. 

"No!" returned Lucy. "Why?"

"You have grown, Miss Tempest. Grown much. "

"Then I must have been very short before, " said Lucy. "I am not tallnow. "

"You have grown into remarkable beauty, " added the doctor. 

Whether Lucy had grown into beauty, or not, she did not like being toldof it. And she did not like Dr. West. She had not been in love with himever, as you may recollect; but she seemed to like him now, as he stoodbefore her, less and less. Drawing away from him when she could do socivilly, she went up and talked to Jan. 

A little while, and they had become more settled, dispersing intogroups. The doctor, his daughter, and Lionel were sitting on a couchapart, conversing in an undertone; the rest disposed themselves as theywould. Dr. West had accepted a cup of coffee. He kept it in his hand, sipping it now and then, and slowly ate a biscuit. 

"Mr. Jan tells me Sibylla is not very strong, " he observed, addressingboth of them, but more particularly Lionel. 

"Not very, " replied Lionel. "The cold weather of this winter has triedher; has given her a cough. She will be better, I hope, when it comes inwarm. "

"How do you feel, my dear?" inquired the doctor, apparently looking athis coffee-cup instead of Sibylla. "Weak here?"--touching his chest. 

"Not more weak than I had used to be, " she answered in a cross tone, asif the confession that she did feel weak was not pleasant to her. "There's nothing the matter with me, papa; only Lionel makes a fuss. "

"Nay, Sibylla, " interposed Lionel good-humouredly, "I leave that to youand Jan. "

"You would like to make papa believe you don't make a fuss!" she cried, in a most resentful tone; "when you know, not two days ago, you wantedto prevent my going to the party at Mrs. Bitterworth's!"

"I plead guilty to that, " said Lionel. "It was a most inclement night, acold, raw fog that penetrated everywhere, carriages and all else, and Iwished you not to venture out in it. The doing so increased your cough. "

"Mr. Verner was right, " said Dr. West. "Night fogs are pernicious to adegree, where the chest and lungs are delicate. You should not stir outof the house, Sibylla, after sunset. Now don't interrupt, my dear. Letthe carriage be ever so closely shut, it makes no difference. There isthe change of atmosphere from the warm room to the cold carriage; thereare the draughts of air in passing to it. You must not do it, Sibylla. "

"Do you mean to say, papa, that I am to live like a hermit?--never to goout?" she returned, her bosom heaving with vexation. "It is not muchvisiting that I have had, goodness knows, since quitting Verner's Pride:if I am to give it all up, you may as well put me out of the world. Asgood be dead!"

"Sibylla, " said the doctor, more impressively than he often spoke, "Iknow your constitution, and I know pretty well what you can and what youcan not bear. Don't attempt to stir out after sunset again. Should youget stronger it will be a different matter. At present it must not be. Will you remember this, Mr. Verner?"

"If my wife will allow me to remember it, " he said, bending to Sibyllawith a kindly tone. "My will was good to keep her in, all this winter;but she would not be kept. "

"What has Jan been telling you about me, papa? It is a shame of him! Iam not ill. "

"Mr. Jan has told me very little indeed of your ailments, " replied Dr. West. "He says you are not strong; he says you are fretful, irritable. My dear, this arises from your state of health. "

"I have thought so, too, " said Lionel, speaking impulsively. Many andmany a time, latterly, when she had nearly tired out his heart and hispatience, had he been willing to find an excuse for her still--that herillness of body caused in her the irritation of mind. Or, at any rate, greatly increased it. 

An eye, far less experienced than that of Dr. West--who, whatever mayhave been his other shortcomings, was clever in his profession--couldhave seen at a glance how weak Sibylla was. She wore an evening dress ofwhite muslin, its body very low and its sleeves very short; her chestwas painfully thin, and every breath she took lifted it ominously: sheseemed to be breathing outside as well as in. The doctor touched themuslin. 

"This is not a fit dress for you, Sibylla--"

"Lionel has been putting you up to say it, papa!" she burst forth. 

Dr. West looked at her. He surmised, what was indeed the case, that herhusband had remonstrated against the unsuitableness of the attire, toone in her condition. 

"You have heard every word Mr. Verner has spoken to me, Sibylla. Youshould be wrapped up warmly always. To be exposed as you are now, isenough to--to"--give you your death, he was about to say, but changedthe words--"make you very ill. "

"Decima and Lucy Tempest dress so, " she returned in a tone thatthreatened tears. 

Dr. West lifted his eyes to where Decima and Lucy were standing withLord Garle. Decima wore a silk dress, Lucy a white one; each madeevening fashion. 

"They are both healthy, " he said, "and may wear what they please. Lookat their necks, compared to yours, Sibylla. I shall ask Mr. Verner toput all these thin dresses, these low bodies, behind the fire. "

"He would only have the pleasure of paying for others to replace them, "was the undutiful rejoinder. "Papa, I have enough trouble, without yourturning against me. "

Turning against her! Dr. West did not point out how purposeless were herwords. His intention was to come in in the morning, and talk to herseriously of her state of health, and the precautions it was necessaryto observe. He took a sip of his coffee, and turned to Lionel. 

"I was about to ask you a superfluous question, Mr. Verner--whether thatlost codicil has been heard of. But your leaving Verner's Pride is ananswer. "

"It has never been heard of, " replied Lionel. "When John Massingbirdreturned and put in his claim--when he took possession, I may say, forthe one was coeval with the other--the wanting of the codicil was indeeda grievance; far more than it had appeared at the time of its loss. "

"You must regret it very much. "

"I regret it always, " he answered. "I regret it bitterly for Sibylla'ssake. "

"Papa, " she cried, in deep emotion, her cheeks becoming crimson, herblue eyes flashing with an unnatural light, "if that codicil could befound it would save my life. Jan, in his rough, stupid way, tells me Iam fretting myself into my grave. Perhaps I am. I want to go back toVerner's Pride. "

It was not a pleasant subject to converse on; it was a subject utterlyhopeless--and Dr. West sought one more genial. Ranging his eyes over theroom, they fell upon Lord Garle, who was still talking with Decima andLucy. 

"Which of the two young ladies makes the viscount's attraction, Mr. Verner?"

Lionel smiled. "They do not take me into their confidence, sir; any oneof the three. "

"I am sure it is not Decima, papa, " spoke up Sibylla. "She's as cold asa stone. I won't answer for its not being Lucy Tempest. Lord Garle comeshere a good deal, and he and Lucy seem great friends. I often think hecomes for Lucy. "

"Then there's little doubt upon the point, " observed the doctor, comingto a more rapid conclusion than the words really warranted. "Time was, Mr. Verner, when I thought that young lady would have been your wife. "

"Who?" asked Lionel. But that he only asked the question in hisconfusion, without need, was evident; the tell-tale flush betrayed it. His pale face had turned red; red to the very roots of his hair. 

"In those old days when you were ill, lying here, and Miss Tempest wasso much with you, I fancied I saw the signs of a mutual attachment, "continued the doctor. "I conclude I must have been mistaken. "

"Little doubt of that, doctor, " lightly answered Lionel, recovering hisequanimity, though he could not yet recover his disturbed complexion, and laughing as he spoke. 

Sibylla's greedy ears had drunk up the words, her sharp eyes had caughtthe conscious flush, and her jealous heart was making the most of it. Atthat unfortunate moment, as ill-luck had it, Lucy brought up the basketof cakes and held it out to Dr. West. Lionel rose to take it from her. 

"I was taking your name in vain, Miss Tempest, " said the complacentdoctor. "Did you hear me?"

"No, " replied Lucy, smiling. "What about?"

"I was telling Mr. Verner that in the old days I had deemed his choicewas falling upon another, rather than my daughter. Do you remember, young lady?--in that long illness of his?"

Lucy did remember. And the remembrance, thus called suddenly before her, the words themselves, the presence of Lionel, all brought to her farmore emotion than had arisen to him. Her throat heaved as with a spasm, and the startled colour dyed her face. Lionel saw it. Sibylla saw it. 

"It proves to us how we may be mistaken, Miss Tempest, " observed thedoctor, who, from that habit of his, already hinted at, of never lookingpeople in the face when he spoke to them, had failed to observeanything. "I hear there is a probability of this fair hand beingappropriated by another. One who can enhance his value by coupling itwith a coronet. "

"Don't take the trouble, Lucy. I am holding it. "

It was Lionel who spoke. In her confusion she had not loosed hold of thecake-basket, although he had taken it. Quietly, impassively, in the mostunruffled manner spoke he, smiling carelessly. Only for a moment had hisself-control been shaken. "Will you take a biscuit, Dr. West?" heasked; and the doctor chose one. 

"Lucy, my dear, will you step here to me?"

The request came from the other end of the room, from Lady Verner. Lionel, who was about to place the cake-basket on the table, stopped andheld out his arm to Lucy, to conduct her to his mother. They wentforward, utterly unconscious that Sibylla was casting angry and jealousglances at them; conscious only that those sacred feelings in eitherheart, so well hid from the world, had been stirred to their verydepths. 

The door opened, and one of the servants entered. "Mr. Jan is wanted. "

"Who's been taken ill now, I wonder?" cried Jan, descending from the armof his mother's sofa, where he had been perched. 

In the ante-room was Master Cheese, looking rueful. 

"There's a message come from Squire Pidcock's, " cried he in a mostresentful tone. "Somebody's to attend immediately. Am _I_ to go?"

"I suppose you'd faint at having to go, after being up to MissHautley's, " returned Jan. "You'd never survive the two, should you?"

"Well, you know, Jan, it's a good mile and a half to Pidcock's, and Ihad to go to the other place without my tea, " remonstrated MasterCheese. 

"I dare say Miss Deb has given you your tea since you came home. "

"But it's not like having it at the usual hour. And I couldn't finish itin comfort, when this message came. "

"Be off back and finish it now, then, " said Jan. And the young gentlemandeparted with alacrity, while Jan made the best of his way to SquirePidcock's. 

CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

AN APPEAL TO JOHN MASSINGBIRD. 

Lionel Verner walked home with Dr. West, later in the evening. "What doyou think of Sibylla?" was his first question, before they had wellquitted the gates. 

"My opinion is not a favourable one, so far as I can judge at present, "replied Dr. West. "She must not be crossed, Mr. Verner. "

"Heaven is my witness that she is not crossed by me, Dr. West, " was thereply of Lionel, given more earnestly than the occasion seemed to callfor. "From the hour I married her, my whole life has been spent in theendeavour to shield her from crosses, so far as lies in the power ofman; to cherish her in all care and tenderness. There are few husbandswould bear with her--her peculiarities--as I have borne; as I will stillbear. I say this to you, her father; I would say it to no one else. Mychief regret, at the wrenching from me of Verner's Pride, is forSibylla's sake. "

"My dear sir, I honestly believe you. I know what Sibylla was at home, fretful, wayward, and restless; and those tendencies are not likely tobe lessened, now disease has shown itself. I always feared it was in herconstitution; that, in spite of all our care, she would follow hersisters. They fell off and died, you may remember, when they seemed mostblooming. People talked freely--as I understood at the time--about myallowing her so suddenly to marry Frederick Massingbird; but my coursewas dictated by one sole motive--that it would give her the benefit of asea voyage, which might prove invaluable to her constitution. "

Lionel believed just as much of this as he liked. Dr. West was hiswife's father, and, as such, he deferred to him. He remembered what hadbeen told him by Sibylla; and he remembered the promise he had givenher. 

"It's a shocking pity that you are turned from Verner's Pride!" resumedthe doctor. 

"It is. But there's no help for it. "

"Does Sibylla grieve after it _very_ much? Has it any real effect, thinkyou, upon her health?--as she seemed to intimate. "

"She grieves, no doubt. She _keeps_ up the grief, if you can understandit, Dr. West. Not a day passes, but she breaks into lamentations overthe loss, complaining loudly and bitterly. Whether her health would notequally have failed at Verner's Pride, I am unable to say. I think itwould. "

"John Massingbird, under the circumstances, ought to give it up to you. It is _rightfully_ yours. Sibylla's life--and she is his owncousin--may depend upon it: he ought not to keep it. But for the loss ofthe codicil, he would never have come to it. "

"Of course he could not, " assented Lionel. "It is that loss which hasupset everything. "

Dr. West fell into silence, and continued in it until his house was inview. Then he spoke again. 

"What will you undertake to give me, Mr. Verner, if I can bring JohnMassingbird to hear reason, and re-establish you at Verner's Pride?"

"Not anything, " answered Lionel. "Verner's Pride is John Massingbird'saccording to the law; therefore it cannot be mine. Neither would heresign it. "

"I wonder whether it could be done by stratagem?" mused Dr. West. "Couldwe persuade him that the codicil has turned up?--or something of that?It would be very desirable for Sibylla. "

"If I go back to Verner's Pride at all, sir, I go back by _right_;neither by purchase nor by stratagem, " was the reply of Lionel. "Relyupon it, things set about in an underhand manner never prosper. "

"I might get John Massingbird to give it up to you, " continued thedoctor, nodding his head thoughtfully, as if he had some scheme afloatin it. "I might get him to resign it to you, rents and residence andall, and betake himself off. You would give me a per centage?"

"Were John Massingbird to offer such to me to-morrow, of his own freewill, I should decline it, " decisively returned Lionel. "I have sufferedtoo much from Verner's Pride ever to take possession of it again, exceptby indisputable right--a right in which I cannot be disturbed. Twicehave I been turned from it, as you know. And the turning out has cost memore than the world deemed. "

"But surely you would go back to it if you could, for Sibylla's sake?"

"Were I a rich man, able to rent Verner's Pride from John Massingbird, Imight ask him to let it me, if it would gratify Sibylla. But, to returnthere as its master, on sufferance, liable to be expelled again at anymoment--never! John Massingbird holds the right to Verner's Pride, andhe will exercise it, for me. "

"Then you will not accept my offer--to try and get you back again; andto make me a substantial honorarium if I do it?"

"I do not understand you, Dr. West. The question cannot arise. "

"If I make it arise; and carry it out?"

"I beg your pardon--No. "

It was an emphatic denial, and Dr. West may have felt himself foiled; ashe had been foiled by Jan's confession of empty pockets, earlier in theevening. 

"Nevertheless, " observed he equably, as he shook hands with Lionel, before entering his own house, "I shall see John Massingbird to-morrow, and urge the hardship of the case upon him. "

It was probably with that view that Dr. West proceeded early on thefollowing morning to Verner's Pride, after his night of search, insteadof sleep, astonishing John Massingbird not a little. That gentleman wasenjoying himself in a comfortable sort of way in his bedroom. Asubstantial breakfast was laid out on a table by the bedside, while he, not risen, smoked a pipe as he lay, by way of whetting his appetite. Dr. West entered without ceremony. 

"My stars!" uttered John, when he could believe his eyes. "It's neveryou, Uncle West! Did you drop from a balloon?"

Dr. West explained. That he had come over for a few hours' sojourn. Thestate of his dear daughter Sibylla was giving him considerableuneasiness, and he had put himself to the expense and inconvenience of ajourney to see her, and judge of her state himself. 

That there were a few trifling inaccuracies in this statement, inasmuchas that his daughter's state had had nothing to do with the doctor'sjourney, was of little consequence. It was all one to John Massingbird. He made a hasty toilette, and invited the doctor to take some breakfast. 

Dr. West was nothing loth. He had breakfasted at home; but a breakfastmore or less was nothing to Dr. West. He sat down to the table, and tooka choice morsel of boned chicken on his plate. 

"John, I have come up to talk to you about Verner's Pride. "

"What about it?" asked John, speaking with his mouth full of devilledkidneys. 

"The place is Lionel Verner's. "

"How d'ye make out that?" asked John. 

"That codicil revoked the will which left the estate to you. It gave itto him. "

"But the codicil vanished, " answered John. 

"True. I was present at the consternation it excited. It disappeared insome unaccountably mysterious way; but there's no doubt that Mr. Vernerdied, believing the estate would go in its direct line--to Lionel. Infact, I know he did. Therefore you ought to act as though the codicilwere in existence, and resign the estate to Lionel Verner. "

The recommendation excessively tickled the fancy of John Massingbird. Itset him laughing for five minutes. 

"In short, you never ought to have attempted to enter upon it, "continued Dr. West. "Will you resign it to him?"

"Uncle West, you'll kill me with laughter, if you joke like that, " wasthe reply. 

"I have little doubt that the codicil is still in existence, " urged Dr. West. "I remember my impression at the time was that it was onlymislaid, temporarily lost. If that codicil turned up, you would beobliged to quit. "

"So I should, " said John, with equanimity. "Let Lionel Verner produceit, and I'll vacate the next hour. _That_ will never turn up: don't youfret yourself, Uncle West. "

"Will you not resign it to him?"

"No, that I won't. Verner's Pride is mine by law. I should be asimpleton to give it up. "

"Sibylla's pining for it, " resumed the doctor, trying what a littlepathetic pleading would do. "She will as surely die, unless she can comeback to Verner's Pride, as that you and I are at breakfast here. "

"If you ask my opinion, Uncle West, I should say that she'd die, anyway. She looks like it. She's fading away just as the other two did. Butshe won't die a day sooner for being away from Verner's Pride; and shewould not have lived an hour longer had she remained in it. That's mybelief. "

"Verner's Pride never was intended for you, John, " cried the doctor. "Some freak caused Mr. Verner to will it away from Lionel; but he cameto his senses before he died, and repaired the injury. "

"Then I am so much the more obliged to the freak, " was the good-humouredbut uncompromising rejoinder of John Massingbird. 

And more than that Dr. West could not make of him. John was evidentlydetermined to stand by Verner's Pride. The doctor then changed histactics, and tried a little business on his own account--that ofborrowing from John Massingbird as much money as that gentleman wouldlend. 

It was not much. John, in his laughing way, protested he was always"cleaned out. " Nobody knew but himself--but he did not mind hinting itto Uncle West--the heaps of money he had been obliged to "shell out"before he could repose in tranquillity at Verner's Pride. There wereback entanglements and present expenses, not to speak of sums spent inbenevolence. 

"Benevolence?" the doctor exclaimed. 

"Yes, benevolence, " John replied with a semi-grave face; he "had had togive away an unlimited number of bank-notes to the neighbourhood, as arecompense for having terrified it into fits. " There were times when hethought he should have to come upon Lionel Verner for the mesne profits, he observed. A procedure which he was unwilling to resort to for tworeasons: the reason was that Lionel possessed nothing to pay them with;the other, that he, John, never liked to be hard. 

So the doctor had to content himself with a very trifling loan, comparedwith the sum he had fondly anticipated. He dropped some obscure hintsthat the evidence he could give, if he chose, with reference to thecodicil, or rather what he knew to have been Mr. Verner's intentions, might go far to deprive his nephew John of the estate. But his nephewonly laughed at him, and could not by any manner of means be induced totreat the hints as serious. A will was a will, he said, and Verner'sPride was indisputably his. 

Altogether, taking one thing with another, Dr. West's visit to Deerhamhad not been quite so satisfactory as he had anticipated it might bemade. After quitting John Massingbird, he went to Deerham Court andremained a few hours with Sibylla. The rest of the day he dividedbetween his daughters in their sitting-room, and Jan in the surgery, taking his departure again from Deerham by the night train. 

And Deborah and Amilly, drowned in tears, said his visit could becompared only to the flash of a comet's tail; no sooner seen than goneagain. 

CHAPTER LXXIX. 

A SIN AND A SHAME. 

As the spring advanced, sickness began to prevail in Deerham. Theprevious autumn, the season when the enemy chiefly loved to show itself, had been comparatively free, but he appeared to be about taking hisrevenge now. In every third house people were down with ague and fever. Men who ought to be strong for their daily toil, women whose serviceswere wanted for their households and their families, children whoseyoung frames were unfitted to battle with it, were indiscriminatelyattacked. It was capricious as a summer's wind. In some dwellings itwould be the strongest and bravest that were singled out; in some theweakest and most delicate. Jan was worked off his legs. Those necessaryappendages to active Jan generally were exercised pretty well; but Jancould not remember the time when they had been worked as they were now. Jan grew cross. Not at the amount of work: it may be questioned whetherJan did not rather prefer that, than the contrary; but at the prevailingstate of things. "It's a sin and a shame that precautions are not takenagainst this periodical sickness, " said Jan, speaking out more forciblythan was his wont. "If the place were drained and the dwellingsimproved, the ague would run away to more congenial quarters. _I_'d notown Verner's Pride, unless I could show myself fit to be its owner. "

The shaft may have been levelled at John Massingbird, but Lionel Vernertook it to himself. How full of self-reproach he was, he alone knew. Hehad had the power in his own hands to make these improvements, and insome manner or other he had let the time slip by: now, the power waswrested from him. It is ever so. Golden opportunities come into ourhands, and we look at them complacently, and--do not use them. Bitterregrets, sometimes remorse, take their places when they have flittedaway for ever; but neither the regret nor the remorse can recall theopportunity lost. 

Lionel pressed the necessity upon John Massingbird. It was all he coulddo now. John received it with complacent good-humour, and laughed atLionel for making the request. But that was all. 

"Set about draining Clay Lane, and build up new tenements in place ofthe old?" cried he. "What next, Lionel?"

"Look at the sickness the present state of things brings, " returnedLionel. "It is what ought to have been altered years ago. "

"Ah!" said John. "Why didn't you alter it, then, when you had Verner'sPride?"

"You may well ask! It was my first thought when I came into the estate. I would set about that; I would set about other improvements. Some I didcarry out, as you know; but these, the most needful, I left in abeyance. It lies on my conscience now. "

They were in the study. Lionel was at the desk, some papers before him;John Massingbird had lounged in for a chat--as he was fond of doing, tothe interruption of Lionel. He was leaning against the door-post; hisattire not precisely such that a gentleman might choose, who wished tosend his photograph to make a morning call. His pantaloons were hitchedup by a belt; braces, John said, were not fashionable at the diggings, and he had learned the comfort of doing without them; a loose sort ofround drab coat without tails; no waistcoat; a round brown hat, muchbent, and a pair of slippers. Such was John Massingbird's favouritecostume, and he might be seen in it at all hours of the day. When hewanted to go abroad, his toilette was made, as the French say, by theexchanging of the slippers for boots, and the taking in his hand a clubstick. John's whiskers were growing again, and promised to be as fine apair as he had worn before going out to Australia; and now he wasletting his beard grow, but it looked very grim and stubbly. Truth tosay, a stranger passing through the village and casting his eyes on Mr. John Massingbird, would have taken him to be a stable helper, ratherthan the master of that fine place, Verner's Pride. Just now he had aclay pipe in his mouth, its stem little more than an inch long. 

"Do you mean to assert that you'd set about these improvements, as youcall them, were you to come again into Verner's Pride?" asked he ofLionel. 

"I believe I should. I would say unhesitatingly that I should, save forpast experience, " continued Lionel. "Before my uncle died, I knew hownecessary it was that they should be made, and I as much believed thatI should set about them the instant I came into the estate, as that Ibelieve I am now talking to you. But you see I did not begin them. Ithas taught me to be chary of making assertions beforehand. "

"I suppose you think you'd do it?"

"If I know anything of my own resolution I should do it. Were Verner'sPride to lapse to me to-morrow, I believe I should set about it the nextday. But, " Lionel added after a short pause, "there's no probability ofits lapsing to me. Therefore I want you to set about it in my place. "

"I can't afford it, " replied John Massingbird. 

"Nonsense! I wish I could afford things a quarter as well as you. "

"I tell you I can't, " reiterated John, taking his pipe from his mouth tomake a spittoon of the carpet--another convenience he had learned at thediggings. "I'm sure I don't know how on earth my money goes; I never didknow all my life how money went; but, go it does. When Fred and I werelittle chaps, some benevolent old soul tipped us half a crown apiece. Mine was gone by middle-day, and I could not account for more thanninepence of it--never could to this day. Fred, at the end of atwelvemonth's time, had got his half-crown still snug in his pocket. HadFred come into Verner's Pride, he'd have lived in style on a thousand ofhis income yearly, and put by the rest. "

He never would, Sibylla being his wife, thought Lionel. But he did notsay it to John Massingbird. 

"An estate, such as this, brings its duties with it, John, " said he. "Remember those poor people down with sickness. "

"Bother duty, " returned John. "Look here, Lionel; you waste your breathand your words. I have _not_ got the money to spend upon it; how do youknow, old fellow, what my private expenses may be? And if I had themoney, I should not do it, " he continued. "The present state of theproperty was deemed good enough by Mr. Verner; it was so deemed (if wemay judge by facts) by Mr. Lionel Verner; and it is deemed good enoughby John Massingbird. It is not he who's going to have the cost thrownupon him. So let it drop. "

There was no resource but to let it drop; for that he was in fullearnest, Lionel saw. John continued--

"You can save up the alterations for yourself, to be commenced when youcome into the property. A nice _bonne bouche_ of outlay for you tocontemplate. "

"I don't look to come into it, " replied Lionel. 

"The probabilities are that you will come into it, " returned JohnMassingbird, more seriously than he often spoke. "Barring getting shot, or run over by a railway train, you'll make old bones, you will. Youhave never played with your constitution; I have, in more ways than one:and in bare years I have considerably the advantage of you. Psha! when Iam a skeleton in my coffin, you'll still be a young man. You can makeyour cherished alterations then. "

"You may well say in more ways than one, " returned Lionel, half joking, half serious. "There's smoking among the catalogue. How many pipes doyou smoke in a day? Fifty?"

"Why didn't you say day and night? Tynn lives in perpetual torment lestmy bed should ignite some night, and burn up him, as well as Verner'sPride. I go to sleep sometimes with my pipe in my mouth as we do at thediggings. Now and then I feel half inclined to make a rush back there. It suited me better than this. "

Lionel bent over some papers that were before him--a hint that he hadbusiness to do. Mr. Massingbird did not take it. He began filling hispipe again, scattering the tobacco on the ground wholesale in theprocess, and talking at the same time. 

"I say, Lionel, why did old Verner leave the place away from you? Haveyou ever wondered?"

Lionel glanced up at him in surprise. 

"Have I ever ceased wondering, you might have said. I don't know why hedid. "

"Did he never give you a reason--or an explanation?"

"Nothing of the sort. Except--yes, except a trifle. Some time after hisdeath, Mrs. Tynn discovered a formidable-looking packet in one of hisdrawers, sealed and directed to me. She thought it was the missingcodicil; so did I, until I opened it. It proved to contain nothing but aglove; one of my old gloves, and a few lines from my uncle. They were tothe effect that when I received the glove I should know why hedisinherited me. "

"And did you know?" asked John Massingbird, applying a light to hispipe. 

"Not in the least. It left the affair more obscure, if possible, than ithad been before. I suppose I never shall know now. "

"Never's a long day, " cried John Massingbird. "But you told me aboutthis glove affair before. "

"Did I? Oh, I remember. When you first returned. That is all theexplanation I have ever had. "

"It was not much, " said John. "Dickens take this pipe! It won't draw. Where's my knife?"

Not finding his knife about him, he went off to look for it, dragginghis slippers along the hall in his usual lazy fashion. Lionel, glad ofthe respite, applied himself to his work. 

CHAPTER LXXX. 

RECOLLECTIONS OF A NIGHT GONE BY. 

One was dying in Deerham, but not of ague, and that was old MatthewFrost. Matthew was dying of old age, to which we must all succumb, if welive long enough. 

April was in, and the fever and ague were getting better. News wasbrought to Lionel one morning that old Matthew was not expected to lastthrough the day. Jan entered the breakfast-room at Deerham Court andtold him so. Lionel had been starting to Verner's Pride; but he changedhis course towards Clay Lane. 

"Jan, " said he, as he was turning away, "I wish you'd go up and seeSibylla. I am sure she is very ill. "

"I'll go if you like, " said Jan. "But there's no use in it. She won'tlisten to a word I say, or attend to a single direction that I give. Hayes told me, when he came over last week, that it was the same withhim. She persists to him, as she does to me, that she has no need ofmedicine or care; that she is quite well. "

"I am aware she persists in it, " replied Lionel, "but I feel sure she isvery ill. "

"I know she is, " said Jan, "She's worse than folks think for. Perhapsyou amongst them, Lionel. I'll go up to her. " He turned back to thehouse as he spoke, and Lionel went on to Clay Lane. 

Old Matthew was lying on his bed, very peaceful--peaceful as to hisinward and his outward state. Though exceedingly weak, graduallysinking, he retained both speech and intellect: he was passing awaywithout pain, and with his faculties about him. What a happy death-bed, when all is peace within! His dim eyes lighted up with pleasure when hesaw Mr. Verner. 

"Have you come to see the last of me, sir?" he asked, as Lionel took hishand. 

"Not quite the last yet, I hope, Matthew. "

"Don't hope it, sir; nor wish it, neither, " returned the old man, lifting his hand with a deprecatory movement. "I'm on the threshold of abetter world, sir, and I'd not turn back to this, if God was to give methe choice of it. I'm going to my rest, sir. Like as my bed has waitedfor me and been welcome to me after a hard day's toil, so is my rest nowat hand after my life's toil. It is as surely waiting for me as ever wasmy bed; and I am longing to get to it. "

Lionel looked down at the calm, serene face, fair and smooth yet. Theskin was drawn tight over it, especially over the well-formed nose, andthe white locks fell on the pillow behind. It may be wrong to say therewas a holy expression pervading the face; but it certainly gave thatimpression to Lionel Verner. 

"I wish all the world--when their time comes--could die as you aredying, Matthew!" he exclaimed, in the impulse of his heart. 

"Sir, all _might_, if they'd only live for it. It's many a year ago now, Mr. Lionel, that I learned to make a friend of God: He has stood me ingood need. And those that do learn to make a friend of Him, sir, don'tfear to go to Him. "

Lionel drew forward a chair and sat down in it. The old man continued--

"Things seemed to have been smoothed for me in a wonderful manner, sir. My great trouble, of late years, has been Robin. I feared how it mightbe with him when I went away and left him here alone; for you know thequeer way he has been in, sir, since that great misfortune; and I havebeen a bit of a check on him, keeping him, as may be said, withinbounds. Well, that trouble is done away for me, sir; Robin he has gothis mind at rest, and he won't break out again. In a short while I am inhopes he'll be quite what he used to be. "

"Matthew, it was my firm intention to continue your annuity to Robin, "spoke Lionel. "I am sorry the power to do so has been taken from me. Youknow that it will not rest with me now, but with Mr. Massingbird. I fearhe is not likely to continue it. "

"Don't regret it, sir. Robin, I say, is growing to be an industrious managain, and he can get a living well. If he had stopped ahalf-dazed-do-nothing, he might have wanted that, or some other help;but it isn't so. His trouble's at rest, and his old energies are comingback to him. It seems to have left my mind at leisure, sir; and I can goaway, praying for the souls of my poor daughter and of FrederickMassingbird. "

The name--_his_--aroused the attention of Lionel; more, perhaps, than hewould have cared to confess. But his voice and manner retained theirquiet calmness. 

"What did you say, Matthew?"

"It was him, sir; Mr. Frederick Massingbird. It was nobody else. "

Down deep in Lionel Verner's heart there had lain a conviction, almostever since that fatal night, that the man had been no other than the onenow spoken of, the younger Massingbird. Why the impression should havecome to him he could not have told at the time; something, perhaps, inFrederick's manner had given rise to it. On the night before JohnMassingbird's departure for Australia, after the long interview he hadheld with Mr. Verner in the study, which was broken in upon by Lionel onthe part of Robin Frost, the three young men--the Massingbirds andLionel--had subsequently remained together, discussing the tragedy. Inthat interview it was that a sudden doubt of Frederick Massingbirdentered the mind of Lionel. It was impossible for him to tell why. Heonly knew that the impression--nay, it were more correct to say theconviction, seized hold upon him, never to be eradicated. Perhapssomething strange in Frederick's manner awoke it. Lionel surmised nothow far his guilt might have extended; but that he was the guilty one, he fully believed. It was not his business to proclaim this; had it beena certainty, instead of a fancy, Lionel would not have made it hisbusiness. But when Frederick Massingbird was on the point of marryingSibylla, then Lionel partially broke through his reserve, and asked himwhether he had nothing on his conscience that ought to prevent hismaking her his wife. Frederick answered freely and frankly, to allappearance, and for the moment Lionel's doubts were dissipated: only, however, to return afterwards with increased force. Consequently he wasnot surprised to hear this said, though surprised at Matthew Frost'sknowing it. 

"How did you hear it, Matthew?" he asked. 

"Robin got at it, sir. Poor Robin, he was altogether on the wrong scentfor a long while, thinking it was Mr. John; but it's set right now, andRobin, he's at ease. May Heaven have mercy upon Frederick Massingbird!"

Successful rival though he had proved to him, guilty man that he hadbeen, Lionel heartily echoed the prayer. He asked no more questions ofthe old man upon the subject, but afterwards, when he was going out, hemet Robin and stopped him. 

"Robin, what is this that your father has been telling me aboutFrederick Massingbird?"

"Only to think of it!" was Robin's response, growing somewhat excited. "To think how our ways get balked! I had swore to be revenged--as youknow, sir--and now the power of revenge is took from me! He's gone wheremy revenge can't reach him. It's of no good--I see it--for us to plan. Our plans'll never be carried out, if they don't please God. "

"And it was Frederick Massingbird?"

"It was Frederick Massingbird, " assented Robin, his breath coming thickand fast with agitation. "We had got but one little ewe lamb, and hemust leave the world that was open to him, and pick her up, and destroyher! I ain't calm yet to talk of it, sir. "

"But how did you ascertain this? Your suspicions, you know, weredirected to Mr. John Massingbird: wrongly, as I believed; as I toldyou. "

"Yes, they were wrong, " said Robin. "I was put upon the wrong scent: butnot wilfully. You might remember a dairy wench that lived at Verner'sPride in them days, sir--Dolly, her name was; she that went and gotmarried after to Joe Stubbs, Mr. Bitterworth's wagoner. It was she toldme, sir. I used to be up there a good bit with Stubbs, and one day whenI was sick and ill there, the wife told me she had seen one of thegentlemen come from the Willow Pool that past night. I pressed her totell me which of them, and at first she said she couldn't, and then shesaid it was Mr. John. I never thought but she told me right, but itseems--as she confesses now--that she only fixed on him to satisfy me, and because she thought he was dead, over in Australia, and it wouldn'tmatter if she did say it. I worried her life out over it, she says; andit's like I did. She says now, if she was put upon her Bible oath, shecouldn't say which of the gentlemen it was, more nor the other; but shedid see one of 'em. "

"But this is not telling me how you know it to have been Mr. Frederick, Robin. "

"I learned it from Mr. John, " was the reply. "When he come back I sawhim; I knew it was him; and I got a gun and watched for him. I meant totake my revenge, sir. Roy, he found me out; and in a night or two, hebrought me face to face with Mr. John, and Mr. John he told me thetruth. But he'd only tell it me upon my giving him my promise not toexpose his brother. So I'm balked even of that revenge. I had alwayscounted on the exposing of the man, " added Robin in a dreamy tone, as ifhe were looking back into the past; "when I thought it was Mr. John, Ionly waited for Luke Roy to come home, that I might expose him. I judgedthat Luke, being so much with him in Australia, might have heard a slipword drop as would confirm it. Somehow, though I thought Dolly Stubbsspoke truth, I didn't feel so sure of her as to noise it abroad. "

"You say it was Mr. John Massingbird who told you it was his brother?"

"He told me, sir. He told me at Roy's, when he was a-hiding there. Whenthe folks here was going mad about the ghost, I knowed who the ghostwas, and had my laugh at 'em. It seemed that I could laugh then, " addedRobin, looking at Mr. Verner, as if he deemed an apology for the wordsnecessary. "My mind was set at rest. "

Did a thought cross Lionel Verner that John Massingbird, finding his ownlife in peril from Robin's violence, had thrown the blame upon hisbrother falsely? It might have done so, but for his own deeply-rootedsuspicions. That John would not be scrupulously regardful of truth, hebelieved, where his own turn was to be served. Lionel, at any rate, feltthat he should like, for his own satisfaction, to have the matter set atrest, and he took his way to Verner's Pride. 

John Massingbird, his costume not improved in elegance, or his clay pipein length, was lounging at his ease on one of the amber damask satincouches of the drawing-room, his feet on the back of a proximate chair, and his slippers fallen off on the carpet. A copious tumbler ofrum-and-water--his favourite beverage since his return--was on a table, handy; and there he lay enjoying his ease. 

"Hollo, old fellow! How are you?" was his greeting to Lionel, givenwithout changing his position in the least. 

"Massingbird, I want to speak to you, " rejoined Lionel. "I have been tosee old Matthew Frost, and he has said something which surprises me--"

"The old man's about to make a start of it, I hear, " was theinterruption of Mr. Massingbird. 

"He cannot last long. He has been speaking--naturally--of that unhappybusiness of his daughter's. He lays it to the door of Frederick; andRobin tells me he had the information from you. "

"I was obliged to give it him, in self-defence, " said John Massingbird. "The fellow had got it into his head, in some unaccountable manner, thatI was the black sheep, and was prowling about with a gun, ready cappedand loaded, to put a bullet into me. I don't set so much store by mylife as some fidgets do, but it's not pleasant to be shot off in thatsummary fashion. So I sent for Mr. Robin and satisfied him that he wasmaking the same blunder that Deerham just then was making--mistaking onebrother for the other. "

"_Was_ it Frederick?"

"It was. "

"Did you know it at the time?"

"No. Never suspected him at all. "

"Then how did you learn it afterwards?"

John Massingbird took his legs from the chair. He rose, and broughthimself to an anchor on a seat facing Lionel, puffing still at hisincessant pipe. 

"I don't mind trusting you, old chap, being one of us, and I couldn'thelp trusting Robin Frost. Roy, he knew it before--at least, his wifedid; which amounts to something of the same; and she spoke of it to me. I have ordered them to keep a close tongue, under pain of unheard-ofpenalties--which I should never inflict; but it's as well to let poorFred's memory rest in quiet and good odour. I believe honestly it's theonly scrape of the sort he ever got into. He was cold and cautious. "

"But how did you learn it?" reiterated Lionel. 

"I'll tell you. I learned it from Luke Roy. "

"From Luke Roy!" repeated Lionel, more at sea than before. 

"Do you remember that I had sent Luke on to London a few days beforethis happened? He was to get things forward for our voyage. He was_fou_--as the French say--after Rachel; and what did he do but come backagain in secret, to get a last look at her, perhaps a word. It happenedto be this very night, and Luke was a partial witness to the scene atthe Willow Pond. He saw and heard her meeting with Frederick; heardquite enough to know that there was no chance for him; and he wasstealing away, leaving Fred and Rachel at the termination of theirquarrel, when he met his mother. She knew him, it seems, and to thatencounter we are indebted for her display when before Mr. Verner, andher lame account of the 'ghost. ' You must recollect it. She got up theghost tale to excuse her own terror; to throw the scent off Luke. Thewoman says her life, since, has been that of a martyr, ever fearing thatsuspicion might fall upon her son. She recognised him beyond doubt; andnearly died with the consternation. He glided off, never speaking toher, but the fear and consternation remained. She recognised, too, shesays, the voice of Frederick as the one that was quarrelling; but shedid not dare confess it. For one thing, she knew not how far Luke mightbe implicated. "

Lionel leaned his brow on his hand, deep in thought. "How far wasFrederick implicated?" he asked in a low tone. "Did he--did he put herinto the pond?"

"No!" burst forth John Massingbird, with a vehemence that sent the ashesof his pipe flying. "Fred would not be guilty of such a crime as that, any more than you or I would. He had--he had made vows to the girl, andbroken them; and that was the extent of it. No such great sin, afterall, or it wouldn't be so fashionable a one, " carelessly added JohnMassingbird. 

Lionel waited in silence. 

"By what Luke could gather, " went on John, "it appeared that Rachel hadseen Fred that night with his cousin Sibylla--your wife now. What shehad seen or heard, goodness knows; but enough to prove to her thatFred's real love was given to Sibylla, that she was his contemplatedwife. It drove Rachel mad: Fred had probably filled her up with the ideathat the honour was destined for herself. Men are deceivers ever, andwomen soft, you know, Lionel. "

"And they quarrelled over it?"

"They quarrelled over it. Rachel, awakened out of her credulity, met himwith bitter reproaches. Luke could not hear what was said towards itsclose. The meeting--no doubt a concerted one--had been in that grove inview of the Willow Pond, the very spot that Master Luke had chosen forhis own hiding-place. They left it and walked towards Verner's Pride, disputing vehemently; Roy made off the other way, and the last he saw ofthem, when they were nearly out of sight, was a final explosion, inwhich they parted. Fred set off to run towards Verner's Pride, andRachel came flying back towards the pond. There's not a shadow of doubtthat in her passion, her unhappy state of feeling, she flung herself in;and if Luke had only waited two minutes longer, he might have been in atthe death--as we say by the foxes. That's the solution of what haspuzzled Deerham for years, Lionel. "

"Could Luke not have saved her?"

"He never knew she was in the pond. Whether the unexpected sight of hismother scared his senses away, he has often wondered; but he heardneither the splash in the water nor the shriek. He made off, prettyquick, he says, for fear his mother should attempt to stop him, orproclaim his presence aloud--an inconvenient procedure, since he wassupposed to be in London. Luke never knew of her death until we were onthe voyage. I got to London only in time to go on board the ship in thedocks, and we had been out for days at sea before he learned that Rachelwas dead, or I that Luke had been down, on the sly, to Deerham. I had toget over that precious sea-sickness before entering upon that, or anyother talk, I can tell you. It's a shame it should attack men!"

"I suspected Fred at the time, " said Lionel. 

"You did! Well, I did not. My suspicions had turned to a very differentquarter. "

"Upon whom?"

"Oh, bother! where's the good of ripping it up, now it's over and donewith?" retorted John Massingbird. "There's the paper of baccy by yourelbow, chum. Chuck it here. "

CHAPTER LXXXI. 

A CRISIS IN SIBYLLA'S LIFE. 

Sibylla Verner improved neither in health nor in temper. Body and mindwere alike diseased. As the spring had advanced, her weakness appearedto increase; the symptoms of consumption became more palpable. She wouldnot allow that she was ill; she, no doubt, thought that there wasnothing serious the matter with her; nothing, as she told everybody, butthe vexing after Verner's Pride. 

Dr. West had expressed an opinion that her irritability, which she couldneither conceal nor check, was the result of her state of health. He wasvery likely right. One thing was certain; that since she grew weaker andworse, this unhappy frame of mind had greatly increased. The wholebusiness of her life appeared to be to grumble, to be cross, snappish, fretful. If her body was diseased, most decidedly her temper was also. The great grievance of quitting Verner's Pride she made a plea for theindulgence of every complaint under the sun. She could no longer gathera gay crowd of visitors around her; she had lost the opportunity withVerner's Pride; she could no longer indulge in unlimited orders for newdresses and bonnets, and other charming adjuncts to the toilette, without reference to how they were to be paid for; she had not a dozenservants at her beck and call; and if she wanted to pay a visit, therewas no elegant equipage, the admiration of all beholders, to convey her. She had lost all with Verner's Pride. Not a day--scarcely anhour--passed, but one or other, or all of these vexations, were made thesubject of fretful, open repining. Not to Lady Verner--Sibylla would nothave dared to annoy her; not to Decima or to Lucy; but to her husband. How weary his ear was, how weary his spirit, no tongue could tell. Shetried him in every way--she did nothing but find fault with him. When hestayed out, she grumbled at him for staying, meeting him with reproacheson his entrance; when he remained in, she grumbled at him. In her sadframe of mind it was essential--there are frames of mind in which it_is_ essential, as the medical men will tell you, where the sufferercannot help it--that she should have some object on whom to vent herirritability. Not being in her own house, there was but her husband. Hewas the only one sufficiently nearly connected with her to whom thecourtesies of life could be dispensed with; and therefore he came in forit all. At Verner's Pride there would have been her servants to share itwith him; at Dr. West's there would have been her sisters; at LadyVerner's there was her husband alone. Times upon times Lionel feltinclined to run away; as the disobedient boys run to sea. 

The little hint, dropped by Dr. West, touching the past, had not beenwithout its fruits in Sibylla's mind. It lay and smouldered there. _Had_Lionel been attached to Lucy?--had there been love-scenes, love-makingbetween them? Sibylla asked herself the questions ten times in a day. Now and then she let drop a sharp, acrid bit of venom to him--his "oldlove, Lucy. " Lionel would receive it with impassibility, neveranswering. 

On the day spoken of in the last chapter, when Matthew Frost was dying, she was more ill at ease, more intensely irritable, than usual. LadyVerner had gone with some friends to Heartburg, and was not expectedhome until night; Decima and Lucy walked out in the afternoon, andSibylla was alone. Lionel had not been home since he went out in themorning to see Matthew Frost. The fact was Lionel had had a busy day ofit: what with old Matthew and what with his conversation with JohnMassingbird afterwards, certain work which ought to have been done inthe morning he had left till the afternoon. It was nothing unusual forhim to be out all day; but Sibylla was choosing to make his being out onthis day an unusual grievance. As the hours of the afternoon passed onand on, and it grew late, and nobody appeared, she could scarcelysuppress her temper, her restlessness. She was a bad one to be alone;had never liked to be alone for five minutes in her life; and thenceperhaps the secret of her having made so much of a companion of hermaid, Benoite. In point of fact, Sibylla Verner had no resources withinherself; and she made up for the want by indulging in her naturally badtemper. 

Where were they? Where was Decima? Where was Lucy? Above all, where wasLionel? Sibylla, not being able to answer the questions, suddenly beganto get up a pretty little plot of imagination--that Lucy and Lionel weresomewhere together. Had Sibylla possessed one of Sam Weller's patentself-acting microscopes, able to afford a view through space and stairsand deal doors, she might have seen Lionel seated alone in the study atVerner's Pride, amidst his leases and papers; and Lucy in Clay Lane, paying visits with Decima from cottage to cottage. Not possessing one ofthose admirable instruments--if somebody at the West End would but setup a stock of them for sale, what a lot of customers he'd have!--Sibyllawas content to cherish the mental view she had conjured up, and toimprove upon it. All the afternoon she kept improving upon it, until sheworked herself up to that agreeable pitch of distorted excitement whenthe mind does not know what is real, and what fancy. It was a regularApril day; one of sunshine and storm; now the sun shining out bright andclear; now, the rain pattering against the panes; and Sibylla wanderedfrom room to room, upstairs and down, as stormy as the weather. 

_Had_ her dreams been types of fact? Upon glancing from the window, during a sharper shower than any they had yet had, she saw her husbandcoming in at the large gates, Lucy Tempest on his arm, over whom he washolding an umbrella. They were walking slowly; conversing, as it seemed, confidentially. It was quite enough for Mrs. Verner. 

But it was a very innocent, accidental meeting, and the confidentialconversation was only about the state of poor old Matthew Frost. Lionelhad taken Clay Lane on his road home for the purpose of inquiring afterold Matthew. There, standing in the kitchen, he found Lucy. Decima waswith the old man, and it was uncertain how long she would stay with him;and Lucy, who had no umbrella, was waiting for the shower to be over toget back to Deerham Court. Lionel offered her the shelter of his. Asthey advanced through the courtyard, Lucy saw Sibylla at the smalldrawing-room window--the ante-room, as it was called--and nodded asmiling greeting to her. She did not return it, and Lionel saw that hiswife looked black as night. 

They came in, Lucy untying her bonnet-strings, and addressing Sibylla ina pleasant tone--

"What a sharp storm!" she said. "And I think it means to last, for thereseems no sign of its clearing up. I don't know how I should have come, but for Mr. Verner's umbrella. "

No reply from Mrs. Verner. 

"Decima is with old Matthew Frost, " continued Lucy, passing into thedrawing-room; "she desired that we would not wait dinner for her. "

Then began Sibylla. She turned upon Lionel in a state of perfect fury, her temper, like a torrent, bearing down all before it--all decency, allconsideration. 

"Where have you been? You and she?"

"Do you allude to Lucy?" he asked, pausing before he replied, andlooking at her with surprise. "We have been nowhere. I saw her at oldFrost's as I came by, and brought her home. "

"It is a falsehood!" raved Sibylla. "You are carrying on a secretintimacy with each other. I have been blind long enough, but--"

Lionel caught her arm, pointing in stern silence to the drawing-roomdoor, which was not closed, his white face betraying his inwardagitation. 

"She is there!" he whispered. "She can hear you. "

But Sibylla's passion was terrible--not to be controlled. All thecourtesies of life were lost sight of--its social usages were asnothing. She flung Lionel's hand away from her. 

"I hope she can hear me!" broke like a torrent from her trembling lips. "It is time she heard, and others also! I have been blind, I say, longenough. But for papa, I might have gone on in my blindness to the end. "

How was he to stop it? That Lucy must hear every word as plainly as hedid, he knew; words that fell upon his ear, and blistered them. Therewas no egress for her--no other door--she was there in a cage, as may besaid. He did what was the best to be done under the circumstances; hewalked into the presence of Lucy, leaving Sibylla to herself. 

At least it might have been the best in some cases. It was not in this. Sibylla, lost in that moment to all sense of the respect due to herself, to her husband, to Lucy, allowed her wild fancies, her passion, toover-master everything; and she followed him in. Her eyes blazing, hercheeks aflame, she planted herself in front of Lucy. 

"Are you not ashamed of yourself, Lucy Tempest, to wile my husband fromme?"

Lucy looked perfectly aghast. That she thought Mrs. Verner had suddenlygone mad, may be excused to her. A movement of fear escaped her, andshe drew involuntary nearer to Lionel, as if for protection. 

"No! you shan't go to him! There has been enough of it. You shall notside with him against me! He is my husband! How dare you forget it! Youare killing me amongst you. "

"I--don't--know--what--you--mean, Mrs. Verner, " gasped Lucy, the wordscoming in jerks from her bloodless lips. 

"Can you deny that he cares for you more than he does for me? That youcare for him in return? Can not you--"!

"Be silent, Sibylla!" burst forth Lionel. "Do you know that you arespeaking to Miss Tempest?"

"I won't be silent!" she reiterated, her voice rising to a scream. "Whois Lucy Tempest that you should care for her? You know you do! and youknow that you meant to marry her once! Is it--"

Pushing his wife on a chair, though gently, with one arm, Lionel caughtthe hand of Lucy, and placed it within the other, his chest heaving withemotion. He led her out of the room and through the ante-room, insilence to the door, halting there. She was shaking all over, and thetears were coursing down her cheeks. He took both her hands in his, hisaction one of deprecating entreaty, his words falling in the tenderestaccents from between his bloodless lips. 

"Will you _bear_ for my sake, Lucy? She is my wife. Heaven knows, uponany other I would retort the insult. "

How Lucy's heart was wrung!--wrung for him. The insult to herself shecould afford to ignore; being innocent, it fell with very slender force;but she felt keenly for his broken peace. Had it been to save her life, she could not help returning the pressure of his hand as she looked upto him her affirmative answer; and she saw no wrong or harm in thepressure. Lionel closed the door upon her, and returned to his wife. 

A change had come over Sibylla. She had thrown herself at full length ona sofa, and was beginning to sob. He went up to her, and spoke gravely, not unkindly, his arms folded before him. 

"Sibylla, when is this line of conduct to cease? I am nearly weariedout--nearly, " he repeated, putting his hand to his brow, "wearied out. If I could bear the exposure for myself, I cannot bear it for my wife. "

She rose up and sat down on the sofa facing him. The hectic of hercheeks had turned to scarlet. 

"You do love her! You care for her more than you care for me. Can youdeny it?"

"What part of my conduct has ever told you so?"

"I don't care for conduct, " she fractiously retorted, "I remember whatpapa said, and that's enough. He said he saw how it was in the olddays--that you loved her. What business had you to love her?"

"Stay, Sibylla! Carry your reflections back, and answer yourself. Inthose old days, when both of you were before me to choose--at any rate, to _ask_--I chose _you_, leaving her. Is it not a sufficient answer?"

Sibylla threw back her head on the sofa-frame, and began to cry. 

"From the hour that I made you my wife, I have striven to do my duty byyou, tenderly as husband can do it. Why do you force me to reiteratethis declaration, which I have made before?" he added, his face workingwith emotion. "Neither by word nor action have I been false to you. Ihave never, for the briefest moment, been guilty behind your back ofthat which I would not be guilty of in your presence. No! my allegianceof duty has never swerved from you. So help me Heaven!"

"You can't swear to me that you don't love her?" was Sibylla's retort. 

It appeared that he did not intend to swear it. He went and stoodagainst the mantel-piece, in his old favourite attitude, leaning hiselbow on it and his face upon his hand--a face that betrayed his inwardpain. Sibylla began again: to tantalise him seemed a necessity of herlife. 

"I might have expected trouble when I consented to marry you. RachelFrost's fate might have taught me the lesson. "

"Stay, " said Lionel, lifting his head. "It is not the first hint of thesort that you have given me. Tell me honestly what it is you mean. "

"You need not ask; you know already. Rachel owed her disgrace to you. "

Lionel paused a moment before he rejoined. When he did, it was in aquiet tone. 

"Do you speak from your own opinion?"

"No, I don't. The secret was intrusted to me. "

"By whom? You must tell me, Sibylla. "

"I don't know why I should not, " she slowly said, as if in deliberation. "My husband trusted me with it. "

"Do you allude to Frederick Massingbird?" asked Lionel, in a tone whosecoldness he could not help. 

"Yes, I do. He _was_ my husband, " she resentfully added. "One day, onthe voyage to Australia, he dropped a word that made me think he knewsomething about that business of Rachel's, and I teased him to tell mewho it was who had played the rogue. He said it was Lionel Verner. "

A pause. But for Lionel's admirable disposition, how terribly he mighthave retorted upon her, knowing what he had learned that day. 

"Did he tell you I had completed the roguery by pushing her into thepond?" he inquired. 

"I don't know. I don't remember. Perhaps he did. "

"And--doubting it--you could marry me!" quietly remarked Lionel. 

She made no answer. 

"Let me set you right on that point once for all, then, " he continued. "I was innocent as you. I had nothing to do with it. Rachel and herfather were held in too great respect by my uncle--nay, by me, I mayadd--for me to offer _her_ anything but respect. You were misinformed, Sibylla. "

She laughed scornfully. "It is easy to say so. "

"As it was for Frederick Massingbird to say to you what he did. "

"If it came to the choice, " she retorted, "I'd rather believe him thanyou. "

Bitter aggravation lay in her tone, bitter aggravation in her gesture. Was Lionel tempted to forget himself?--to set her right? If so, he beatthe temptation down. All men would not have been so forbearing. 

"Sibylla, I have told you truth, " he simply said. 

"Which is as much as to say that Fred told----" she was vehementlybeginning when the words were stopped by the entrance of JohnMassingbird. John, caught in the shower near Deerham Court, made noscruple of running to it for shelter, and was in time to witnessSibylla's angry tones and inflamed face. 

What precisely happened Lionel could never afterwards recall. Heremembered John's free and easy salutation, "What's the row?"--heremembered Sibylla's torrent of words in answer. As little given toreticence or delicacy in the presence of her cousin, as she had been inthat of Lucy Tempest, she renewed her accusation of her husband withregard to Rachel: she called on him--John--to bear testimony that Fredwas truthful. And Lionel remembered little more until he saw Sibyllalying back gasping, the blood pouring from her mouth. 

John Massingbird--perhaps in his eagerness to contradict her as much asin his regard to make known the truth--had answered her all tooeffectually before Lionel could stop him. Words that burned into thebrain of Sibylla Verner, and turned the current of her life's pulses. 

It was her husband of that voyage, Frederick Massingbird, who hadbrought the evil upon Rachel, who had been with her by the pond thatnight. 

As the words left John Massingbird's lips, she rose up, and stoodstaring at him. Presently she essayed to speak, but not a sound issuedfrom her drawn lips. Whether passion impeded her utterance, or startleddismay, or whether it may have been any physical impediment, it wasevident that she could not get the words out. 

Fighting her hands on the empty air, fighting for breath or for speech, so she remained for a passing space; and then the blood began to tricklefrom her mouth. The excitement had caused her to burst a blood-vessel. 

Lionel crossed over to her: her best support. He held her in his arms, tenderly and considerately, as though she had never given him anunwifely word. Stretching out his other hand to the bell, he rang itloudly. And then he looked at Mr. Massingbird. 

"Run for your life, " he whispered. "Get Jan here. "

CHAPTER LXXXII. 

TRYING ON WREATHS. 

The months went on, and Deerham was in a commotion: not the Clay Lanepart of it, of whom I think you have mostly heard, but that more refinedif less useful portion, represented by Lady Verner, the Elmsleys, theBitterworths, and other of the aristocracy congregating in itsenvirons. 

Summer had long come in, and was now on the wane; and Sir EdmundHautley, the only son and heir of Sir Rufus, was expected home. He hadquitted the service, had made the overland route, and was now halting inParis; but the day of his arrival at Deerham Hall was fixed. And thiscaused the commotion: for it had pleased Miss Hautley to determine towelcome him with a _fête_ and ball, the like of which for splendour hadnever been heard of in the county. 

Miss Hautley was a little given to have an opinion of her own, and tohold to it. Sir Rufus had been the same. Their friends called itfirmness; their enemies obstinacy. The only sister of Sir Rufus, notcordial with him during his life, she had invaded the Hall as soon asthe life had left him, quitting her own comfortable and substantialresidence to do it, and persisted in taking up her abode there until SirEdmund should return; as she was persisting now in giving this _fête_ inhonour of it. In vain those who deemed themselves privileged to speak, pointed out to Miss Hautley that a _fête_ might be considered out ofplace, given before Sir Rufus had been dead a twelvemonth, and that SirEdmund might deem it so; furthermore, that Sir Edmund might prefer tofind quietness on his arrival instead of a crowd. 

They might as well have talked to the wind, for all the impression itmade upon Miss Hautley. The preparations for the gathering went onquickly, the invitations had gone out, and Deerham's head was turned. Those who did not get invitations were ready to swallow up those whodid. Miss Hautley was as exclusive as ever proud old Sir Rufus had been, and many were left out who thought they _might_ have been invited. Amongst others, the Misses West thought so, especially as one card hadgone to their house--for Mr. Jan Verner. 

Two cards had been left at Deerham Court. For Lady and Miss Verner: forMr. And Mrs. Verner. By some strange oversight, Miss Tempest wasomitted. That it was a simple oversight there was no doubt; and so itturned out to be; for, after the _fête_ was over, reserved old MissHautley condescended to explain that it was, and to apologise; but thisis dating forward. It was not known to be an oversight when the cardsarrived, and Lady Verner felt inclined to resent it. She hesitatedwhether to treat it resentfully and stay away herself; or to take nonotice of it, further than by conveying Lucy to the Hall in place ofDecima. 

Lucy laughed. She did not seem to care at all for the omission; but asto going without the invitation, or in anybody's place, she would nothear of it. 

"Decima will not mind staying at home, " said Lady Verner. "She nevercares to go out. You will not care to go, will you, Decima?"

An unwonted flush of crimson rose to Decima's usually calm face. "Ishould like to go to this, mamma, as Miss Hautley has invited me. "

"_Like_ to go to it!" repeated Lady Verner. "Are you growing capricious, Decima? You generally profess to 'like' to stay at home. "

"I would rather go this time, if you have no objection, " was the quietanswer of Decima. 

"Dear Lady Verner, if Decima remained at home ever so, I should not go, "interposed Lucy. "Only fancy my intruding there without an invitation!Miss Hautley might order me out again. "

"It is well to make a joke of it, Lucy, when I am vexed, " said LadyVerner. "I dare say it is only a mistake; but I don't like suchmistakes. "

"I dare say it is nothing else, " replied Lucy, laughing. "But as tomaking my appearance there under the circumstances, I could not reallydo it to oblige even you, Lady Verner. And I would just as soon be athome. "

Lady Verner resigned herself to the decision, but she did not lookpleased. 

"It is to be I and Decima, then. Lionel, " glancing across the table athim--"you will accompany me. I cannot go without you. "

It was at the luncheon table they were discussing this; a meal of whichLionel rarely partook; in fact, he was rarely at home to partake of it;but he happened to be there to-day. Sibylla was present. Recovered fromthe accident--if it may be so called--of the breaking of theblood-vessel; she had appeared to grow stronger and better with thesummer weather. Jan knew the improvement was all deceit, and told themso; told _her_ so; that the very greatest caution was necessary, if shewould avert a second similar attack; in fact, half the time of Jan'svisits at Deerham Court was spent in enjoining perfect tranquillity onSibylla. 

But she was so obstinate! She would not keep herself quiet; she would goout; she would wear those thin summer dresses, low, in the evening. Sheis wearing a delicate muslin now, as she sits by Lady Verner, and herblue eyes are suspiciously bright, and her cheeks are suspiciouslyhectic, and the old laboured breath can be seen through the muslinmoving her chest up and down, as it used to be seen--a lovely visionstill, with her golden hair clustering about her; but her hands are hotand trembling, and her frame is painfully thin. Certainly she does notlook fit to enter upon evening gaiety, and Lady Verner in addressing herson, "You will go with me, Lionel, " proved that she never so much ascast a thought to the improbability that Sibylla would venture thither. 

"If--you--particularly wish it, mother, " was Lionel's reply, spoken withhesitation. 

"Do you not wish to go?" rejoined Lady Verner. 

"I would very much prefer not, " he replied. 

"Nonsense, Lionel! I don't think you have gone out once since you leftVerner's Pride. Staying at home won't mend matters. I _wish_ you to gowith me; I shall make a point of it. "

Lady Verner spoke with some irritation, and Lionel said no more. Hesupposed he must acquiesce. 

It was no long-timed invitation of weeks. The cards arrived on theMonday, and the _fête_ was for the following Thursday. Lionel thought nomore about it; he was not as the ladies, whose toilettes would take allof that time to prepare. On the Wednesday, Decima took him aside. 

"Lionel, do you know that Mrs. Verner intends to go to-morrow evening?"

Lionel paused; paused from surprise. 

"You must be mistaken, Decima. She sent a refusal. "

"I fancy that she did not send a refusal. And I feel sure she isthinking of going. You will not judge that I am unwarrantablyinterfering, " Decima added in a tone of deprecation. "I would not dosuch a thing. But I thought it was right to apprise you of this. She isnot well enough to go out. "

With a pressure of the hand on his sister's shoulder, and a few mutteredwords of dismay, which she did not catch, Lionel sought his wife. Noneed of questioning, to confirm the truth of what Decima had said. Sibylla was figuring off before the glass, after the manner of hergirlish days, with a wreath of white flowers on her head. It was herown sitting-room, the pretty room of the blue and white panels; and thetables and chairs were laden with other wreaths, with various headornaments. She was trying their different effects, when, on turninground her head as the door opened, she saw it was her husband. Hispresence did not appear to discompose her, and she continued to placethe wreath to her satisfaction, pulling it here and there with her thinand trembling hands. 

"What are you doing?" asked Lionel. 

"Trying on wreaths, " she replied. 

"So I perceive. But why?"

"To see which suits me best. This looks too white for me, does it not?"she added, turning her countenance towards him. 

If to be the same hue as the complexion was "too white, " it certainlydid look so. The dead white of the roses was not more utterly colourlessthan Sibylla's face. She was like a ghost; she often looked so now. 

"Sibylla, " he said, without answering her question, "you are surely notthinking of going to Sir Edmund's to-morrow night?"

"Yes, I am. "

"You said you would write a refusal!"

"I know I _said_ it. I saw how cross-grained you were going to be overit, and that's why I said it to you. I accepted the invitation. "

"But, my dear, you must not go!"

Sibylla was flinging off the white wreath, and taking up a pink one, which she began to fix in her hair. She did not answer. 

"After all, " deliberated she, "I have a great mind to wear pearls. Not awreath at all. "

"Sibylla! I say you _must_ not go. "

"Now, Lionel, it is of no use your talking. I have made up my mind togo; I did at first; and go I shall. Don't you remember, " she continued, turning her face from the glass towards him, her careless tone changingfor one of sharpness, "that papa said I must not be crossed?"

"But you are not in a state to go out, " remonstrated Lionel. "Janforbids it utterly. "

"Jan? Jan's in your pay. He says what you tell him to say. "

"Child, how can you give utterance to such things?" he asked in a toneof emotion. "When Jan interdicts your going out he has only your welfareat heart. And you _know_ that I have it. Evening air and scenes ofexcitement are equally pernicious for you. "

"I shall go, " returned Sibylla. _"You_ are going, you know, " sheresentfully said. "I wonder you don't propose that I shall be locked upat home in a dark closet, while you are there, dancing. "

A moment's deliberation in his mind, and a rapid resolution. "I shallnot go, Sibylla, " he rejoined. "I shall stay at home with you. "

"Who says you are going to stay at home?"

"I say it myself. I intend to do so. I shall do so. "

"Oh! Since when, pray, have you come to that decision?"

Had she not the penetration to see that he had come to it then--then, ashe talked to her; that he had come to it for her sake? That she shouldnot have it to say he went out while she was at home. Perhaps she didsee it; but it was nearly impossible to Sibylla not to indulge inbitter, aggravating retorts. 

"I understand!" she continued, throwing up her head with an air ofsupreme scorn. "Thank you, don't trouble. I am not too ill to stoop, illas you wish to make me out to be. "

In displacing the wreath on her head to a different position, she hadlet it fall. Lionel's stooping to pick it up had called forth the lastremark. As he handed it to her he took her hand. 

"Sibylla, promise me to think no more of this. Do give it up. "

"I won't give it up, " she vehemently answered. "I shall go. And, what'smore, I shall dance. "

Lionel quitted her and sought his mother. Lady Verner was not very wellthat afternoon, and was keeping her room. He found her in an invalidchair. 

"Mother, I have come to tell you that I cannot accompany you to-morrowevening, " he said. "You must please excuse me. "

"Why so?" asked Lady Verner. 

"I would so very much rather not go, " he answered. "Besides, I do notcare to leave Sibylla. "

Lady Verner made no observation for a few moments. A carious smile, almost a pitying smile, was hovering on her lips. 

"Lionel, you are a model husband. Your father was not a bad one, ashusbands go; but--he would not have bent his neck to such treatment fromme, as you take from Mrs. Verner. "

"No?" returned Lionel, with good humour. 

"It is not right of you, Lionel, to leave me to go alone, with onlyDecima. "

"Let Jan accompany you, mother. "

"_Jan!_" uttered Lady Verner, in the very extreme of astonishment. "Ishould be surprised to see Jan attempt to enter such a scene. Jan! Idon't suppose he possesses a fit coat and waistcoat. "

Lionel smiled, quitted his mother, and bent his steps towards JanVerner's. 

Not to solicit Jan's attendance upon Lady Verner to the festival scene, or to make close inquiries as to the state of Jan's wardrobe. No; Lionelhad a more serious motive for his visit. 

He found Jan and Master Cheese enjoying a sort of battle. The surgerylooked as if it had been turned upside down, so much confusion reigned. White earthenware vessels of every shape and form, glass jars, hugecylinders, brass pots, metal pans, were scattered about in inextricableconfusion. Master Cheese had recently got up a taste for chemicalexperiments, in which it appeared necessary to call into requisition anunlimited quantity of accessories in the apparatus line. He had beenentering upon an experiment that afternoon, when Jan came unexpectedlyin, and caught him. 

Not for the litter and confusion was Jan displeased, but because hefound that Master Cheese had so bungled chemical properties in his head, so confounded one dangerous substance with another, that, five minuteslater, the result would probably have been the blowing off of thesurgery roof, and Master Cheese and his vessels with it. Jan was givinghim a sharp and decisive word, not to attempt anything of the sortagain, until he could bring more correct knowledge to bear upon it, whenLionel interrupted them. 

"I want to speak to you, Jan, " he said. 

"Here, you be off, and wash the powder from your hands, " cried Jan toMaster Cheese, who was looking ruefully cross. "I'll put the thingsstraight. "

The young gentleman departed. Lionel sat down on the only chair he couldsee--one probably kept for the accommodation of patients who might wanta few teeth drawn. Jan was rapidly reducing the place to order. 

"What is it, Lionel?" he asked, when it was pretty clear. 

"Jan, you must see Sibylla. She wants to go to Deerham Hall to-morrownight. "

"She can't go, " replied Jan. "Nonsense. "

"But she says she will go. "

Jan leaned his long body over the counter, and brought his face nearlyon a level with Lionel's, speaking slowly and impressively--

"If she goes, Lionel, it will kill her. "

Lionel rose to depart. He was on his way to Verner's Pride. "I called into tell you this, Jan, and to ask you to step up and remonstrate withher. "

"Very well, " said Jan. "Mark me, Lionel, _she must not go_. And ifthere's no other way of keeping her away, you, her husband, must forbidit. A little more excitement than usual, and there'll be another vesselof the lungs ruptured. If that happens, nothing can save her life. Keepher at home, by force, if necessary: any way, keep her. "

"And what of the excitement that that will cause?" questioned Lionel. "It may be as fatal as the other. "

"I don't know, " returned Jan, speaking for once in his life testily, inthe vexation the difficulty brought him. "My belief is that Sibylla'smad. She'd never be so stupid, were she sane. "

"Go to her, and see what you can do, " concluded Lionel, as he turnedaway. 

Jan proceeded to Deerham Court, and had an interview with Mrs. Verner. It was not of a very agreeable nature, neither did much satisfactionensue from it. After a few recriminating retorts to Jan's arguments, which he received as equably as though they had been compliments, Sibylla subsided into sullen silence. And when Jan left, he could nottell whether she still persisted in her project, or whether she gave itup. 

CHAPTER LXXXIII. 

WELL-NIGH WEARIED OUT. 

Lionel returned late in the evening; he had been detained at Verner'sPride. Sibylla appeared sullen still. She was in her own sitting-room, upstairs, and Lucy was bearing her company. Decima was in Lady Verner'schamber. 

"Have you had any dinner?" inquired Lucy. _She_ did not ask. She wouldnot have asked had he been starving. 

"I took a bit with John Massingbird, " he replied. "Is my mother better, do you know?"

"Not much, I think, " said Lucy. "Decima is sitting with her. "

Lionel stood in his old attitude, his elbow on the mantel-piece by hiswife's side, looking down at her. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, hercheeks now shone with their most crimson hectic. It was often the caseat this, the twilight hour of the evening. She wore a low dress, and thegold chain on her neck rose and fell with every breath. Lucy's neck wasuncovered, too: a fair, pretty neck; one that did not give you theshudders when looked at as poor Sibylla's did. Sibylla leaned back onthe cushions of her chair, toying with a fragile hand-screen offeathers; Lucy, sitting on the opposite side, had been reading; but shelaid the book down when Lionel entered. 

"John Massingbird desired me to ask you, Sibylla, if he should send youthe first plate of grapes they cut. "

"I'd rather have the first bag of walnuts they shake, " answered Sibylla. "I never cared for grapes. "

"He can send you both, " said Lionel; but an uncomfortable, dimrecollection came over him, of Jan's having told her she must not eatwalnuts. For Jan to tell her not to do a thing, however--or, in fact, for anybody else--was the sure signal for Sibylla to do it. 

"Does John Massingbird intend to go to-morrow evening?" inquiredSibylla. 

"To Deerham Hall, do you mean? John Massingbird has not received aninvitation. "

"What's that for?" quickly asked Sibylla. 

"Some whim of Miss Hautley's, I suppose. The cards have been issued verypartially. John says it is just as well he did not get one, for heshould either not have responded to it, or else made his appearancethere with his clay pipe. "

Lucy laughed. 

"He is glad to be left out, " continued Lionel. "It saves him the troubleof a refusal. I don't think any ball would get John Massingbird to it;unless he could be received in what he calls his diggings' toggery. "

"I'd not have gone with him; I don't like him well enough, " resentfullyspoke Sibylla; "but as he is not going, he can let me have the loan ofmy own carriage--at least, the carriage that was my own. I dislike thoseold, hired things. "

The words struck on Lionel like a knell. He foresaw trouble. "Sibylla, "he gravely said, "I have been speaking to Jan. He----"

"Yes, you have!" she vehemently interrupted, her pent-up anger burstingforth. "You went to him, and sent him here, and told him what tosay--all on purpose to cross me. It is wicked of you to be so jealous ofmy having a little pleasure. "

"Jealous of--I don't understand you, Sibylla. "

"You won't understand me, you mean. Never mind, never mind!"

"Sibylla, " he said, bending his head slightly towards her, and speakingin low, persuasive accents, "I _cannot_ let you go to-morrow night. If Icared for you less, I might suffer you to risk it. I have given upgoing, and----"

"You never meant to go, " she interrupted. 

"Yes, I did; to please my mother. But that is of no consequence----"

"I tell you, you never meant to go, Lionel Verner!" she passionatelyburst forth, her cheeks flaming. "You are stopping at home on purpose tobe with Lucy Tempest--an arranged plan between you and her. Her societyis more to you than any you'd find at Deerham Hall. "

Lucy looked up with a start--a sort of shiver--her sweet, brown eyesopen with innocent wonder. Then the full sense of the words appeared topenetrate to her, and her face grew hot with a glowing, scarlet flush. She said nothing. She rose quietly, not hurriedly, took up the book shehad put on the table, and quietly left the room. 

Lionel's face was glowing, too--glowing with the red blood ofindignation. He bit his lips for calmness, leaving the mark there forhours. He strove manfully with his angry spirit: it was rising up toopen rebellion. A minute, and the composure of self-control came to him. He stood before his wife, his arms folded. 

"You are my wife, " he said. "I am bound to defend, to excuse you so faras I may; but these insults to Lucy Tempest I cannot excuse. She is thedaughter of my dead father's dearest friend; she is living here underthe protection of my mother, and it is incumbent upon me to put a stopto these scenes, so far as she is concerned. If I cannot do it in oneway, I must in another. "

"You know she and you would like to stay at home together--and get therest of us out. "

"Be silent!" he said in a sterner tone than he had ever used to her. "You cannot reflect upon what you are saying. Accuse me as you please; Iwill bear it patiently, if I can; but Miss Tempest must be spared. You_know_ how utterly unfounded are such thoughts; you know that she isrefined, gentle, single-hearted; that all her thoughts to you, as mywife, are those of friendship and kindness. What would my mother thinkwere she to hear this?"

Sibylla made no reply. 

"You have never seen a look or heard a word pass between me and LucyTempest that was not of the most open nature, entirely compatible withher position, that of a modest and refined gentlewoman, and of mine, asyour husband. I think you must be mad, Sibylla. "

The words Jan had used. If such temperaments do not deserve the name ofmadness, they are near akin to it. Lionel spoke with emotion: it all butover-mastered him, and he went back to his place by the mantel-piece, his chest heaving. 

"I shall leave this residence as speedily as maybe, " he said, "givingsome trivial excuse to my mother for the step. I see no other way to putan end to this. "

Sibylla, her mood changing, burst into tears. "I don't want to leaveit, " she said quite in a humble tone. 

He was not inclined for argument. He had rapidly made his mind up, believing it was the only course open to him. He must go away with hiswife, and so leave the house in peace. Saying something to that effect, he quitted the room, leaving Sibylla sobbing; fractiously on the pillowof the chair. 

He went down to the drawing-room. He did not care where he went, or whatbecame of him. It is an unhappy thing when affairs grow to thatmiserable pitch, that the mind has neither ease nor comfort anywhere. Atthe first moment of entering, he thought the room was empty, but as hiseyes grew accustomed to the dusk, he discerned the form of some onestanding at the distant window. It was Lucy Tempest. Lionel wentstraight up to her. He felt that some apology or notice from him wasdue. She was crying bitterly, and turned to him before he could speak. 

"Mr. Verner, I feel my position keenly. I would not remain here to makethings unpleasant to your wife for the whole world. But I cannot helpmyself. I have nowhere to go until papa shall return to Europe. "

"Lucy, let me say a word to you, " he whispered, his tones impeded, hisbreath coming thick and fast from his hot and crimsoned lips. "There aremoments in a man's lifetime when he must _be true;_ when the artificialgloss thrown on social intercourse fades out of sight. This is one. "

Her tears fell more quietly. "I am so very sorry!" she continued tomurmur. 

"Were you other than what you are I might meet you with some of thisartifice; I might pretend not to know aught of what has been said; Imight attempt some elaborate apology. It would be worse than folly fromme to you. Let me tell you that could I have shielded you from thisinsult with my life, I would have done it. "

"Yes, yes, " she hurriedly answered. 

"You will not mistake me. As the daughter of my father's dearest friend, as my mother's honoured guest, I speak to you. I speak to you as onewhom I am bound to protect from harm and insult, only in a less degreethan I would protect my wife. You will do me the justice to believe it. "

"I know it. Indeed I do not blame you. "

"Lucy, I would have prevented this, had it been in my power. But it wasnot. I could not help it. All I can do is to take steps that it shallnot occur again in the future. I scarcely know what I am saying to you. My life, what with one thing and another, is well-nigh wearied out. "

Lucy had long seen that. But she did not say so. 

"It will not be long now before papa is at home, " she answered, "andthen I shall leave Deerham Court free. Thank you for speaking to me, "she simply said, as she was turning to leave the room. 

He took both her hands in his; he drew her nearer to him, his head wasbent down to hers, his whole frame shook with emotion. Was he tempted totake a caress from her sweet face, as he had taken it years ago? Perhapshe was. But Lionel Verner was not one to lose his self-control wherethere was real necessity for his retaining it. His position wasdifferent now from what it had been then; and, if the temptation wasstrong, it was kept in check, and Lucy never knew it had been there. 

"You will forget it for my sake, Lucy? You will not resent it upon her?She is very ill. "

"It is what I wish to do, " she gently said. "I do not know what foolishthings I might not say, were I suffering like Mrs. Verner. "

"God bless you for ever, Lucy!" he murmured. "May your future life bemore fortunate than mine is. "

Relinquishing her hands, he watched her disappear through the darknessof the room. She was dearer to him than his own life; he loved herbetter than all earthly things. That the knowledge was all too palpablethen, he was bitterly feeling, and he could not suppress it. He couldneither suppress the knowledge, nor the fact; it had been very presentwith him for long and long. He could not help it, as he said. Hebelieved, in his honest heart, that he had not encouraged the passion;that it had taken root and spread unconsciously to himself. He wouldhave driven it away, had it been in his power; he would drive it awaynow, could he do it by any amount of energy or will. But it could notbe. And Lionel Verner leaned in the dark there against the window-frame, resolving to do as he had done before--had done all along. To suppressit ever; to ignore it so far as might be; and to do his duty as honestlyand lovingly by his wife, as though the love were not there. 

He _had_ been enabled to do this hitherto, and he would still; Godhelping him. 

CHAPTER LXXXIV. 

GOING TO THE BALL. 

It was the day of the _fête_ at Deerham Hall. Sibylla awoke in anamiable mood, unusually so for her; and Lionel, as he dressed, talked toher gravely and kindly, urging upon her the necessity of relinquishingher determination to be present. It appeared that she was alsoreasonable that morning, as well as amiable, for she listened to him, and at length voluntarily said she would think no more about it. 

"But you must afford me some treat in place of it, " she immediatelyadded. "Will you promise to take me for a whole day next week toHeartburg?"

"Willingly, " replied Lionel. "There is to be a morning concert atHeartburg next Tuesday. If you feel well enough, we can attend that. "

He did not think morning concerts, and the fatigue they sometimesentail, particularly desirable things for his wife; but, compared withhot ballrooms and the night air, they seemed innocuous. Sibylla likedmorning concerts uncommonly, nearly as much as Master Cheese likedtarts; she liked anything that afforded an apology for dress anddisplay. 

"Mind, Lionel, you _promise_ to take me, " she reiterated. 

"Yes. Provided you feel equal to going. "

Sibylla took breakfast in her own room, according to custom. Formerly, she had done so through idleness: now, she was really not well enough torise early. Lionel, when he joined the family breakfast table, announcedthe news; announced it in his own characteristic manner. 

"Sibylla thinks, after all, that she will be better at home thisevening, " he said. "I am glad she has so decided it. "

"Her senses have come to her, have they?" remarked Lady Verner. 

He made no reply. He never did make a reply to any shaft lanced by LadyVerner at his wife. My lady was sparing of her shafts in a general waysince they had resided with her, but she did throw one out now and then. 

"You will go with me then, Lionel?"

He shook his head, telling his mother she must excuse him: it was nothis intention to be present. 

Sibylla continued in a remarkably quiet, not to say affable, temper allday. Lionel was out, but returned home to dinner. By and by Lady Vernerand Decima retired to dress. Lucy went up with Decima, and Lionelremained with his wife. 

When they came down, Sibylla was asleep on the sofa. Lady Verner woresome of the magnificent and yet quiet attire that had pertained to hergayer days; Decima was in white. Lionel put on his hat, and went out tohand them into the carriage that waited. As he did so, the aspect of hissister's face struck him. 

"What is the matter, Decima?" he exclaimed. "You are looking perfectlywhite. "

She only smiled in answer; a forced, unnatural smile, as it appeared toLionel. But he said no more; he thought the white hue might be only theshade cast by the moonlight. Lady Verner looked from the carriage to aska question. 

"Is Jan really going, do you know, Lionel? Lucy says she thinks he is. Ido hope and trust that he will be attired like a Christian, if he isabsurd enough to appear. "

"I think I'll go and see, " answered Lionel, a smile crossing his face. "Take care, Catherine!"

Old Catherine, who had come out with shawls, was dangerously near thewheels--and the horses were on the point of starting. She stepped back, and the carriage drove on. 

The bustle had aroused Sibylla. She rose to look from the window; sawthe carriage depart, saw Catherine come in, saw Lionel walk away towardsDeerham. It was all clear in the moonlight. Lucy Tempest was lookingfrom the other window. 

"What a lovely night it is!" Lucy exclaimed. "I should not mind a driveof ten miles, such a night as this. "

"And yet they choose to say that going out would hurt me!" spoke Sibyllain a resentful tone. "They do it on purpose to vex me. "

Lucy chose to ignore the subject; it was not her business to enter intoit one way or the other. She felt that Mrs. Verner had done perfectlyright in remaining at home; that her strength would have been foundunequal to support the heat and excitement of a ballroom, following onthe night air of the transit to it. Lovely as the night was, it wascold: for some few evenings past the gardeners had complained of frost. 

Lucy drew from the window with a half sigh; it seemed almost a pity toshut out that pleasant moonlight: turned and stirred the fire into ablaze. Sibylla's chilly nature caused them to enter upon evening firesbefore other people thought of them. 

"Shall I ring for lights, Mrs. Verner?"

"I suppose it's time, and past time, " was Sibylla's answer. "I must havebeen asleep ever so long. "

Catherine brought them in. The man-servant had gone in attendance on hismistress. The moderate household of Lady Verner consisted now but offour domestics; Thérèse, Catherine, the cook, and the man. 

"Shall I bring tea in, Miss Lucy?" asked Catherine. 

Lucy turned her eyes on Sibylla. "Would you like tea now, Mrs. Verner?"

"No, " answered Sibylla. "Not yet. "

She left the room as she spoke. Catherine, who had been lowering thecurtains, followed next. Lucy drew a chair to the fire, sat down andfell into a reverie. 

She was aroused by the door opening again. It proved to be Catherinewith the tea-things. "I thought I'd bring them in, and then they'll beready, " remarked she. "You can please to ring, miss, when you want theurn. "

Lucy simply nodded, and Catherine returned to the kitchen, to enjoy asocial _tête-à-tête_ supper with the cook. Mademoiselle Thérèse, takingadvantage of her mistress's absence, had gone out for the rest of theevening. The two servants sat on and chatted together: so long, thatCatherine openly wondered at the urn's not being called for. 

"They must both have gone to sleep, I should think, " quoth she. "MissLucy over the fire in the sitting-room, and Mr. Lionel's wife over hers, upstairs. I have not heard her come down----"

Catherine stopped. The cook had started up, her eyes fixed on thedoorway. Catherine, whose back was towards it, hastily turned; and aninvoluntary exclamation broke from her lips. 

Standing there was Mrs. Verner, looking like--like a bedecked skeleton. She was in fairy attire. A gossamer robe of white with shiningornaments, and a wreath that seemed to sparkle with glittering dewdropson her head. But her arms were thin, wasted; and the bones of her poorneck seemed to rattle as they heaved painfully under the gems claspedround it: and her face had not so much as the faintest tinge of hectic, but was utterly colourless--worse, it was wan, ghastly. A distressingsight to look upon, was she, as she stood there; she and the festalattire were so completely at variance. She came forward, before theservants could recover from their astonishment. 

"Where's Richard?" she asked, speaking in a low, subdued tone, as iffearing to be heard--though there was nobody in the house to hear her, save Lucy Tempest. And probably it was from her wish to avoid allattention to her proceeding, that caused her to come down stealthily tothe servants, instead of ringing for them. 

"Richard is not come back, ma'am, " answered Catherine. "We have justbeen saying that he'll most likely stop up there with the Hall servantsuntil my lady returns. "

"Not back!" echoed Sibylla. "Cook, you must go out for me, " sheimperiously added, after a moment's pause. "Go to Dean's and order oneof their flys here directly. Wait, and come back with it. "

The cook, a simple sort of young woman, save in her own specialdepartment, did not demur, or appear to question in the least theexpediency of the order. Catherine questioned it very much indeed; butwhile she hesitated what to do, whether to stop the cook, or to ventureon a remonstrance to Mrs. Verner, or to appeal to Miss Tempest to do it, the cook was gone. Servants are not particular in country places, andthe girl went straight out as she was, not staying to put anything on. 

Sibylla appeared to be shivering. She took up her place right in frontof the fire, holding out her hands to the blaze. Her teeth chattered, her whole frame trembled. 

"The fire in my dressing-room went out, " she remarked. "Take care thatyou make up a large one by the time I return. "

"You'll never go, ma'am!" cried old Catherine, breaking through herreserve. "You are not strong enough. "

"Mind your own business, " sharply retorted Sibylla. "Do you think Idon't know my own feelings, whether I am strong, or whether I am not? Iam as strong as you. "

Catherine dared no more. Sibylla cowered over the fire, her head turnedsideways as she glanced on the table. 

"What's that?" she suddenly cried, pointing to the contents of a jug. 

"It's beer, ma'am, " answered Catherine. "That stupid girl drew as muchas if Richard and Thérèse had been at home. Maybe Thérèse will be in yetfor supper. "

"Give me a glass of it. I am thirsty. "

Again old Catherine hesitated. Malt liquor had been expressly forbiddento Mrs. Verner. It made her cough frightfully. 

"You know, ma'am, the doctors have said----"

"Will you hold your tongue? And give me what I require? You are as badas Mr. Verner. "

Catherine reached a tumbler, poured it half full, and handed it. Mrs. Verner did not take it. 

"Fill it, " she said. 

So old Catherine, much against her will, had to fill it, and Sibylladrained the glass to the very bottom. In truth, she was continuallythirsty; she seemed to have a perpetual inward fever upon her. Hershoulders were shivering as she set down the glass. 

"Go and find my opera cloak, Catherine. It must have dropped on thestairs, I know I put it on as I left my room. "

Catherine quitted the kitchen on the errand. She would have liked toclose the door after her; but it happened to be pushed quite back with achair against it; and the pointedly shutting it might have been noticedby Sibylla. She found the opera cloak lying on the landing, nearSibylla's bedroom door. Catching it up, she slipped off her shoes at thesame moment, stole down noiselessly, and went into the presence of MissTempest. 

Lucy looked astonished. She sat at the table reading, waiting with allpatience the entrance of Sibylla, ere she made tea. To see Catherinesteal in covertly with her finger to her lips, excited her wonder. 

"Miss Lucy, she's going to the ball, " was the old servant's salutation, as she approached close to Lucy, and spoke in the faintest whisper. "Sheis shivering over the kitchen fire, with hardly a bit of gown to herback, so far as warmth goes. Here's her opera cloak: she dropped itcoming down. Cook's gone out for a fly. "

Lucy felt startled. "Do you mean Mrs. Verner?"

"Why, of course I do, " answered Catherine. "She has been upstairs allthis while, and has dressed herself alone. She must not go, Miss Lucy. She's looking like a ghost. What will Mr. Verner say to us if we lether! It may just be her death. "

Lucy clasped her hands in her consternation. "Catherine, what can we do?We have no influence over her. She would not listen to us for a moment. If we could but find Mr. Verner!"

"He was going round to Mr. Jan's when my lady drove off. I heard him sayit. Miss Lucy, I can't go after him; she'd find me out; I can't leaveher, or leave the house. But he ought to be got here. "

Did the woman's words point to the suggestion that Lucy should go? Lucymay have thought it; or, perhaps, she entered on the suggestion of herown accord. 

"I will go, Catherine, " she whispered. "I don't mind it. It is nearly aslight as day outside, and I shall soon be at Mr. Jan's. You go back toMrs. Verner. "

Feeling that there was not a moment to be lost; feeling that Mrs. Vernerought to be stopped at all hazards for her own sake, Lucy caught up ashawl and a green sun-bonnet of Lady Verner's that happened to be in thehall, and, thus hastily attired, went out. Speeding swiftly along themoonlit road, she soon gained Deerham, and turned to the house of Dr. West. A light in the surgery guided her at once to that room. 

But the light was there alone. Nobody was present to reap its benefit orto answer intruders. Lucy knocked pretty loudly on the counter withoutbringing forth any result. Apparently she was not heard; perhaps fromthe fact that the sound was drowned in the noise of some fizzing andpopping which seemed to be going on in the next room--Jan's bedroom. Herconsideration for Mrs. Verner put ceremony out of the question; in fact, Lucy was not given at the best of times to stand much upon that; and shestepped round the counter, and knocked briskly at the door. PossiblyLionel might be in there with Jan. 

Lionel was not there; nor Jan either. The door was gingerly opened abouttwo inches by Master Cheese, who was enveloped in a great white apronand white oversleeves. His face looked red and confused as it peepedout, as does that of one who is caught at some forbidden mischief; andLucy obtained sight of a perfect mass of vessels, brass, earthenware, glass, and other things, with which the room was strewed. In point offact, Master Cheese, believing he was safe from Jan's superintendencefor some hours, had seized upon the occasion to plunge into hisforbidden chemical researches again, and had taken French leave to useJan's bedroom for the purpose, the surgery being limited for space. 

"What do you want?" cried he roughly, staring at Lucy. 

"Is Mr. Verner here?" she asked. 

Then Master Cheese knew the voice, and condescended a sort of apologyfor his abruptness. 

"I didn't know you, Miss Tempest, in that fright of a bonnet, " said he, walking forth and closing the bedroom door behind him. "Mr. Verner's nothere. "

"Do you happen to know where he is?" asked Lucy. "He said he was cominghere, an hour ago. "

"So he did come here; and saw Jan. Jan's gone to the ball. And Miss Deband Miss Amilly are gone to a party at Heartburg. "

"Is he?" returned Lucy, referring to Jan, and surprised to hear thenews; balls not being in Jan's line. 

"_I_ can't make it out, " remarked Master Cheese. "He and Sir Edmund usedto be cronies, I think; so I suppose that has taken him. But I am gladthey are all off: it gives me a whole evening to myself. He and Mr. Verner went away together. "

"I wish very much to find Mr. Verner, " said Lucy. "It is of greatconsequence that I should see him. I suppose--you--could not--go andlook for him, Master Cheese?" she added pleadingly. 

"Couldn't do it, " responded Master Cheese, thinking of his forbiddenchemicals. "When Jan's away I am chief, you know, Miss Tempest. Somecases of broken legs may be brought in, for anything I can tell. "

Lucy wished him good-night and turned away. She hesitated at the cornerof the street, gazing up and down. To start on a search for Lionelappeared to be as hopeful a project as that search renowned inproverb--the looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. The custom inDeerham was not to light the lamps on a moonlight night, so the street, as Lucy glanced on either side, lay white and quiet; no glare to disturbits peace, save for some shops, not yet closed. Mrs. Duff's, opposite, was among the latter catalogue: and her son, Mr. Dan, appeared to betaking a little tumbling recreation on the flags before the bay-window. Lucy crossed over to him. 

"Dan, " said she, "do you happen to have seen Mr. Verner pass lately?"

Dan, just then on his head, turned himself upside down, and alighted onhis feet, humble and subdued, "Please, miss, I see'd him awhile agonealong of Mr. Jan, " was the answer, pulling his hair by way ofsalutation. "They went that way. Mr. Jan was all in black, he was. "

The boy pointed towards Deerham Court, towards Deerham Hall. There waslittle doubt that Jan was then on his way to the latter. But thequestion for Lucy was--where had Lionel gone?

She could not tell; the very speculation upon it was unprofitable, sinceit could lead to no certainty. Lucy turned homewards, walking quickly. 

She had got past the houses, when she discerned before her in thedistance, a form which instinct--perhaps some dearer feeling told herwas that of him of whom she was in search. He was walking with a slow, leisurely step towards his home. Lucy's heart gave a bound--that it didso still at his sight, as it had done in the earlier days, was no faultof hers: Heaven knew that she had striven and prayed against it. Whenshe caught him up she was out of breath, so swiftly had she sped. 

"Lucy!" he exclaimed. "_Lucy!_ What do you do here?"

"I came out to look for you, " she simply said; "there was nobody else athome to come. I went to Jan's, thinking you might be there. Mrs. Vernerhas dressed herself to go to Sir Edmund's. You may be in time to stopher, if you make haste. "

With a half-uttered exclamation, Lionel was speeding off, when heappeared to remember Lucy. He turned to take her with him. 

"No, " said Lucy, stopping. "I could not go as quickly as you; and aminute, more or less, may make all the difference. There is nothing tohurt me. You make the best of your way. It is for your wife's sake. "

There was good sense in all she said, and Lionel started off with afleet foot. Before Lucy had quite gained the Court she saw him comingback to meet her. He drew her hand within his arm in silence, and kepthis own upon it for an instant's grateful pressure. 

"Thank you, Lucy, for what you have done. Thank you now and ever. I wastoo late. "

"Is Mrs. Verner gone?"

"She has been gone these ten minutes past, Catherine says. A fly wasfound immediately. "

They turned into the house; into the sitting-room. Lucy threw off thelarge shawl and the shapeless green bonnet: at any other moment shewould have laughed at the figure she must have looked in them. Thetea-things still waited on the table. 

"Shall I make you some tea?" she asked. 

Lionel shook his head. "I must go up and dress. I shall go afterSibylla. "

CHAPTER LXXXV. 

DECIMA'S ROMANCE. 

If the fair forms crowding to the _fête_ at Deerham Hall had but knownhow near that _fête_ was to being shorn of its master's presence, theyhad gone less hopefully. Scarcely one of the dowagers and chaperonesbidden to it, but cast a longing eye to the heir, for their daughters'sakes; scarcely a daughter but experienced a fluttering of the heart, asthe fond fancy presented itself that she might be singled out for thechosen partner of Sir Edmund Hautley--for the night, at any rate;and--perhaps--for the long night of the future. But when the clockstruck six that evening, Sir Edmund Hautley had not arrived. 

Miss Hautley was in a fever--as nearly in one as it is in the nature ofa cold, single lady of fifty-eight to go, when some overwhelmingdisappointment falls abruptly. According to arranged plans, Sir Edmundwas to have been at home by middle day, crossing by the night boat fromthe continent. Middle day came and went; afternoon came and went;evening came--and he had not come. Miss Hautley would have set thetelegraph to work, had she known where to set it to. 

But good luck was in store for her. A train, arriving between six andseven, brought him; and his carriage--the carriage of his late father, which had been waiting at the station since eleven o'clock in themorning--conveyed him home. 

Very considerably astonished was Sir Edmund to find the programme whichhad been carved out for the night's amusement. He did not like it; itjarred upon his sense of propriety; and he spoke a hint of this to MissHautley. It was the death of his father which had called him home; afather with whom he had lived for the last few years of his life uponterms of estrangement--at any rate, upon one point; was it seemly thathis inauguration should be one of gaiety? Yes, Miss Hautley decisivelyanswered. Their friends were not meeting to bewail Sir Rufus's death;_that_ took place months ago; but to welcome his, Sir Edmund's, return, and his entrance on his inheritance. 

Sir Edmund--a sunny-tempered, yielding man, the very opposite in spiritto his dead father, to his live aunt--conceded the point; doing it withall the better grace, perhaps, that there was now no help for it. In anhour's time the guests would be arriving. Miss Hautley inquiredcuriously as to the point upon which he and Sir Rufus had been at issue;she had never been able to learn it from Sir Rufus. Neither did it nowappear that she was likely to learn it from Sir Edmund. It was a privatematter, he said, a smile crossing his lips as he spoke; one entirelybetween himself and his father, and he could not speak of it. It haddriven him abroad she believed, Miss Hautley remarked, vexed that shewas still to remain in the dark. Yes, acquiesced Sir Edmund; it haddriven him abroad and kept him there. 

He was ready, and stood in his place to receive his guests; a tall man, of some five-and-thirty years, with a handsome face and pleasant smileupon it. He greeted his old friends cordially, those with whom he hadbeen intimate, and was laughing and talking with the Countess of Elmsleywhen the announcement "Lady and Miss Verner" caught his ear. 

It caused him to turn abruptly. Breaking off in the midst of a sentence, he quitted the countess and went to meet those who had entered. LadyVerner's greeting was a somewhat elaborate one, and he looked roundimpatiently for Decima. 

She stood in the shade behind her mother. Decima? Was _that_ Decima?What had she done to her cheeks? They wore the crimson hectic which wereall too characteristic of Sibylla's. Sir Edmund took her hand. 

"I trust you are well?"

"Quite well, thank you, " was her murmured answer, drawing away the handwhich had barely touched his. 

Nothing could be more quiet than the meeting, nothing more simple thanthe words spoken; nothing, it may be said, more commonplace. But thatDecima was suffering from some intense agitation, there could be nodoubt; and the next moment her face had turned of that same ghastly huewhich had startled her brother Lionel when he was handing her into thecarriage. Sir Edmund continued speaking with them a few minutes, andthen was called off to receive other guests. 

"Have you forgotten how to dance, Edmund?"

The question came from Miss Hautley, disturbing him as he made thecentre of a group to whom he was speaking of his Indian life. 

"I don't suppose I have, " he said, turning to her. "Why?"

"People are thinking so, " said Miss Hautley. "The music has beenbursting out into fresh attempts this last half-hour, and impatience isgetting irrepressible. They cannot begin, Edmund, without you. Yourpartner is waiting. "

"My partner?" reiterated Sir Edmund. "I have asked nobody yet. "

"But I have, for you. At least, I have as good as done it. LadyConstance----"

"Oh, my dear aunt, you are very kind, " he hastily interrupted, "but whenI do dance--which is of rare occurrence--I like to choose my ownpartner. I must do so now. "

"Well, take care, then, " was the answer of Miss Hautley, not deeming itnecessary to drop her voice in the least. "The room is anxious to seeupon whom your choice will be fixed; it may be a type, they are saying, of what another choice of yours may be. "

Sir Edmund laughed good-humouredly, making a joke of the allusion. "ThenI must walk round deliberately and look out for myself--as it is saidsome of our royal reigning potentates have done. Thank you for thehint. "

But, instead of walking round deliberately, Sir Edmund Hautley proceededdirect to one point of the room, halting before Lady Verner and Decima. He bent to the former, speaking a few words in a joking tone. 

"I am bidden to fix upon a partner, Lady Verner. May it be yourdaughter?"

Lady Verner looked at Decima. "She so seldom dances. I do not think youwill persuade her. "

"I think I can, " he softly said, bending to Decima and holding out hisarm. And Decima rose and put hers into it without a word. 

"How capricious she is!" remarked Lady Verner to the Countess ofElmsley, who was sitting next her. "If I had pressed her, she wouldprobably have said no--as she has done so many times. "

He took his place at the head of the room, Decima by his side in herwhite silk robes. Decima, with her wondrous beauty, and the hectic onher cheeks again. Many an envious pair of eyes was cast to her. "Thatdreadful old maid, Decima Verner!" was amongst the compliments launchedat her. "_She_ to usurp him! How had my Lady Verner contrived tomanoeuvre for it?"

But Sir Edmund did not appear dissatisfied with his partner, if the roomwas. He paid a vast deal more attention to her than he did to the dance;the latter he put out more than once, his head and eyes being bent, whispering to Decima. Before the dance was over, the hectic on hercheeks had grown deeper. 

"Are you afraid of the night air?" he asked, leading her through theconservatory to the door at its other end. 

"No. It never hurts me. "

He proceeded along the gravel path round to the other side of the house;there he opened the glass doors of a room and entered. It led intoanother, bright with fire. 

"It is my own sitting-room, " he observed. "Nobody will intrude upon ushere. "

Taking up the poker, he stirred the fire into a blaze. Then he put itdown and turned to her, as she stood on the hearth-rug. 

"Decima!"

It was only a simple name; but Sir Edmund's whole frame was quiveringwith emotion as he spoke it. He clasped her to him with a strangely fondgesture, and bent his face on hers. 

"I left my farewell on your lips when I quitted you, Decima. I must takemy welcome from them now. "

She burst into tears as she clung to him. "Sir Rufus sent for me when hewas dying, " she whispered. "Edmund, he said he was sorry to haveopposed you; he said he would not if the time could come over again. "

"I know it, " he answered. "I have his full consent; nay, his blessing. They are but a few words, but they were the last he ever wrote. Youshall see them, Decima: he calls you my future wife, Lady Hautley. Oh, my darling! what a long, cruel separation it has been!"

Ay! far more long, more cruel for Decima than for him. She was feelingit bitterly now, as the tears poured down her face. Sir Edmund placedher in a chair. He hung over her scarcely less agitated than she was, soothing her with all the fondness of his true heart, with the sweetwords she had once known so well. He turned to the door when she grewcalmer. 

"I am going to bring Lady Verner. It is time she knew it. "

Not through the garden this time, but through the open passages of thehouse, lined with servants, went Sir Edmund. Lady Verner was in the seatwhere they left her. He made his way to her, and held his arm out thatshe might take it. 

"Will you allow me to monopolise you for a few minutes?" he said. "Ihave a tale to tell in which you may feel interested. "

"About India?" she asked, as she rose. "I suppose you used to meet someof my old friends there?"

"Not about India, " he answered, leading her from the room. "India canwait. About some one nearer and dearer to us than any now in India. LadyVerner, when I asked you just now to permit me to fix upon your daughteras a partner, I could have added for life. Will you give me Decima?"

Had Sir Edmund Hautley asked for herself, Lady Verner could scarcelyhave been more astonished. He poured into her ear the explanation, thewhole tale of their old love, the inveterate opposition to it of SirRufus--which had driven him abroad. It had never been made known to LadyVerner. 

"It was _that_ caused you to exile yourself!" she reiterated in heramazement. 

"It was, Lady Verner. Marry in opposition to my father, I would not--andhad I been willing to brave him, Decima never would. So I left my home;I left Decima my father perfectly understanding that our engagementexisted still, that it only lay in abeyance until happier times. When hewas dying, he repented of his harshness and recalled his interdict: byletter to me, personally to Decima. He died with a blessing for us bothon his lips. Jan can tell you so. "

"What has Jan to do with it?" exclaimed Lady Verner. 

"Sir Rufus made a confidant of Jan, and charged him with the message tome. It was Jan who inclosed to me the few words my father was able totrace. "

"I think Jan might have imparted the secret to me, " resentfully spokeLady Verner. "It is just like ungrateful Jan. "

"Jan ungrateful?--never!" spoke Sir Edmund warmly. "There's not a truerheart breathing than Jan's. It was not his secret, and I expect he didnot consider himself at liberty to tell even you. Decima would haveimparted it to you years ago, when I went away, but for one thing. "

"What may that have been?" asked Lady Verner. 

"Because we feared, she and I, that your pride would be so wounded, andnot unjustly, at my father's unreasonable opposition; that you might, inretaliation, forbid the alliance, then and always. You see I am candid, Lady Verner. I can afford to be so, can I not?"

"Decima ought to have told me, " was all the reply given by Lady Verner. 

"And Decima would have told you, at all hazards, but for my urgententreaties. The blame is wholly mine, Lady Verner. You must forgive me. "

"In what lay the objection of Sir Rufus?" she asked. 

"I honestly believe that it arose entirely from that doggedself-will--may I be forgiven for speaking thus irreverently of my deadfather!--which was his great characteristic through life. It was I whochose Decima, not he; and therefore my father opposed it. To Decima andto Decima's family he could not have any possible objection--in fact, hehad not. But he liked to oppose his will to mine. I--if I know anythingof myself--am the very reverse of self-willed, and I had always yieldedto him. No question, until this, had ever arisen that was of vitalimportance to my life and its happiness. "

"Sir Rufus may have resented her want of fortune, " remarked Lady Verner. 

"I think not. He was not a covetous or a selfish man; and our revenuesare such that I can make ample settlements on my wife. No, it was theself-will. But it is all over, and I can openly claim her. You will giveher to me, Lady Verner?"

"I suppose I must, " was the reply of my lady. "But people have beencalling her an old maid. "

Sir Edmund laughed. "How they will be disappointed! Some of their eyesmay be opened to-night. I shall not deem it necessary to make a secretof our engagement now. "

"You must permit me to ask one question, Sir Edmund. Have you and Decimacorresponded?"

"No. We separated for the time entirely. The engagement existing in ourown hearts alone. "

"I am glad to hear it. I did _not_ think Decima would have carried on acorrespondence unknown to me. "

"I am certain that she would not. And for that reason I never asked herto do so. Until I met Decima to-night, Lady Verner, we have had nocommunication with each other since I left. But I am quite sure thatneither of us has doubted the other for a single moment. "

"It has been a long while to wait, " mused Lady Verner, as they enteredthe presence of Decima, who started up to receive them. 

CHAPTER LXXXVI. 

WAS IT A SPECTRE?

When they returned to the rooms, Sir Edmund with Decima, Lady Verner byher daughter's side, the first object that met their view was Jan. Janat a ball! Lady Verner lifted her eyebrows; she had never believed thatJan would really show himself where he must be so entirely out of place. But there Jan was; in decent dress, too--black clothes, and a whiteneckcloth and gloves. It's true the bow of his neckcloth was tied upsidedown, and the gloves had their thumbs nearly out. Jan's great hands laidhold of both Sir Edmund's. 

"I'm uncommon glad you are back!" cried he--which was his polite phrasefor expressing satisfaction. 

"So am I, Jan, " heartily answered Sir Edmund. "I have never had a realfriend, Jan, since I left you. "

"We can be friends still, " said plain Jan. 

"Ay, " said Sir Edmund meaningly, "and brothers. " But the last word wasspoken in Jan's ear alone, for they were in a crowd now. 

"To see you here very much surprises me, Jan, " remarked Lady Verner, asperity in her tone. "I hope you will contrive to behave properly. "

Lady Mary Elmsley, then standing with them, laughed. "What are youafraid he should do, Lady Verner?"

"He was not made for society, " said Lady Verner, with asperity. 

"Nor society for me, " returned Jan good-humouredly. "I'd rather bewatching a case of fever. "

"Oh, Jan!" cried Lady Mary, laughing still. 

"So I would, " repeated Jan. "At somebody's bedside, in my easy coat, Ifeel at home. And I feel that I am doing good; that's more. _This_ isnothing but waste of time. "

"You hear?" appealed Lady Verner to them, as if Jan's avowal were apassing proof of her assertion--that he and society were antagonistic toeach other, "_I_ wonder you took the thought to attire yourselfpassably, " she added, her face retaining its strong vexation. "Hadanybody asked me, I should have given it as my opinion, that you had notthings fit to appear in. "

"I had got these, " returned Jan, looking down at his clothes. "Won'tthey do? It's my funeral suit. "

The unconscious, matter-of-fact style of Jan's avowal was beyondeverything. Lady Verner was struck dumb, Sir Edmund smiled, and MaryElmsley laughed outright. 

"Oh, Jan!" said she, "you'll be a child all your days. What do you meanby your 'funeral suit'?"

"Anybody might know that, " was Jan's answer to Lady Mary. "It's the suitI keep for funerals. A doctor is always being asked to attend them; andif he does not go he offends the people. "

"You might have kept the information to yourself, " rebuked Lady Verner. 

"It doesn't matter, does it?" asked Jan. "Aren't they good enough tocome in?"

He turned his head round, to get a glance at the said suit behind. SirEdmund laid his hand affectionately on his shoulder. Young as Jan hadbeen before Edmund Hautley went out, they had lived close friends. 

"The clothes are all right, Jan. And if you had come without a coat atall, you would have been equally welcome to me. "

"I should not have gone to this sort of thing anywhere else, you know;it is not in my line, as my mother says. I came to see you. "

"And I would rather see you, Jan, than anybody else in the room--withone exception, " was the reply of Sir Edmund. "I am sorry not to seeLionel. "

"He couldn't come, " answered Jan. "His wife turned crusty, and saidshe'd come if he did--something of that--and so he stayed at home. Sheis very ill, and she wants to ignore it, and go out all the same. It isnot fit she should. "

"Pray do you mean to dance, Jan?" inquired Lady Verner, the questionbeing put ironically. 

"I?" returned Jan. "Who'd dance with me?"

"I'll dance with you, Jan, " said Lady Mary. 

Jan shook his head. "I might get my feet entangled in the petticoats. "

"Not you, Jan, " said Sir Edmund, laughing. "I should risk that, if alady asked me. "

"She'd not care to dance with me, " returned Jan, looking at MaryElmsley. "She only says it out of good-nature. "

"No, Jan, I don't think I do, " frankly avowed Lady Mary. "I should liketo dance with you. "

"I'd stand up with you, if I stood up with anybody, " replied Jan. "Butwhere's the good of it? I don't know the figures, and should only putyou out, as well as everybody else. "

So, what with his ignorance of the figures, and his dreaded awkwardnessamidst the trains, Jan was allowed to rest in peace. Mary Elmsley toldhim that if he would come over sometimes to their house in an evening, she and her young sisters would practise the figures with him, so thathe might learn them. It was Jan's turn to laugh now. The notion of hispractising dancing, or having evenings to waste on it, amused himconsiderably. 

"Go to your house to learn dancing!" echoed he. "Folks would be forputting me into a lunatic asylum. If I do find an hour to myself any oddevening, I have to get to my dissection. I went shares the other day ina beautiful subject----"

"I don't think you need tell me of that, Jan, " interrupted Lady Mary, keeping her countenance. 

"I wonder you talk to him, Mary, " observed Lady Verner, feelingthoroughly ashamed of Jan, and believing that everybody else did. "Youhear how he repays you. He means it for good breeding, perhaps. "

"I don't mean it for rudeness, at any rate, " returned Jan. "Lady Maryknows that. Don't you?" he added, turning to her. 

A strangely thrilling expression in her eyes as she looked at him washer only answer. "I would rather have that sort of rudeness from you, Jan, " said she, "than the world's hollow politeness. There is so much offalse----"

Mary Elmsley's sentence was never concluded. What was it that had brokenin upon them? What object was that, gliding into the room like a ghost, on whom all eyes were strained with a terrible fascination? _Was_ it aghost? It appeared ghastly enough for one. Was it one of Jan's"subjects" come after him to the ball? Was it a corpse? It looked morelike that than anything else. A corpse bedizened with jewels. 

"She's mad!" exclaimed Jan, who was the first to recover his speech. 

"What is it?" ejaculated Sir Edmund, gazing with something very likefear, as the spectre bore down towards him. 

"It is my brother's wife, " explained Jan. "You may see how fit she is tocome. "

There was no time for more. Sibylla had her hand held out to Sir Edmund, a wan smile on her ghastly face. His hesitation, his evidentdiscomposure, as he took it, were not lost upon her. 

"You have forgotten me, Sir Edmund; but I should have known youanywhere. Your face is bronzed, and it is the only change. Am _I_ somuch changed?"

"Yes, you are; greatly changed, " was his involuntary acknowledgment inhis surprise. "I should not have recognised you for the Sibylla West ofthose old days. "

"I was at an age to change, " she said. "I----"

The words were stopped by a fit of coughing. Not the ordinary cough, more or less violent, that we hear in every-day intercourse; but thedreadful cough that tells its tale of the hopeless state within. She haddiscarded her opera-cloak, and stood there, her shoulders, back, neck, all bare and naked; _très décolletée_, as the French would say;shivering palpably; imparting the idea of a skeleton with rattlingbones. Sir Edmund Hautley, quitting Decima, took her handcompassionately and led her to a seat. 

Mrs. Verner did not like the attention. Pity, compassion was in everyline of his face--in every gesture of his gentle hand; and she resentedit. 

"I am not ill, " she declared to Sir Edmund between the paroxysms of herdistressing cough. "The wind seemed to take my throat as I got out ofthe fly, and it is making me cough a little, but I am not ill. Has Janbeen telling you that I am?"

She turned round fiercely on Jan as she spoke. Jan had followed her toher chair, and stood near her; he may have deemed that so evident aninvalid should possess a doctor at hand. A good thing that Jan was ofequable disposition, of easy temperament; otherwise there might havebeen perpetual open war between him and Sibylla. She did not spare tohim her sarcasms and her insults; but never, in all Jan's intercoursewith her, had he resented them. 

"No one has told me anything about you in particular, Mrs. Verner, " wasthe reply of Sir Edmund. "I see that you look delicate. "

"I am not delicate, " she sharply said. "It is nothing. I should be verywell, if it were not for Jan. "

"That's good, " returned Jan. "What do I do?"

"You worry me, " she answered curtly. "You say I must not go out; I mustnot do this, or do the other. You know you do. Presently you will besaying I must not dance. But I _will_. "

"Does Lionel know you have come?" inquired Jan, leaving other questionsin abeyance. 

"I don't know. It's nothing to him. He was not going to stop _me_. Youshould pay attention to your own appearance, Jan, instead of to mine;look at your gloves!"

"They split as I was drawing them on, " said Jan. 

Sibylla turned from him with a gesture of contempt. "I am enchanted thatyou have come home, Sir Edmund, " she said to the baronet. 

"I am pleased myself, Mrs. Verner. Home has more charms for me than theworld knows of. "

"You will give us some nice entertainments, I hope, " she continued, hercough beginning to subside. "Sir Rufus lived like a hermit. "

That she would not live to partake of any entertainments he might give, Sir Edmund Hautley felt as sure as though he had then seen her in hergrave-clothes. No, not even could he be deceived, or entertain thefaintest false hope, though the cough became stilled, and the brillianthectic of reaction shone on her cheeks. Very beautiful would she thenhave looked, save for her attenuate frame, with that bright crimsonflush and her gleaming golden hair. 

Quite sufficiently beautiful to attract partners, and one came up andrequested her to dance. She rose in acquiescence, turning her back rightupon Jan, who would have interposed. 

"Go away, " said she. "I don't want any lecturing from you. "

But Jan did not go away. He laid his hand impressively upon hershoulder. "You _must not_ do it, Sibylla. There's a pond outside; it'sjust as good you went and threw yourself into that. It would do you nomore harm. "

She jerked her shoulder away from him; laughing a little, scornfullaugh, and saying a few contemptuous words to her partner, directed toJan. Jan propped his back against the wall, and watched her, giving hera few words in his turn. 

"As good try to turn a mule, as turn _her_. "

He watched her through the quadrille. He watched the graduallyincreasing excitement of her temperament. Nothing could be morepernicious for her; nothing more dangerous; as Jan knew. Presently hewatched her plunge into a waltz; and just at that moment his eyes fellon Lionel. 

He had just entered; he was shaking hands with Sir Edmund Hautley. Janmade his way to them. 

"Have you seen Sibylla, Jan?" was the first question of Lionel to hisbrother. "I hear she has come. "

For answer, Jan pointed towards a couple amidst the waltzers, andLionel's dismayed gaze fell on his wife, whirling round at a mad speed, her eyes glistening, her cheeks burning, her bosom heaving. With theviolence of the exertion, her poor breath seemed to rise in loud gasps, shaking her to pieces, and the sweat-drops poured off her brow. 

One dismayed exclamation, and Lionel took a step forward. Jan caught himback. 

"It is of no use, Lionel. I have tried. It would only make a scene, andbe productive of no end. I am not sure either, whether opposition atthe present moment would not do as much harm as is being done. "

"Jan!" cried Sir Edmund in an undertone, "is--she--dying?"

"She is not far off it, " was Jan's answer. 

Lionel had yielded to Jan's remonstrance, and stood back against thewall, as Jan had previously been doing. The waltz came to an end. In thedispersion Lionel lost sight of his wife. A few moments, and strangesounds of noise and confusion were echoing from an adjoining room. Janwent away at his own rate of speed, Lionel in his wake. They had caughtthe reiterated words, spoken in every phase of terrified tones, "Mrs. Verner! Mrs. Verner!"

Ah, poor Mrs. Verner! That had been her last dance on earth. Theterrible exertion had induced a fit of coughing of unnatural violence, and in the straining a blood-vessel had once more broken. 

CHAPTER LXXXVII. 

THE LAMP BURNS OUT AT LAST. 

From the roof of the house to the floor of the cellar, ominous silencereigned in Deerham Court. Mrs. Verner lay in it--dying. She had beenconveyed home from the Hall on the morning following the catastrophe. Miss Hautley and Sir Edmund urged her remaining longer, offering everypossible hospitality; but poor Sibylla seemed to have taken a capriceagainst it. Caprices she would have, up to her last breath. All herwords were "Home! home!" Jan said she might be moved with safety; andshe was taken there. 

She seemed none the worse for the removal--she was none the worse forit. She was dying, but the transit had not increased her danger or herpain. Dr. Hayes had been over in the course of the night, and was nowexpected again. 

"It's all waste of time, his coming; he can't do anything; but it issatisfaction for Lionel, " observed Jan to his mother. 

Lady Verner felt inclined to blame those of her household who had beenleft at home, for Sibylla's escapade: all of them--Lionel, Lucy Tempest, and the servants. They ought to have prevented it, she said; have kepther in by force, had need been. But she blamed them wrongly. Lionelmight have done so had he been present; there was no knowing whether hewould so far have exerted his authority, but the scene that wouldinevitably have ensued might not have been less fatal in itsconsequences to Sibylla. Lucy answered, and with truth, that anyremonstrance of hers to Sibylla would never have been listened to; andthe servants excused themselves--it was not their place to presume tooppose Mr. Verner's wife. 

She lay on the sofa in her dressing-room, propped up by pillows; herface wan, her breathing laboured. Decima with her, calm and still;Catherine hovered near, to be useful, if necessary; Lady Verner was inher room within call; Lucy Tempest sat on the stairs. Lucy, rememberingcertain curious explosions, feared that her presence might not beacceptable to the invalid; but Lucy partook of the general restlessness, and sat down in her simple fashion on the stairs, listening for newsfrom the sick-chamber. Neither she nor any one else in the house couldhave divested themselves of the prevailing excitement that day, orsettled to calmness in the remotest degree. Lucy wished from her veryheart that she could do anything to alleviate the sufferings of Mrs. Verner, or to soothe the general discomfort. 

By and by, Jan entered, and came straight up the stairs. "Am I to walkover you, Miss Lucy?"

"There's plenty of room to go by, Jan, " she answered, pulling her dressaside. 

"Are you doing penance?" he asked, as he strode past her. 

"It is so dull remaining in the drawing-room by myself, " answered Lucyapologetically. "Everybody is upstairs. "

Jan went into the sick-room, and Lucy sat on in silence; her head bentdown on her knees, as before. Presently Jan returned. 

"Is she any better, Jan?"

"She's no worse, " was Jan's answer. "That's something, when it comes tothis stage. Where's Lionel?"

"I do not know, " replied Lucy. "I think he went out. Jan, " she added, dropping her voice, "will she get well?"

"Get well!" echoed Jan in his plainness. "It's not likely. She won't behere four-and-twenty hours longer. "

"Oh, Jan!" uttered Lucy, painfully startled and distressed. "What adreadful thing! And all because of her going out last night!"

"Not altogether, " answered Jan. "It has hastened it, no doubt; but theending was not far off in any case. "

"If I could but save her!" murmured Lucy in her unselfish sympathy. "Ishall always be thinking that perhaps if I had spoken to her last night, instead of going out to find Mr. Verner, she might not have gone. "

"Look here, " said Jan. "You are not an angel yet, are you, Miss Lucy?"

"Not at all like one, I fear, Jan, " was her sad answer. 

"Well, then, I can tell you for your satisfaction that an angel, comingdown from heaven and endued with angel's powers, wouldn't have stoppedher last night. She'd have gone in spite of it; in spite of you all. Hermind was made up to it; and her telling Lionel in the morning that she'dgive up going, provided he would promise to take her for a day'spleasure to Heartburg, was only a ruse to throw the house off itsguard. "

Jan passed down; Lucy sat on. As Jan was crossing the courtyard--for heactually went out at the front door for once in his life, as he had donethe day he carried the blanket and the black tea-kettle--he encounteredJohn Massingbird. Mr. John wore his usual free-and-easy costume, and hadhis short pipe in his mouth. 

"I say, " began he, "what's this tale about Mrs. Lionel? Folks are sayingthat she went off to Hautley's last night, and danced herself to death. "

"That's near enough, " replied Jan. "She would go; and she did; and shedanced; and she finished it up by breaking a blood-vessel. And now sheis dying. "

"What was Lionel about, to let her go?"

"Lionel knew nothing of it. She slipped off while he was out. Nobody wasin the house but Lucy Tempest and one or two of the servants. Shedressed herself on the quiet, sent for a fly, and went. "

"And danced!"

"And danced, " assented Jan. "Her back and shoulders looked like a bagof bones. You might nearly have heard them rattle. "

"I always said there were moments when Sibylla's mind was not right, "composedly observed John Massingbird. "Is there any hope?"

"None. There has not been hope, in point of fact, for a long while, "continued Jan, "as anybody might have seen, except Sibylla. She has beenobstinately blind to it. Although her father warned her, when he washere, that she could not live. "

John Massingbird smoked for some moments in silence. "She was alwayssickly, " he presently said; "sickly in constitution; sickly in temper. "

Jan nodded. But what he might further have said was stopped by theentrance of Lionel. He came in at the gate, looking jaded and tired. Hismind was ill at ease, and he had not been to bed. 

"I have been searching for you, Jan. Dr. West ought to be telegraphedto. Can you tell where he is?"

"No, I can't, " replied Jan. "He was at Biarritz when he last wrote; butthey were about to leave. I expect to hear from him daily. If we didknow where he is, Lionel, telegraphing would be of no use. He could notget here. "

"I should like him telegraphed to, if possible, " was Lionel's answer. 

"I'll telegraph to Biarritz, if you like, " said Jan. "He is sure to haveleft it, though. "

"Do so, " returned Lionel. "Will you come in?" he added to JohnMassingbird. 

"No, thank you, " replied John Massingbird. "They'd not like my pipe. Tell Sibylla I hope she'll get over it. I'll come again by and by, andhear how she is. "

Lionel went indoors and passed upstairs with a heavy footstep. Lucystarted from her place, but not before he had seen her in it. 

"Why do you sit there, Lucy?"

"I don't know, " she answered, blushing that _he_ should have caught herthere, though she had not cared for Jan's doing so. "It is lonelydownstairs to-day; here I can ask everybody who comes out of the roomhow she is. I wish I could cure her! I wish I could do anything forher!"

He laid his hand lightly on her head as he passed. "Thank you for all, my dear child!" and there was a strange tone of pain in his low voice ashe spoke it. 

Only Decima was in the room then, and she quitted it as Lionel entered. Treading softly across the carpet, he took his seat in a chair oppositeSibylla's couch. She slept--for a great wonder--or appeared to sleep. The whole morning long--nay, the whole night long, her bright, restlesseyes had been wide open; sleep as far from her as it could well be. Ithad seemed that her fractious temper kept the sleep away. But her eyeswere closed now, and two dark, purple rims inclosed them, terribly darkon the wan, white face. Suddenly the eyes unclosed with a start, as ifher doze had been abruptly disturbed, though Lionel had been perfectlystill. She looked at him for a minute or two in silence, and he, knowingit would be well that she should doze again, neither spoke nor moved. 

"Lionel, am I dying?"

Quietly as the words were spoken, they struck on his ear with startlingintensity. He rose then and pushed her hair from her damp brow with afond hand, murmuring some general inquiry as to how she felt. 

"Am I dying?" came again from the panting lips. 

What was he to answer her? To say that she was dying might send her intoa paroxysm of terror; to deceive her in that awful hour by telling hershe was not, went against every feeling of his heart. 

"But I don't want to die, " she urged, in some excitement, interpretinghis silence to mean the worst. "Can't Jan do anything for me? Can't Dr. Hayes?"

"Dr. Hayes will be here soon, " observed Lionel soothingly, if somewhatevasively. "He will come by the next train. "

She took his hand, held it between hers, and looked beseechingly up tohis face. "I don't want to leave you, " she whispered. "Oh, Lionel! keepme here if you can! You know you are always kind to me. Sometimes I havereproached you that you were not, but it was not true. You have beenever kind, have you not?"

"I have ever striven to be so, " he answered, the tears glistening on hiseyelashes. 

"I don't want to die. I want to get well and go about again, as I usedto do when at Verner's Pride. Now Sir Edmund Hautley is come home, thatwill be a good place to visit at. Lionel, I don't want to die! _Can't_you keep me in life?"

"If by sacrificing my own life, I could save yours, Heaven knows howwillingly I would do it, " he tenderly answered. 

"Why should I die? Why should I die more than others? I don't think I amdying, Lionel, " she added, after a pause. "I shall get well yet. "

She stretched out her hand for some cooling drink that was near, andLionel gave her a teaspoonful. He was giving her another, but she jerkedher head away and spilled it. 

"It's not nice, " she said. So he put it down. 

"I want to see Deborah, " she resumed. 

"My dear, they are at Heartburg. I told you so this morning. They willbe home, no doubt, by the next train. Jan has sent to them. "

"What should they do at Heartburg?" she fractiously asked. 

"They went over yesterday to remain until to-day, I hear. "

Subsiding into silence, she lay quite still, save for her pantingbreath, holding Lionel's hand as he bent over her. Some noise in thecorridor outside attracted her attention, and she signed to him to openthe door. 

"Perhaps it is Dr. Hayes, " she murmured. "He is better than Jan. "

Better than Jan, insomuch as that he was rather given to assure hispatients they would soon be strong enough to enjoy the al frescodelights of a gipsy party, even though he knew that they had not anhour's prolonged life left in them. Not so Jan. Never did a morecheering doctor enter a sick-room than Jan, so long as there was thefaintest shade of hope. But, when the closing scene was actually come, the spirit all but upon the wing, then Jan whispered of hope no more. Hecould not do it in his pure sincerity. Jan could be silent; but Jancould not tell a man, whose soul was hovering on the threshold of thenext world, that he might yet recreate himself dancing hornpipes inthis. Dr. Hayes would; it was in his creed to do so; and in that respectDr. Hayes was different from Jan. 

It was not Dr. Hayes. As Lionel opened the door, Lucy was passing it, and Thérèse was at the end of the corridor talking to Lady Verner. Lucystopped to make her kind inquiries, her tone a low one, of how theinvalid was then. 

"Whose voice is that?" called out Mrs. Verner, her words scarcelyreaching her husband's ears. 

"It is Lucy Tempest's, " he said, closing the door, and returning to her. "She was asking after you. "

"Tell her to come in. "

Lionel opened the door again, and beckoned to Lucy. "Mrs. Verner isasking if you will come in and see her, " he said, as she approached. 

All the old grievances, the insults of Sibylla, blotted out from hergentle and forgiving mind, lost sight of in this great crisis, Lucy wentup to the couch, and stood by the side of Sibylla. Lionel leaned overits back. 

"I trust you are not feeling very ill, Mrs. Verner, " she said in a low, sweet tone as she bent towards her and touched her hand. Touched itonly; let her own fall lightly upon it; as if she did not feelsufficiently sure of Sibylla's humour to presume to take it. 

"No, I don't think I'm better. I am so weak here. "

She touched her chest as she spoke. Lucy, perhaps somewhat at a losswhat to say, stood in silence. 

"I have been very cross to you sometimes, Lucy, " she resumed. "I meantnothing. I used to feel vexed with everybody, and said foolish thingswithout meaning it. It was so cruel to be turned from Verner's Pride, and it made me unhappy. "

"Indeed I do not think anything about it, " replied Lucy, the tearsrising to her eyes in her forgiving tenderness. "I know how ill you musthave felt. I used to feel that I should like to help you to bear thepain and the sorrow. "

Sibylla lay panting. Lucy remained as she was; Lionel also. Presentlyshe, Sibylla, glanced at Lucy. 

"I wish you'd kiss me. "

Lucy, unnerved by the words, bent closer to her, a shower of tearsfalling from her eyes on Sibylla's face. 

"If I could but save her life for you!" she murmured to Lionel, glancingup at him through her tears as she rose from the embrace. And she sawthat Lionel's eyes were as wet as hers. 

And now there was a commotion outside. Sounds, as of talking and wailingand crying, were heard. Little need to tell Lionel that they came fromthe Misses West; he recognised the voices; and Lucy glided forward toopen the door. 

Poor ladies! They were wont to say ever after that their absence hadhappened on purpose. Mortified at being ignored in Miss Hautley'sinvitations, they had made a little plan to get out of Deerham. An oldfriend in Heartburg had repeatedly pressed them to dine there and remainfor the night, and they determined to avail themselves of the invitationthis very day of the _fête_ at Deerham Hall. It would be pleasant tohave to say to inquisitive friends, "We could not attend it; we wereengaged to Heartburg. " Many a lady, of more account in the world thanDeborah or Amilly West, has resorted to a less innocent ruse to concealan offered slight. Jan had despatched Master Cheese by the new railwaythat morning with the information of Sibylla's illness; and here theywere back again, full of grief, of consternation, and ready to show itin their demonstrative way. 

Lionel hastened out to them, a Hush--sh! upon his tongue. He caught holdof them as they were hastening in. 

"Yes; but not like this. Be still, for her sake. "

Deborah looked at his pale face, reading it aright. "Is she so ill as_tha'_?" she gasped. "Is there no hope?"

He only shook his head. "Whatever you do, preserve a calm demeanourbefore her. We must keep her in tranquillity. "

"Master Cheese says she went to the ball--and danced, " said Deborah. "Mr. Verner, how could you allow it?"

"She did go, " he answered. "It was no fault of mine. "

Heavier footsteps up the stairs now. They were those of the physician, who had come by the train which had brought the Misses West. He, Dr. Hayes, entered the room, and they stole in after him; Lionel followed;Jan came bursting in, and made another; and Lucy remained outside. 

Lady Verner saw Dr. Hayes when he was going away. 

"There was no change, " he said, in answer to her inquiries. "Mrs. Vernerwas certainly in a very weak, sick state, and--there was no change. "

The Misses West removed their travelling garments, and took up theirstations in the sick-room--not to leave it again, until the life shouldhave departed from Sibylla. Lionel remained in it. Decima and Catherinewent in and out, and Jan made frequent visits to the house. 

"Tell papa it is the leaving Verner's Pride that has killed me, " saidSibylla to Amilly with nearly her latest breath. 

There was no bed for any of them that night, any more than there hadbeen the previous one. A life was hovering in the balance. Lucy sat withLady Verner, and the rest went in to them occasionally, taking news. Dawn was breaking when one went in for the last time. 

It was Jan. He had come to break the tidings to his mother, and he sathimself down on the arm of the sofa--Jan fashion--while he did it. 

The flickering lamp of life had burned out at last. 

CHAPTER LXXXVIII. 

ACHING HEARTS. 

If there be one day in the whole year more gladdening to the heart thanall others, it is surely the first day of early spring. It may come andgive us a glimpse almost in mid-winter; it may not come until winterought to have been long past: but, appear when it will, it bringsrejoicing with it. How many a heart, sinking under its bitter burden ofcare, is reawakened to hope by that first spring day of brightness! Itseems to promise that there shall be yet a change in the dreary lot; itwhispers that trouble may not last: that sickness may be superseded byhealth; that this dark wintry world will be followed by heaven. 

Such a day was smiling over Deerham. And they were only in the firstdays of February. The sun was warm, the fields were green, the sky wasblue; all Nature seemed to have put on her brightness. As Mrs. Duffstood at her door and exchanged greetings with sundry gossips passingby--an unusual number of whom were abroad--she gave it as her opinionthat the charming weather had been vouchsafed as a special favour toMiss Decima Verner; for it was the wedding-day of that young lady andSir Edmund Hautley. 

Sir Edmund would fain have been married immediately after his return. Perhaps Decima would also. But Lady Verner, always given to study theproprieties of life, considered that it would be more seemly to allowfirst a few months to roll on after the death of her son's wife. So theautumn and part of the winter were allowed to go by; and in this, thefirst week of February, they were united; being favoured with weatherthat might have cheated them into a belief that it was May-day. 

How anxious Deerham was to get a sight of her, as the carriagesconveying 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 storyof the long engagement between her and Edmund Hautley had electrifiedDeerham; and some began to wish that they had not called her an old maidquite so prematurely. Should it unfortunately have reached her ears, itmight 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'sprivate opinion was--indeed it may be said her proclaimed opinion aswell as her private one--that Jan would be no ornament to a weddingparty. But Decima had already got Jan's promise to be present, which Janhad given conditionally--that no patients required him at the time. ButJan's patients proved themselves considerate that day; and Jan appearednot only at the church, but at the breakfast. 

At the dinner, also, in the evening. Sir Edmund and Lady Hautley hadleft then; but those who remained of course wanted some dinner; and hadit. It was a small party, more social than formal: Mr. And Mrs. Bitterworth, Lord Garle and his sister, Miss Hautley and JohnMassingbird. Miss Hautley was again staying temporarily at Deerham Hall, but she would leave it on the following day. John Massingbird wasinvited at the special request of Lionel. Perhaps John was less of anornament to a social party than even Jan, but Lionel had been anxiousthat no slight should be placed upon him. It would have been a slightfor the owner of Verner's Pride to be left out at Decima Verner'swedding. Lady Verner held out a little while; she did not like JohnMassingbird: never had liked any of the Massingbirds; but Lionel carriedhis point. John Massingbird showed himself presentable that day, and hadleft his pipe at home. 

In one point Mr. Massingbird proved himself as little given to ceremonyas 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 inthe drawing-room. Fair, graceful girls, both of them, in their floatingwhite bride's-maid's robes, which they would wear for the day; Lucyalways serene and quiet; Mary, merry-hearted, gay-natured. Mary was tostay with them for some days. They looked somewhat scared at the earlyentrance of John Massingbird. Curious tales had gone about Deerham ofJohn's wild habits at Verner's Pride, and, it may be, they felt halfafraid of him. Lucy whispered to the servant to find Mr. Verner and tellhim. 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 ofthe fire. "How are you by this time, Lionel?"

Lionel shook hands with him as he came in. "Never mind; we are glad tosee you, " he said in answer to a half apology from John Massingbirdabout the arriving early. "I can show you those calculations now, if youlike. "

"Calculations be hanged!" returned John. "When a fellow comes out todinner, he does not want to be met with 'calculations. ' What else, Lionel?"

Lionel Verner laughed. They were certain calculations drawn out byhimself, connected with unavoidable work to be commenced on the Verner'sPride estate. For the last month he had been vainly seeking anopportunity of going over them with John Massingbird; that gentleman, who hated details as much as Master Cheese hated work, continuallycontrived 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 alterationwas 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 andindefatigable as you, landlords might get on better than they do. Youcan'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, " answeredLionel 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 mystewardship, 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'sanswer. "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 wifedied, but that--that--Decima wished me to remain in Deerham until hermarriage, " he concluded after some perceptible hesitation. 

"What has Deerham done to you that you want to quit it?" asked JohnMassingbird. 

"I would have left Deerham years ago, had it been practicable, " was theremark of Lionel. 

"I ask you why?"

"Why? Do you think Deerham and its reminiscences can be so pleasant tome that I should care to stop in it, unless compelled?"

"Bother reminiscences!" rejoined Mr. Massingbird. "I conclude you makebelieve to allude to the ups and downs you have had in regard toVerner's Pride. _That's_ not the cause, Lionel Verner--if you do want togo away. You have had time to get over that. Perhaps some lady is in theway? Some cross-grained disappointment in that line? Have you beenrefusing to marry him, Lady Mary?"

Lady Mary threw her laughing blue eyes full in the face of thequestioner. "He never asked me, Mr. Massingbird. "

"No!" said John. 

"No, " said she, the lips laughing now, as well as the eyes. "In the olddays--I declare I don't mind letting out the secret--in the old daysbefore he was married at all, mamma and Lady Verner contrived to let meknow, by indirect hints, that Lionel Verner might be expectedto--to--solicit the honour of my becoming his wife. How I laughed behindtheir backs! It would have been time enough to turn rebellious when theoffer came--which I was quite sure never would come--to make them andhim a low curtsy, and say, 'You are very kind, but I must decline thehonour. ' Did you get any teasings on your side, Lionel?" asked shefrankly. 

A half smile flitted over Lionel's lips. He did not speak. 

"No, " added Lady Mary, her joking tone turning to seriousness, her blueeyes to earnestness, "I and Lionel have ever been good friends, fond ofeach other, I believe, in a sober kind of way: but--any closerrelationship, we should both have run apart from, as wide as the twopoles. I can answer for myself; and I think I can for him. "

"I see, " said John Massingbird. "To be husband and wife would go againstthe grain: you'd rather be brother and sister. "

What there could be in the remark to disturb the perfect equanimity ofMary Elmsley, she best knew. Certain it was that her face turned of afiery red, and it seemed that she did not know where to look. She spokerapid 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 awayfrom 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 canfind somebody to replace me-----"

"Mr. Massingbird's not going to find anybody to replace you, " burstforth John. "I declare, Lionel, if you do go, I'll take on Roy, just tospite you and your old tenants. By the way, though, talking of Roy, whodo you think has come back to Deerham?" he broke off, rather lessvehemently. 

"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, morethan surprise, for somehow the name of Luke, coupled with his return, brought back all too vividly the recollection of his departure, and thetragic end of Rachel Frost which had followed so close upon it. 

"I have not seen him, " rejoined Mr. Massingbird. "I met Mrs. Roy as Icame on here, and she told me. She was scuttering along with somemuffins 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 andshivery. I tell you what, Lionel, " he continued, turning to him, "yourdinner will not be ready this three-quarters of an hour yet. I'll justgo as far as old Roy's, and have a word with Luke. I have got a top-coatin the hall. "

He went out without ceremony. Lionel walked with him to the door. It wasa 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 inher favourite place on a low stool on the hearth-rug. She was morekneeling than sitting. The fire-light played on her sweet face, so youngand girlish still in its outlines, on her pretty hands clasped on herknees, on her arms which glittered with pearls, on the pearls thatrested 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 eyesto his. 

"Was it a joke, what you said to John Massingbird--about leavingDeerham?"

"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, butfor one or two considerations. Decima very much wished me to remainuntil her marriage; and--I did not see my way particularly clear toembark 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, " heanswered. 

"You do not like to remain subservient to John Massingbird?"

"It is not that. I have got over that. My prospects have been so utterlyblighted, Lucy, that I think some of the old pride of the Verner racehas gone out of me. I do not see a chance of getting anything to do halfas good as this stewardship--as he but now called it--under JohnMassingbird. 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 togo to India. I do not suppose I have any real chance of getting anappointment there; but stopping in Deerham will certainly not bring itto me: that, or anything else. "

Lucy's lips had parted. "You will not think of going to India now!" shebreathlessly 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 hishand over his brow, the action betokening pain quite as great as Lucy'stone. Lucy rose from her seat and stood near him, her thoughtful faceupturned. 

"What is left for me in England?" he resumed. "What am I here? A manwithout home, fortune, hope. I have worse than no prospects. Theceremony at which we have been assisting this day seems to have broughtthe bare facts more palpably before me in all their naked truth. Othermen 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 toofrequent--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 Idid not find in the last. The vision, I say, comes all too frequentlyfor my peace of mind, when I realise the fact that it can never berealised. "

Lucy stood, her hands tightly clasped before her, a world of sadness inher fair, young face. One less entirely single-hearted, less _true_ thanLucy Tempest, might have professed to ignore the drift of his words. HadLucy, since Mrs. Verner's death, cast a thought to the possibility ofcertain happy relations arising between her and Lionel--those socialties he now spoke of? No, not intentionally. If any such dreams did lurkin 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 hecontemplated such; his intercourse with her had been free and open, justas it was with Decima. She was quite content; to be with him, to see himdaily, 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 whitherI go. You threw out a suggestion once, Lucy, that Colonel Tempest mightbe 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 ismy 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 thenecessity? You should wait until he comes. "

"I have waited too long, as it is. Deerham will be glad to get rid ofme. It may hold a jubilee the day it hears I have shipped myself off forIndia. I wonder if I shall ever come back? Probably not. I and oldfriends may never meet again on this side heaven. "

He had been affecting to speak lightly, jokingly, toying at the sametime with some trifle on the mantel-piece. But as he turned his eyes onLucy at the conclusion of his sentence, he saw that the tears werefalling on her cheeks. The words, the ideas they conjured up, had jarredpainfully on every fibre of her heart. Lionel's light mood was gone. 

"Lucy, " he whispered, bending to her, his tone changing to one ofpassionate earnestness, "I dare not stay here longer. There are momentswhen I am tempted to forget my position, to forget honour, and speakwords that--that--I ought not to speak. Even now, as I look down uponyou, my heart is throbbing, my veins are tingling; but I must not touchyou with my finger, or tell you of my impassioned love. All I can do isto carry it away with me, and battle with it alone. "

Her face had grown white with emotion. She raised her wet eyesyearningly 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 canbear. "

"Don't, child!" he said in a wailing tone of entreaty. "The temptationfrom my own heart is all too present to me. Don't _you_ tempt me. Strongman though I am, there are things that I cannot bear. "

He leaned on the mantel-piece, shading his face with his hand. Lucystood 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 hadthe 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 youlike--I loved the one I rejected, more than the one I took. Before thesound of my marriage bells had yet rung out on my ears, the terribleconviction was within me that I loved that other better than all createdthings. You may judge, then, what my punishment has been. "

She raised her eyes to his face, but he did not see them, did not lookat her. He continued--

"It was the one great mistake of my life; made by myself alone. I cannotplead the excuse which so many are able to plead for life'smistakes--that I was drawn into it. I made it deliberately, as may besaid; of my own will. It is but just, therefore, that I should expiateit. How I have suffered in the expiation, Heaven alone knows. It is truethat I bound myself in a moment of delirium, of passion; giving myselfno time for thought. But I have never looked upon that fact as anexcuse; for a man who has come to the years I had should hold hisfeelings under his own control. Yes; I missed that opportunity, and thechance went by for life. "

"For life?" repeated Lucy, with streaming eyes. It was too terribly reala moment for any attempt at concealment. A little reticence, in hermaiden modesty; but of concealment, none. 

"I am a poor man now, Lucy, " he explained; "worse than withoutprospects, if you knew all. And I do not know why you should not knowall, " he added after a pause: "I am in debt. Such a man cannot marry. "

The words were spoken quietly, temperately; their tone proving howhopeless could be any appeal against them, whether from him, from her, or from without. It was perfectly true: Lionel Verner's position placedhim beyond the reach of social ties. 

Little more was said. It was a topic which Lucy could not urge orgainsay; and Lionel did not see fit to continue it. He may have feltthat it was dangerous ground, even for the man of honour that he stroveto 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. Shelifted her face to glance at his. 

"Not a night passes but I pray God to forgive me, " he whispered, hisvoice trembling with emotion, as he pressed her hands between his, "toforgive the sorrow I have brought upon you. Oh, Lucy! forgive--forgiveme!"

"Yes, yes, " was all her answer, her sobs impeding her utterance, hertears blinding her. Lionel kept the hands strained to him; he lookeddown on the upturned face, and read its love there; he kept his ownbent, with its mingled expression of tenderness and pain; but he did nottake from it a single caress. What right had he? Verily, if he had notshown 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 aminute, 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, andburied her face and her anguish. Lionel buried _his_ face, his elbow onthe mantel-piece, his hand uplifted. He never looked at her again, orspoke; 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 ofsociety amidst the guests, how little did any one present suspect thescene which had taken place but a short while before! How many of thesmiling faces we meet in society cover aching hearts!

CHAPTER LXXXIX. 

MASTER CHEESE BLOWN UP. 

There were other houses in Deerham that night, not quite so full ofsociability as was Lady Verner's. For one, may be instanced that of theMisses West. They sat at the table in the general sitting-room, hard atwork, a lamp between them, for the gas-burners above were high forsewing, and their eyes were no longer so keen as they had been. MissDeborah was "turning" a table-cloth; Miss Amilly was darning sundryholes in a pillow-case. Their stock of household linen was in great needof being replaced by new; but, not having the requisite money to spare, they were doing their best to renovate the old. 

A slight--they could not help feeling it as such--had been put upon themthat day, in not having been invited to Decima Verner's wedding. Thesisters-in-law of Lionel Verner, connected closely with Jan, they hadexpected the invitation. But it had not come. Lionel had pressed hismother to give it; Jan, in his straightforward way, when he had found itwas not forthcoming, said, "Why don't you invite them! They'd do nobodyany harm. " Lady Verner, however had positively declined: the Wests hadnever been acquaintances of hers, she said. They felt the slight, poorladies, but they felt it quite humbly and meekly; not complaining; notventuring even to say to each other that they _might_ have been asked. They only sat a little more silent than usual over their work thatevening, doing more, and talking less. 

The servant came in with the supper-tray, and laid it on the table. "Isthe cold pork to come in?" asked she. "I have not brought it. I thought, perhaps, you'd not care to have it in to-night, ma'am, as Mr. Jan'sout. "

Miss Deborah cast her eyes on the tray. There was a handsome piece ofcheese, and a large glass of fresh celery. A rapid calculation passedthrough her mind that the cold pork, if not cut for supper, would make adinner the following day, with an apple or a jam pudding. 

"No, Martha, this will do for to-night, " she answered. "Call MasterCheese, and then draw the ale. "

"It's a wonder _he_ waits to be called, " was Martha's comment, as shewent out. "He is generally in afore the tray, whatever the meals may be, he is. "

She went out at the side door, and entered the surgery. Nobody was in itexcept the surgery-boy. The boy was asleep, with his head and arms onthe counter, and the gas flared away over him. A hissing and fizzingfrom Jan's room, similar to the sounds Lucy Tempest heard when sheinvaded the surgery the night of the ball at Deerham Hall, salutedMartha's ears. She went round the counter, tried the door, found itfastened, and shook the handle. 

"Who's there?" called out Master Cheese from the other side. 

"It's me, " said Martha "Supper's ready. "

"Very well. I'll be in directly, " responded Master Cheese. 

"I say!" called out Martha wrathfully, rattling the handle again, "ifyou are making a mess of that room, as you do sometimes, I won't haveit. I'll complain to Mr. Jan. There! Messing the floor and places withyour powder and stuff! It would take two servants to clear up afteryou. "

"You go to Bath, " was the satisfactory recommendation of Master Cheese. 

Martha called out another wrathful warning, and withdrew. Master Cheesecame forth, locked the door, took out the key, went indoors, and satdown to supper. 

Sat down in angry consternation. He threw his eager glances to everypoint of the table, and could not see upon it what he was longing tosee--what he had been expecting all the evening to see--for the terribleevent of its not being there had never so much as crossed hisimagination. The dinner had consisted of a loin of pork with thecrackling on, and apple sauce--a dish so beloved by Master Cheese, thathe never thought of it without a watering of the mouth. It had beennothing like half eaten at dinner, neither the pork nor the sauce. Janwas at the wedding-breakfast, and the Misses West, in Master Cheese'sestimation, ate like two sparrows: of course he had looked to be regaledwith it at supper. Miss West cut him a large piece of cheese, and MissAmilly handed him the glass of celery. 

Now Master Cheese had no great liking for that vulgar edible which borehis name, and which used to form the staple of so many good, old-fashioned suppers. To cheese, in the abstract, he could certainlyhave borne no forcible objection, since he was wont to steal into thelarder, between breakfast and dinner, and help himself--as Martha wouldgrumblingly complain--to "pounds" of it. The state of the case was justthis: the young gentleman liked cheese well enough when he could getnothing better. Cheese, however, as a substitute for cold loin of pork, with "crackling" and apple sauce, was hardly to be borne, and MasterCheese sat in dumbfounded dismay, heaving great sighs and casting hiseyes upon his plate. 

"I feel quite faint, " said he. 

"What makes you feel faint?" asked Miss Deb. 

"Well, I suppose it is for want of my supper, " he returned. "Is--isthere no meat to-night, Miss Deb?"

"Not any, " she answered decisively. She had the pleasure of knowingMaster Cheese well. 

Master Cheese paused. "There was nearly the whole joint left at dinner, "said he in a tone of remonstrance. 

"There was a good deal of it left, and that's the reason it's not comingin, " replied Miss Deb. "It will be sufficient for to-morrow's dinnerwith a pudding, I'm sure it will not hurt you to sup upon cheese forone night. "

With all his propensity for _bonne chère_, Master Cheese was really of amodest nature, and would not go the length of demanding luxuries, ifdenied them by Miss Deb. He was fain to content himself with the cheeseand celery, eating so much of it that it may be a question whether thewithholding of the cold pork had been a gain in point of economy. 

Laying down his knife at length, he put back his chair to return to thesurgery. Generally he was not in so much haste; he liked to wait untilthe things were removed, even to the cloth, lest by a speedy departurehe might miss some nice little dainty or other, coming in at the tail ofthe repast. It is true such impromptu arrivals were not common at MissWest's table, but Master Cheese liked to be on the sure side. 

"You are in a hurry, " remarked Miss Amilly, surprised at the unwontedwithdrawal. 

"Jan's out, " returned Master Cheese. "Folks may be coming in to thesurgery. "

"I wonder if Mr. Jan will be late to-night?" cried Miss Deb. 

"Of course he will, " confidently replied Master Cheese. "Who ever heardof a wedding-party breaking up before morning?"

For this reason, probably, Master Cheese returned to the surgery, prepared to "make a night of it"--not altogether in the generalacceptation of that term, but at his chemical experiments. It was mostrare that he could make sure of Jan's absence for any length of time. When abroad in pursuance of his professional duties, Jan might bereturning at any period; in five minutes or in five hours; there was noknowing; and Master Cheese dared not get his chemical apparatus about, in the uncertainty, Jan having so positively forbidden his recreationsin the science. For this night, however, he thought he was safe. MasterCheese's ideas of a wedding festival consisted of unlimited feasting. _He_ could not have left such a board, if bidden to one, until morninglight, and he judged others by himself. 

Jan's bedroom was strewed with vessels of various sorts and sizes fromone end of it to the other. In the old days, Dr. West had been aconsiderable dabbler in experimental chemistry himself. Jan alsounderstood something of it. Master Cheese did not see why he should not. A roaring fire burned in Jan's grate, and the young gentleman stoodbefore it for a few minutes, previous to resuming his researches, givinghis back a roast, and indulging bitter reminiscences touching hisdeficient supper. 

"She's getting downright mean, is that old Deb!" grumbled he;"especially if Jan happens to be out. Wasn't it different in West'stime! He knew what was good, he did. Catch her daring to put bread andcheese on the table for supper then. I shall be quite exhausted beforethe night's over. Bob!"

Bob, his head still on the counter, partially woke up at thecall--sufficiently so to return a half sound by way of response. 

"Bob!" roared Master Cheese again. "Can't you hear?"

Bob, his eyes blinking and winking, came in, in answer: that is, as faras he could get in, for the litter lying about. 

"Bring in the jar of tamarinds. "

"The jar of tamarinds!" repeated Bob. "In here?"

"Yes, in here, " said Master Cheese. "Now, you needn't stare. All youhave got to do is to obey orders. "

Bob disappeared, and presently returned, lugging in a big porcelain jar. He was ordered to "take out the bung, and leave it open. " He did so, setting it in a convenient place on the floor, near Master Cheese, andgiving his opinion gratuitously of the condition of the room. "Won'tthere be a row when Mr. Jan comes in and finds it like this!"

[Illustration: "Won't there be a row!"]

"The things will be put away long before he comes, " responded MasterCheese. "Mind your own business. And, look here! if anybody comesbothering, Mr. Jan's out, and Mr. Cheese is out, and they can't be seentill the morning--unless it's some desperate case, " added Master Cheese, somewhat qualifying the instructions--"a fellow dying, or anything ofthat. "

Bob withdrew, to fall asleep in the surgery as before, his head and armson the counter; and Master Cheese recommenced his studies. Solacinghimself first of all with a few mouthfuls of tamarinds, as he intendedto do at intervals throughout his labours, he plunged his hands into amass of incongruous substances--nitre, chlorate of potass, and sulphurbeing amongst them. 

The Misses West, meanwhile, had resumed their work after supper, andthey sewed until the clock struck ten. Then they put it away, and drewround the fire for a chat, their feet on the fender. A very short while, and they were surprised by the entrance of Jan. 

"My goodness!" exclaimed Miss Amilly. "It's never you yet, Mr. Jan!"

"Why shouldn't it be?" returned Jan, drawing forward a chair, andsitting down by them. "Did you fancy I was going to sleep there?"

"Master Cheese thought you would keep it up until morning. "

"Oh! did he? Is he gone to bed?"

"He is in the surgery, " replied Miss Amilly. "Mr. Jan, you have told usnothing yet about the wedding in the morning. "

"It went off, " answered Jan. 

"But the details? How did the ladies look?"

"They looked as usual, for all I saw, " replied Jan. 

"What did they wear?"

"Wear? Gowns, I suppose. "

"Oh, Mr. Jan! Surely you saw better than that! Can't you tell what sortof gowns?"

Jan really could not. It may be questioned whether he could have told apetticoat from a gown. Miss Amilly was waiting with breathless interest, her lips apart. 

"Some were in white, and some were in colours, I think, " hazarded Jan, trying to be correct in his good nature. "Decima was in a veil. "

"_Of course_ she was, " acquiesced Miss Amilly with emphasis. "Did thebridemaids--"

What pertinent question relating to the bridemaids Miss Amilly was aboutto put, never was known. A fearful sound interrupted it. A sound nearlyimpossible to describe. Was it a crash of thunder? Had an engine fromthe distant railway taken up its station outside their house, and goneoff with a bang? Or had the surgery blown up? The room they were inshook, the windows rattled, the Misses West screamed with real terror, and Jan started from his seat. 

"It can't be an explosion of gas!" he muttered. 

Bursting out of the room, he nearly knocked down Martha, who wasbursting into it. Instinct, or perhaps sound, took Jan to the surgery, and they all followed in his wake. Bob, the image of terrifiedconsternation, stood in the midst of a _débris_ of glass, his mouthopen, and his hair standing-upright. The glass bottles and jars of theestablishment had flown from their shelves, causing the unhappy Bob tobelieve that the world had come to an end. 

But what was the _débris_ there, compared to the _débris_ in the nextroom, Jan's! The window was out, the furniture was split, the variouschemical apparatus had been shivered into a hundred pieces, the tamarindjar was in two, and Master Cheese was extended on the floor on his back, his hands scorched, his eyebrows singed off, his face black, and the endof his nose burning. 

"Oh! that's it, is it?" said Jan, when his eyes took in the state ofthings. "I knew it would come to it. "

"He have been and blowed hisself up, " remarked Bob, who had stolen inafter them. 

"Is it the gas?" sobbed Miss Amilly, hardly able to speak for terror. 

"No, it's not the gas, " returned Jan, examining the _débris_ moreclosely. "It's one of that gentleman's chemical experiments. "

Deborah West was bending over the prostrate form in alarm. "He surelycan't be dead!" she shivered. 

"Not he, " said Jan. "Come, get up, " he added, taking Master Cheese bythe arm to assist him. 

He was placed in a chair, and there he sat, coming to, and emittingdismal groans. 

"I told you what you'd bring it to, if you persisted in attemptingexperiments that you know nothing about, " was Jan's reprimand, deliveredin a sharp tone. "A pretty state of things this is!"

Master Cheese groaned again. 

"Are you much hurt?" asked Miss Deb in a sympathising accent. 

"Oh-o-o-o-o-o-h!" moaned Master Cheese. 

"Is there anything we can get for you?" resumed Miss Deb. 

"Oh-o-o-o-o-o-h!" repeated Master Cheese. "A glass of wine might reviveme. "

"Get up, " said Jan, "and let's see if you can walk. He's not hurt, MissDeb. "

Master Cheese, yielding to the peremptory movement of Jan's arm, had noresource but to show them that he could walk. He had taken a step or twoas dolefully as it was possible for him to take it, keeping his eyesshut, and stretching out his hands before him, after the manner of theblind, when an interruption came from Miss Amilly. 

"What can this be, lying here?"

She was bending her head near the old bureau, which had been rent in theexplosion, her eyes fixed upon some large letter or paper on the floor. They crowded round at the words. Jan picked it up, and found it to be afolded parchment bearing a great seal. 

"Hollo!" exclaimed Jan. 

On the outside was written "Codicil to the will of Stephen Verner. "

"What is it?" exclaimed Miss Deborah, and even Master Cheese contrivedto get his eyes open to look. 

"It is the lost codicil, " replied Jan. "It must have been in thatbureau. How did it get there?"

How indeed? There ensued a pause. 

"It must have been placed there"--Jan was beginning, and then he stoppedhimself. He would not, before those ladies, say--"by Dr. West. "

But to Jan it was now perfectly clear. That old hunting for the"prescription, " which had puzzled him at the time, was explained now. _There_ was the "prescription"--the codicil! Dr. West had had it in hishand when disturbed in that room by a stranger: he had flung it back inthe bureau in his hurry; pushed it back: and by some unexplainablemeans, he must have pushed it too far out of sight. And there it hadlain until now, intact and undiscovered. 

The hearts of the Misses West were turning to sickness, theircountenances to pallor. That it could be no other than their father whohad stolen the codicil from Stephen Verner's dying chamber, was presentto their conviction. His motive could only have been to prevent Verner'sPride passing to Lionel, over his daughter and her husband. What did hethink of his work when the news came of Frederick's death? What did hethink of it when John Massingbird returned in person? What did he thinkof it when he read Sibylla's dying message, written to him byAmilly--"Tell papa it is the leaving Verner's Pride that has killed me?"

"I shall take possession of this, " said Jan Verner. Master Cheese wasconveyed to the house and consigned to bed, where his burnings weredressed by Jan, and restoratives administered to him, including theglass of wine. 

The first thing on the following morning the codicil was handed over toMr. Matiss. He immediately recognised it by its appearance. But it wouldbe opened officially later, in the presence of John Massingbird. Janbetook himself to Verner's Pride to carry the news, and found Mr. Massingbird astride on a pillar of the terrace steps, smoking away withgusto. The day was warm and sunshiny as the previous one had been. 

"What, is it you?" cried he, when Jan came in sight. "You are up herebetimes. Anybody dying, this way?"

"Not this morning, " replied Jan. "I say, Massingbird, there's ill newsin the wind for you. "

"What's that?" composedly asked John, tilting some ashes out of hispipe. 

"That codicil has come to light. "

John puffed on vigorously, staring at Jan, but never speaking. 

"The thief must have been old West, " went on Jan. "Only think! it hasbeen hidden all this while in that bureau of his, in my bedroom. "

"What has unhidden it?" demanded Mr. Massingbird in a half-satiricaltone, as if he doubted the truth of the information. 

"An explosion did that. Cheese got meddling with dangerous substances, and there was a blow-up. The bureau was thrown down and broken, and thecodicil was dislodged. To talk of it, it sounds like an old stagetrick. "

"Did Cheese blow himself up?" asked John Massingbird. 

"Yes. But he came down again. He is in bed with burned hands and ascorched face. If I had told him once to let that dangerous playalone--dangerous in his hands--I had told him ten times. "

"Where's the codicil?" inquired Mr. Massingbird, smoking away. 

"In Matiss's charge. You'd like to be present, I suppose, at the time ofits being opened?"

"I can take your word, " returned John Massingbird. "This does notsurprise me. I have always had an impression that the codicil would turnup. "

"It is more than I have had, " dissented Jan. 

As if by common consent, they spoke no further on the subject of theabstraction and its guilty instrument. It was a pleasant theme toneither. John Massingbird, little refinement of feeling that hepossessed, could not forget that Dr. West was his mother's brother; orJan, that he was his late master, his present partner--that he wasconnected with him in the eyes of Deerham. Before they had spoken muchlonger, they were joined by Lionel. 

"I shall give you no trouble, old fellow, " was John Massingbird'ssalutation. "You gave me none. "

"Thank you, " answered Lionel. Though what precise trouble it lay in JohnMassingbird's power to give him, he did not see, considering that thingswere now so plain. 

"You'll accord me house-room for a bit longer, though, won't you?"

"I will accord it you as long as you like, " replied Lionel, in thewarmth of his heart. 

"You know I would have had you stop on here all along, " remarked Mr. Massingbird; "but the bar to it was Sibylla. I am not sorry the thing'sfound. I am growing tired of my life here. It has come into my mind attimes lately to think whether I should not give up to you, Lionel, andbe off over the seas again. It's tame work, this, to one who has roughedit at the diggings. "

"You'd not have done it, " observed Jan, alluding to the giving up. 

"Perhaps not, " said John Massingbird; "but I have owed a debt to Lionelfor a long while. I say, old chap, didn't you think I clapped on a goodsum for your trouble when I offered you the management of Verner'sPride?"

"I did, " answered Lionel. 

"Ay! I was in your debt; am in it still. Careless as I am, I thought ofit now and then. "

"I do not understand you, " said Lionel. "In what way are you in mydebt?"

"Let it go for now, " returned John. "I may tell you some time, perhaps. When shall you take up your abode here?"

Lionel smiled. "I will not invade you without warning. You and I willtake counsel together, John, and discuss plans and expediencies. "

"I suppose you'll be for setting about your improvements now?"

"Yes, " answered Lionel, his tone changing to one of deep seriousness, not to say reverence. "Without loss of time. "

"I told you they could wait until you came into the estate. It has notbeen long first, you see. "

"No; but I never looked for it, " said Lionel. 

"Ah! Things turn up that we don't look for, " concluded John Massingbird, smoking on as serenely as though he had come into an estate, instead ofhaving lost one. "There'll be bonfires all over the place to-night, Lionel--left-handed compliment to me. Here comes Luke Roy. I told him tobe here this morning. What nuts this will be for old Roy to crack! Hehas been fit to stick me, ever since I refused him the management ofVerner's Pride. "

CHAPTER XC. 

LIGHT THROWN ON OBSCURITY. 

And so, the trouble and the uncertainty, the ups and the downs, theturnings out and changes were at an end, and Lionel Verner was atrest--at rest so far as rest can be, in this lower world. He wasreinstalled at Verner's Pride, its undisputed master; never again to besent forth from it during life. 

He had not done as John Massingbird did--gone right in, the first day, and taken up his place, _sans cérémonie_, without word and withoutapology, at the table's head, leaving John to take his at the side orthe foot, or where he could. Quite the contrary. Lionel's refinement ofmind, his almost sensitive consideration for the feelings of others, clung to him now, as it always had done, as it always would do, and hewas chary of disturbing John Massingbird too early in his sway of theinternal economy of Verner's Pride. It had to be done, however; and JohnMassingbird remained on with him, his guest. 

All that had passed; and the spring of the year was growing late. Thecodicil had been proved; the neighbourhood had tendered theircongratulations to the new master, come into his own at last; theimprovements, in which Lionel's conscience held so deep a score, werebegun and in good progress; and John Massingbird's return to Australiawas decided upon, and the day of his departure fixed. People surmisedthat Lionel would be glad to get rid of him, if only for the sake of hisdrawing-rooms. John Massingbird still lounged at full length on theamber satin couches, in dropping-off slippers or in dirty boots, as thecase might be, still filled them with clouds of tobacco-smoke, so thatyou could not see across them. Mrs. Tynn declared, to as many people asshe dared, that she prayed every night on her bended knees for Mr. Massingbird's departure, before the furniture should be quite ruined, orthey burned in their beds. 

Mr. Massingbird was not going alone. Luke Roy was returning with him. Luke's intention always had been to return to Australia; he had but comehome for a short visit to the old place and to see his mother. Luke hadbeen doing well at the gold-fields. He did not dig; but he sold liquorto those who did dig; at which he was making money rapidly. He had a"chum, " he said, who managed the store while he was away. So glowing washis account of his prospects, that old Roy had decided upon going also, and trying his fortune there. Mrs. Roy looked aghast at the projectedplans; she was too old for it, she urged. But she could not turn herhusband. He had never studied her wishes too much, and he was not likelyto begin to do so now. So Mrs. Roy, with incessantly-dropping tears, andcontinued prognostications that the sea-sickness would kill her, wasforced to make her preparations for the voyage. Perhaps one motive, morethan all else, influenced Roy's decision--the getting out of Deerham. Since his hopes of having something to do with the Verner's Prideestate--as he had in Stephen Verner's time--had been at an end, Roy hadgone about in a perpetual state of inward mortification. This emigrationwould put an end to it; and what with the anticipation of making afortune at the diggings, and what with his satisfaction at saying adieuto Deerham, and what with the thwarting of his wife, Roy was in a stateof complacency. 

The time went on to the evening previous to the departure. Lionel andJohn Massingbird had dined alone, and now sat together at the openwindow, in the soft May twilight. A small table was at John's elbow; abottle of rum, and a jar of tobacco, water and a glass being on it, ready to his hand. He had done his best to infect Lionel with a tastefor rum-and-water--as a convenient beverage to be taken at any hour fromseven o'clock in the morning onwards--but Lionel had been proof againstit. John had the rum-drinking to himself, as he had the smoking. Lionelhad behaved to him liberally. It was not in Lionel Verner's nature tobehave otherwise, no matter to whom. From the moment the codicil wasfound, John Massingbird had no further right to a single sixpence of therevenues of the estate. He was in the position of one who has nothing. It was Lionel who had found means for all--for his expenses, his voyage;for a purse when he should get to Australia. John Massingbird wasthinking of this as he sat now, smoking and taking draughts of therum-and-water. 

"If ever I turn to work with a will and become a hundred-thousand-poundman, old fellow, " he suddenly broke out, "I'll pay you back. This, andalso what I got rid of while the estate was in my hands. "

Lionel, who had been looking from the window in a reverie, turnedround and laughed. To imagine John Massingbird becoming ahundred-thousand-pound man through his own industry, was a stretch offancy marvellously comprehensive. 

"I have to make a clean breast of it to-night, " resumed JohnMassingbird, after puffing away for some minutes in silence. "Do youremember my saying to you, the day we heard news of the codicil's beingfound, that I was in your debt?"

"I remember your saying it, " replied Lionel. "I did not understand whatyou meant. You were not in my debt. "

"Yes, I was. I had a score to pay off as big as the moon. It's as bigstill; for it's one that never can be paid off; never will be. "

Lionel looked at him in surprise; his manner was so unusually serious. 

"Fifty times, since I came back from Australia, have I been on the pointof clearing myself of the secret. But, you see, there was Verner's Pridein the way. You would naturally have said upon hearing it, 'Give theplace up to me; you can have no moral right to it. ' And I was notprepared to give it up; it seemed too comfortable a nest, just at first, after the knocking about over yonder. Don't you perceive?"

"I don't perceive, and I don't understand, " replied Lionel. "You arespeaking in an unknown language. "

"I'll speak in a known one, then. It was through me that old Ste Vernerleft Verner's Pride away from you. "

"What!" uttered Lionel. 

"True, " nodded John, with composure. "I told him a--a bit of scandal ofyou. And the strait-laced old simpleton took and altered his will on thestrength of it. I did not know of that until afterwards. "

"And the scandal?" asked Lionel quietly. "What may it have been?"

"False scandal, " carelessly answered John Massingbird. "But I thought itwas true when I spoke it. I told your uncle that it was you who hadplayed false with Rachel Frost. "

"Massingbird!"

"Don't fancy I went to him open-mouthed, and said, 'Lionel Verner's theman. ' A fellow who could do such a sneaking trick would be only fit forhanging. The avowal to him was surprised from me in an unguarded moment;it slipped out in self-defence. I'd better tell you the tale. "

"I think you had, " said Lionel. 

"You remember the bother there was, the commotion, the night Rachel wasdrowned. I came home and found Mr. Verner sitting at the inquiry. Itnever struck me, then, to suspect that it could be any one of us threewho had been in the quarrel with Rachel. I knew that I had had no fingerin the pie; I had no cause to think that you had; and, as to Fred, I'das soon have suspected staid old Verner himself; besides, I believedFred to have eyes only for Sibylla West. Not but that the affairappeared to me unaccountably strange; for, beyond Verner's Pride, I didnot think Rachel possessed an acquaintance. "

He stopped to take a few whiffs at his pipe, and then resumed, Lionellistening in silence. 

"On the following morning by daylight I went down to the pond, the sceneof the previous night. A few stragglers were already there. As we werelooking about and talking, I saw on the very brink of the pond, partially hidden in the grass--in fact trodden into it, as it seemed tome--a glove. I picked it up, and was on the point of calling out that Ihad found a glove, when it struck me that the glove was yours. Theothers had seen me stoop, and one of them asked if I had found anything. I said 'No. ' I had crushed the glove in my hand, and presently Itransferred it to my pocket. "

"Your motive being good-nature to me?" interrupted Lionel. 

"To be sure it was. To have shown that as Lionel Verner's glove, wouldhave fixed the affair on your shoulders at once. Why should I tell? Ihad been in scrapes myself. And I kept it, saying nothing to anybody. Iexamined the glove privately, saw it was really yours, and, of course, Idrew my own conclusions--that it was you who had been in the quarrel, though what cause of dispute you could have with Rachel, I was at a lossto divine. Next came the inquest, and the medical men's revelation atit: and that cleared up the mystery, 'Ho, ho, ' I said to myself, 'soMaster Lionel can do a bit of courting on his own account, steady as heseems. ' I----"

"Did you assume I threw her into the pond?" again interposed Lionel. 

"Not a bit of it. What next, Lionel? The ignoring of some of theCommandments comes natural enough to the conscience; but the sixth--onedoes not ignore that. I believed that you and Rachel might have come tologgerheads, and that she, in a passion, flung herself in. I held theglove still in my pocket; it seemed to be the safest place for it; and Iintended, before I left, to hand it over to you, and to give you my wordI'd keep counsel. On the night of the inquest, you were closeted in thestudy with Mr. Verner. I chafed at it, for I wished to be closeted withhim myself. Unless I could get off from Verner's Pride the next day, there would be no chance of my sailing in the projected ship--where ourpassages had been already secured by Luke Roy. By and by you came intothe dining-room--do you remember it?--and told me Mr. Verner wanted mein the study. It was just what _I_ wanted; and I went in. I shan'tforget my surprise to the last hour of my life. His greeting was anaccusation of me--of _me!_ that it was I who had played false withRachel. He had proof, he said. One of the house-girls had seen one of usthree young men coming from the scene that night--and he, StephenVerner, knew it could only be me. Fred was too cautious, he said; Lionelhe could depend upon; and he bitterly declared that he would not give mea penny piece of the promised money, to take me on my way. A prettystate of things, was it not, Lionel, to have one's projects put an endto in that manner? In my dismay and anger, I blurted out the truth; thatone of us might have been seen coming from the scene, but it was notmyself; it was Lionel; and I took the glove out of my pocket and showedit to him. "

John Massingbird paused to take a draught of the rum-and-water, and thenresumed. 

"I never saw any man so agitated as Mr. Verner. Upon my word, had Iforeseen the effect the news would have had upon him, I hardly think Ishould have told it. His face turned ghastly; he lay back in his chair, uttering groans of despair; in short, it had completely prostrated him. I never knew how deeply he was attached to you, Lionel, until thatnight. "

"He believed the story?" said Lionel. 

"Of course he believed it, " assented John Massingbird. "I told it him asa certainty, as a thing about which there was no admission for theslightest doubt: I assumed it, myself, to be a certainty. When he was alittle recovered, he took possession of the glove, and bound me tosecrecy. You would never have forgotten it, Lionel, had you seen hisshaking hands, his imploring eyes, heard his voice of despair; alllifted to beseech secrecy for you--for the sake of his dead brother--forthe name of Verner--for his own sake. I heartily promised it; and hehanded me over a more liberal sum than even I had expected, enjoined meto depart with the morrow's dawn, and bade me Godspeed. I believe he wasglad that I was going, lest I might drop some chance word during thepresent excitement of Deerham, and by that means direct suspicion toyou. He need not have feared. I was already abusing myself mentally forhaving told _him_, although it had gained me my ends: 'Live and letlive' had been my motto hitherto. The interview was nearly over when youcame to interrupt it, asking if Mr. Verner would see Robin Frost. Mr. Verner answered that he might come in. He came; you and Fred with him. Do you recollect old Verner's excitement?--his vehement words in answerto Robin's request that a reward should be posted up? 'He'll never befound, Robin; the villain will never be found, so long as you and I andthe world shall last. ' I recollect them, you see, word for word, to thishour; but none, save myself, knew what caused Mr. Verner's excitement, or that the word 'villain' was applied to you. Upon my word and honour, old boy, I felt as if I had the deeper right to it! and I felt angrywith old Verner for looking at the affair in so strong a light. Butthere was no help for it. I went away the next morning----"

"Stay!" interrupted Lionel. "A single word to me would have set themisapprehension straight. Why did you not speak it?"

"I wish I had, now. But--it wasn't done. There! The knowledge that turnsup in the future we can't call to aid in the present. If I had had adoubt that it was you, I should have spoken. We were some days out atsea on our voyage to Australia when I and Luke got comparing notes; andI found, to my everlasting astonishment, that it was not you, after all, who had been with Rachel, but Fred. "

"You should have written home, to do me justice with Mr. Verner. Youought not to have delayed one instant, when the knowledge came to you. "

"And how was I to send the letter? Chuck it into the sea in the ship'swake, and give it orders to swim back to port?"

"You might have posted it at the first place you touched at. "

"Look here, Lionel. I never regarded it in that grave light. How was Ito suppose that old Verner would disinherit you for that trumperyescapade? I never knew why he had disinherited you, until I came homeand heard from yourself the story of the inclosed glove, which he leftyou as a legacy. It's since then that I have been wanting to make aclean breast of it. I say, only fancy Fred's deepness! We should neverhave thought it of him. The quarrel between him and Rachel that nightappeared to arise from the fact of her having seen him with Sibylla;having overheard that there was more between them than was pleasant to_her_: at least, so far as Luke could gather it. Lionel, what shouldhave brought your glove lying by the pond?"

"I am unable to say. I had not been there, to drop it. The most feasiblesolution that I can come to is that Rachel may have had it about her forthe purpose of mending, and let it drop herself, when she jumped in. "

"Ay. That's the most likely. There was a hole in it, I remember; and itwas Rachel who attended to such things in the household. It must havebeen so. "

Lionel fell into a reverie. How--but for this mistake of JohnMassingbird's, this revelation to his uncle--the whole course of hislife's events might have been changed! Verner's Pride bequeathed to him, never bequeathed at all to the Massingbirds, it was scarcely likelythat Sibylla, in returning home, would have driven to Verner's Pride. Had she _not_ driven to it that night, he might never have been sosurprised by his old feelings as to have proposed to her. He might havemarried Lucy Tempest; have lived, sheltered with her in Verner's Pridefrom the storms of life; he might----

"Will you forgive me, old chap?"

It was John Massingbird who spoke, interrupting his day dreams. Lionelshook them off, and took the offered hand stretched out. 

"Yes, " he heartily said. "You did not do me the injury intentionally. Itwas the result of a mistake, brought about by circumstances. "

"No, that I did not, by Jove!" answered John Massingbird. "I don't thinkI ever did a fellow an intentional injury in my life. You would havebeen the last I should single out for it. I have had many ups and downs, Lionel, but somehow I have hitherto always managed to alight on my legs;and I believe it's because I let other folks get along--tit for tat, yousee. A fellow who is for ever putting his hindering spoke in the wheelof others, is safe to get hindering spokes put into his. I am not apattern model, " comically added John Massingbird; "but I have never donewilful injury to others, and my worst enemy (if I possess one) can'tcharge it upon me. "

True enough. With all Mr. John Massingbird's failings, his heart was nota bad one. In the old days his escapades had been numerous; his brotherFrederick's, none (so far as the world knew); but the one was liked athousand times better than the other. 

"We part friends, old fellow!" he said to Lionel the following morning, when all was ready, and the final moment of departure had come. 

"To be sure we do, " answered Lionel. "Should England ever see you again, you will not forget Verner's Pride. "

"I don't think it will ever see me again. Thanks, old chap, all thesame. If I should be done up some unlucky day for the want of atwenty-pound note, you won't refuse to let me have it, for old times'sake?"

"Very well, " laughed Lionel. 

And so they parted. And Verner's Pride was quit of Mr. John Massingbird, and Deerham of its long-looked-upon _bête noir_, old Grip Roy. Luke hadgone forward to make arrangements for the sailing, as he had done oncebefore; and Mrs. Roy took her seat with her husband in a third-classcarriage, crying enough tears to float the train. 

CHAPTER XCI. 

MEDICAL ATTENDANCE GRATIS, INCLUDING PHYSIC. 

As a matter of course, the discovery of the codicil, and the gravecharge it served to establish against Dr. West, could not be hid under abushel. Deerham was remarkably free in its comments, and was pleased torake up various unpleasant reports, which, from time to time, in theformer days had arisen, touching that gentleman. Deerham might say whatit liked, and nobody be much the worse; but a more serious questionarose with Jan. Easy as Jan was, little given to think ill, even hecould not look over this. Jan, if he would maintain his respectabilityas a medical man and a gentleman, if he would retain his higher class ofpatients, he must give up his association with Dr. West. 

The finding of the codicil had been communicated to Dr. West by Matiss, the lawyer, who officially demanded at the same time an explanation ofits having been placed where it was found. The doctor replied to thecommunication, but conveniently ignored the question. He was "charmed"to hear that the long-missing deed was found, which restored Verner'sPride to the rightful owner, Lionel Verner; but he appeared not to haveread, or else not to have understood the very broad hint implicatinghimself, for not a word was returned to that part, in answer. Thesilence was not less a conclusive proof than the admission of guiltwould have been; and it was so regarded by those concerned. 

Jan was the next to write. A characteristic letter. He said not a wordof reproach to the doctor; he appeared, indeed, to ignore the facts ascompletely as the doctor himself had done in answer to Matiss; he simplysaid that he would prefer to "get along" now alone. The practice hadmuch increased, and there was room for them both. He would remove toanother residence--a lodging would do, he said--and run his chance ofpatients coming to him. It was not his intention to take one from Dr. West by solicitation. The doctor could either come back and resumepractice in person, or take a partner in place of him, Jan. 

To this a bland answer was received. Dr. West was agreeable to thedissolution of partnership; but he had no intention of resuming practicein Deerham. He and his noble charge (who was decidedly benefiting by hiscare, skill, and companionship, he elaborately wrote), were upon thebest of terms; his engagement with him was likely to be a long one (forthe poor youth would require a personal guide up to his fortieth year, nay, to his eightieth, if he lived so long); and therefore (not to befettered) he, Dr. West, was anxious to sever his ties with Deerham. Heshould never return to it. If Mr. Jan would undertake to pay him atrifling sum, say five hundred pounds, or so he could have the entirebusiness; and the purchase-money, if more convenient, might be paid byinstalments. Mr. Jan, of course, would become sole proprietor of thehouse (the rent of which had hitherto been paid out of the jointconcern), but perhaps he would not object to allow those "two poor oldthings, Deborah and Amilly, a corner in it. " _He_ should, of course, undertake to provide for them, remitting them a liberal annual sum. 

In writing this--fair, nay liberal, as the offered terms appeared to thesight of single-hearted Jan--Dr. West had probably possessed as great aneye as ever to his own interest. He had a shrewd suspicion that, thehouse divided, his, Dr. West's, would stand but a poor chance againstJan Verner's. That Jan would be entirely true and honourable in notsoliciting the old patients to come to him, he knew; but he equally knewthat the patients would flock to Jan unsolicited. Dr. West had not livedin ignorance of what was going on in Deerham; he had one or two privatecorrespondents there; besides the open ones, his daughters and Jan; andhe had learned how popular Jan had grown with all classes. Yes, it wasdecidedly politic on Dr. West's part to offer Jan terms of purchase. AndJan closed with them. 

"I couldn't have done it six months ago, you know, Lionel, " he said tohis brother. "But now that you have come in again to Verner's Pride, youwon't care to have my earnings any longer. "

"What I shall care for now, Jan, will be to repay you so far as I can. The money can be repaid: the kindness never. "

"Law!" cried Jan, "that's nothing. Wouldn't you have done as much forme? To go back to old West: I shall be able to complete the purchase inlittle more than a year, taking it out of the profits. The expenses willbe something considerable. There'll be the house, and the horses, for Imust have two, and I shall take a qualified assistant as soon as Cheeseleaves, which will be in autumn; but there'll be a margin of six orseven hundred a year profit left me then. And the business isincreasing. Yes, I shall be able to pay him out in a year, orthereabouts. In offering me these easy terms, I think he is behavingliberally. Don't you, Lionel?"

"That may be a matter of opinion, Jan, " was Lionel's answer. "He hasstood to me in the relation of father-in-law, and I don't care toexpress mine too definitely. He is wise enough to know that when youleave him, his chance of practice is gone. But I don't advise you tocavil with the terms. I should say, accept them. "

"I have done it, " answered Jan. "I wrote this morning. I must get a newbrass plate for the door. 'Jan Verner, Surgeon, etc. , ' in place of thepresent one, 'West and Verner. '"

"I think I should put Janus Verner, instead of Jan, " suggested Lionel, with a half smile. 

"Law!" repeated Jan. "Nobody would know it was meant for me if I putJanus. Shall I have 'Mr. ' tacked on to it, Lionel?--'Mr. Jan Verner. '"

"Of course you will, " answered Lionel. "What is going to be done aboutDeborah and Amilly West?"

"In what way?"

"As to their residence. "

"You saw what Dr. West says in his letter. They can stop. "

"It is not a desirable arrangement, Jan, their remaining in the house. "

"They won't hurt me, " responded Jan. "They are welcome. "

"I think, Jan, your connection with the West family should be entirelyclosed. The opportunity offers now: and, if not embraced, you don't knowwhen another may arise. Suppose, a short while hence, you were to marry?It might be painful to your feelings, then, to have to say to Deborahand Amilly--'You must leave my house: there's no further place for youin it. ' Now, in this dissolution of partnership, the change can takeplace as in the natural course of events. "

Jan had opened his great eyes wonderingly at the words. "I marry!"uttered he. "What should bring me marrying?"

"You may be marrying some time, Jan. "

"Not I, " answered Jan. "Nobody would have me. They can stop on in thehouse, Lionel. What does it matter? I don't see how I and Cheese shouldget on without them. Who'd make the pies? Cheese would die of chagrin, if he didn't get one every day. "

"I see a great deal of inconvenience in the way, " persisted Lionel. "Thehouse will be yours then. Upon what terms would they remain? Asvisitors, as lodgers--as what?"

Jan opened his eyes wider. "Visitors! lodgers!" cried he. "I don't knowwhat you mean, Lionel. They'd stop on as they always have done--asthough the house were theirs. They'd be welcome, for me. "

"You must do as you like, Jan; but I do not think the arrangement adesirable one. It would be establishing a claim which Dr. West may bepresuming upon later. With his daughters in the house, as of right, hemay be for coming back some time and taking up his abode in it. It wouldbe better for you and the Misses West to separate; to have yourestablishments apart. "

"I shall never turn them out, " said Jan. "They'd break their hearts. Look at the buttons, too! Who'd sew them on? Cheese bursts off two aday, good. "

"As you please, Jan. My motive in speaking was not ill-nature towardsthe Misses West; but regard for you. As the sisters of my late wife, Ishall take care that they do not want--should their resources from Dr. West fail. He speaks of allowing them a liberal sum annually; but I fearthey must not make sure that the promise will be carried out. Should itnot be, they will have no one to look to, I expect, but myself. "

"They won't want much, " said Jan; "just a trifle for their bonnets andshoes, and suchlike. I shall pay the house-bills, you know. In fact, I'das soon give them enough for their clothes, as not. I dare say I shouldhave it, even the first year, after paying expenses and old West's fivehundred. "

It was hopeless to contend with Jan upon the subject of money, especially when it was _his_ money. Lionel said no more. But he had notthe slightest doubt it would end in Jan's house being saddled with theMisses West; and that help for them from Dr. West would never come. 

Miss West herself was thinking the same--that help from her father neverwould come. 

This conversation between Jan and Lionel had taken place at Verner'sPride, in the afternoon subsequent to the arrival of Dr. West's letter. Deborah West had also received one from her father. She learned by itthat he was about to retire from the partnership, and that Mr. JanVerner would carry on the practice alone. The doctor intimated that sheand Amilly would continue to live on in the house with Mr. Jan'spermission, whom he had asked to afford them house-room; and he moreloudly promised to transmit them one hundred pounds per annum, in statedpayments, as might be convenient to him. 

The letter was read three times over by both sisters. Amilly did notlike it, but upon Deborah it made a painfully deep impression. Poorladies! Since the discovery of the codicil they had gone about Deerhamwith veils over their faces and their heads down, inclined to think thatlots in this world were dealt out all too unequally. 

At the very time that Jan was at Verner's Pride that afternoon, Deborahsat alone in the dining-room, pondering over the future. Since thefinding of the codicil, neither of the sisters had cared to seatthemselves in state in the drawing-room, ready to receive visitors, should they call. They had no heart for it. They chose, rather, to sitin plain attire, and hide themselves in the humblest and most retiredapartment. They took no pride now in anointing their scanty curls withcastor oil, in contriving for their dress, in setting off their persons. Vanity seemed to have gone out for Deborah and Amilly West. 

Deborah sat there in the dining-room, her hair looking grievously thin, her morning dress of black print with white spots upon it not changedfor the old turned black silk of the afternoon. Her elbow rested on thefaded and not very clean table-cover, and her fingers were runningunconsciously through that scanty hair. The prospect before her looked, to her mind, as hopelessly forlorn as she looked. 

But it was necessary that she should gaze at the future steadily;should not turn aside from it in carelessness or in apathy; should faceit, and make the best of it. If Jan Verner and her father were about todissolve partnership, and the practice henceforth was to be Jan's, whatwas to become of her and Amilly? Taught by past experience, _she_ knewhow much dependence was to be placed upon her father's promise to pay tothem an income. Very little reliance indeed could be placed on Dr. Westin any way; this very letter in her hand and the tidings it contained, might be true, or might be--pretty little cullings from Dr. West'simagination. The proposed dissolution of partnership she believed in:she had expected Jan to take the step ever since that night whichrestored the codicil. 

"I had better ask Mr. Jan about it, " she murmured. "It is of no use toremain in this uncertainty. "

Rising from her seat, she proceeded to the side-door, opened it, andglanced cautiously out through the rain, not caring to be seen bystrangers in her present attire. There was nobody about, and she crossedthe little path and entered the surgery. Master Cheese, with somewhat ofa scorchy look in the eyebrows, but full of strength and appetite asever, turned round at her entrance. 

"Is Mr. Jan in?" she asked. 

"No, he is not, " responded Master Cheese, speaking indistinctly, for hehad just filled his mouth with Spanish liquorice. "Did you want him, Miss Deb?"

"I wanted to speak to him, " she replied. "Will he be long?"

"He didn't announce the hour of his return, " replied Master Cheese. "Iwish he _would_ come back! If a message came for one of us, I don't careto go out in this rain: Jan doesn't mind it. It's sure to be my luck!The other day, when it was pouring cats and dogs, a summons came fromLady Hautley's. Jan was out, and I had to go, and got dripping wet. After all, it was only my lady's maid, with a rubbishing whitlow on herfinger. "

"Be so kind as tell Mr. Jan, when he does come in, that I should be gladto speak a word to him, if he can find time to step into the parlour. "

Miss Deb turned back as she spoke, ran across through the rain, and satdown in the parlour, as before. She knew that she ought to go up anddress, but she had not spirits for it. 

She sat there until Jan entered. Full an hour, it must have been, andshe had turned over all points in her mind, what could and what couldnot be done. It did not appear much that could be. Jan came in, ratherwet. On his road from Verner's Pride he had overtaken one of his poorpatients, who was in delicate health, and had lent the woman his hugecotton umbrella, hastening on, himself, without one. 

"Cheese says you wish to see me, Miss Deb. "

Miss Deb turned round from her listless attitude, and asked Mr. Jan totake a chair. Mr. Jan responded by partially sitting down on the arm ofone. 

"What is it?" asked he, rather wondering. 

"I have had a letter from Prussia this morning, Mr. Jan, from my father. He says you and he are about to dissolve partnership; that the practicewill be carried on by you alone, on your own account; and that--but youhad better read it, " she broke off, taking the letter from her pocket, and handing it to Jan. 

He ran his eyes over it. Dr. West's was not a plain handwriting, but Janwas accustomed to it. The letter was soon read. 

"It's true, Miss Deb. The doctor thinks he shall not be returning toDeerham, and so I am going to take to the whole of the practice, "continued Jan, who possessed too much innate good feeling to hint toMiss Deb of any other cause. 

"Yes. But--it will place me and Amilly in a very embarrassing position, Mr. Jan, " added the poor lady, her thin cheeks flushing painfully. "I--we shall have no right to remain in this house then. "

"You are welcome to remain, " said Jan. 

Miss Deb shook her head. She felt, as she said, that they should have no"right. "

"I'd rather you did, " pursued Jan, in his good-nature. "What do I andCheese want with all this big house to ourselves? Besides, if you andAmilly go, who'd see to our shirts and the puddings?"

"When papa went away at first, was there not some arrangement made bywhich the furniture became yours?"

"No, " stoutly answered Jan. "I paid something to him to give me, as hecalled it, a half-share in it with himself. It was a stupid sort ofarrangement, and one that I should never care to act upon, Miss Deb. Thefurniture is yours; not mine. "

"Mr. Jan, you would give up your right in everything, I believe. Youwill never get rich. "

"I shall get as rich as I want to, I dare say, " was Jan's answer. "Things can go on just the same as usual, you know, Miss Deb, and I canpay the housekeeping bills. Your stopping here will be a saving, "good-naturedly added Jan. "With nobody in the house to manage, exceptservants, only think the waste there'd be! Cheese would be for gettingtwo dinners a day served, fish, and fowls, and tarts at each. "

The tears were struggling in Deborah West's eyes. She did her best torepress them: but it could not be, and she gave way with a burst. 

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Jan, " she said. "Sometimes I feel as if therewas no longer any place in the world for me and Amilly. You may be sureI would not mention it, but that you know it as well as I do--that thereis, I fear, no dependence to be placed on this promise of papa's, toallow us an income. I have been thinking----"

"Don't let that trouble you, Miss Deb, " interrupted Jan, tilting himselfbackwards over the arm of the chair in a very ungraceful fashion, andleaving his legs dangling. "Others will, if he wo--if he can't. Lionelhas just been saying that as Sibylla's sisters, he shall see that youdon't want. "

"You and he are very kind, " she answered, the tears dropping faster thanshe could wipe them away. "But it seems to me the time is come when weought to try and do something for ourselves. I have been thinking, Mr. Jan, that we might get a few pupils, I and Amilly. There's not a singlegood school in Deerham, as you know; I think we might establish one. "

"So you might, " said Jan, "if you'd like it. "

"We should both like it. And perhaps you'd not mind our staying on inthis house while we were getting a few together; establishing it, as itwere. They would not put you out, I hope, Mr. Jan. "

"Not they, " answered Jan. "I shouldn't eat them. Look here, Miss Deb, I'd doctor them for nothing. Couldn't you put that in the prospectus? Itmight prove an attraction. "

It was a novel feature in a school prospectus, and Miss Deb had to takesome minutes to consider it. She came to the conclusion that it wouldlook remarkably well in print. "Medical attendance gratis. "

"Including physic, " put in Jan. 

"Medical attendance gratis, including physic, " repeated Miss Deb. "Mr. Jan, it would be sure to take with the parents. I am so much obliged toyou. But I hope, " she added, moderating her tone of satisfaction, "thatthey'd not think it meant Master Cheese. People would not have muchfaith in him, I fear. "

"Tell them to the contrary, " answered Jan. "And Cheese will be leavingshortly, you know. "

"True, " said Miss Deb. "Mr. Jan, " she added, a strange eagerness in hertone, in her meek, blue eyes, "if we, I and Amilly, can only get intothe way of doing something for ourselves, by which we may be a littleindependent, and look forward to be kept out of the workhouse in our oldage, we shall feel as if removed from a dreadful nightmare. Circumstances have been preying upon us, Mr. Jan: the care is making usbegin to look old before we might have looked it. "

Jan answered with a laugh. That notion of the workhouse was so good, hesaid. As well set on and think that he should come to the penitentiary!It had been no laughing matter, though, to the hearts of the twosisters, and Miss Deb sat on, crying silently. 

How many of these silent tears must be shed in the path through life! Itwould appear that the lot of some is only made to shed them, and tobear. 

CHAPTER XCII. 

AT LAST!

Meanwhile the spring was going on to summer--and in the strict order ofprecedence that conversation of Miss Deb's with Jan ought to have beenrelated before the departure of John Massingbird and the Roys fromDeerham. But it does not signify. The Misses West made theirarrangements and sent out their prospectuses, and the others left: itall happened in the spring-time. That time was giving place to summerwhen the father of Lucy Tempest, now Colonel Sir Henry Tempest, landedin England. 

In some degree his arrival was sudden. He had been looked for so long, that Lucy had almost given over looking for him. She did believe he wason his road home, by the sea passage, but precisely when he might beexpected, she did not know. 

Since the marriage of Decima, Lucy had lived on alone with Lady Verner. Alone, and very quietly; quite uneventfully. She and Lionel metoccasionally, but nothing further had passed between them. Lionel wassilent; possibly he deemed it too soon after his wife's death to speakof love to another, although the speaking of it would have been news toneither. Lucy was a great deal at Lady Hautley's. Decima would have hadher there permanently; but Lady Verner negatived it. 

They were sitting at breakfast one morning, Lady Verner and Lucy, whenthe letter arrived. It was the only one by the post that morning. Catherine laid it by Lady Verner's side, to whom it was addressed; butthe quick eyes of Lucy caught the superscription. 

"Lady Verner! It is papa's handwriting. "

Lady Verner turned her head to look at it. "It is not an Indian letter, "she remarked. 

"No. Papa must have landed. "

Opening the letter, they found it to be so. Sir Henry had arrived atSouthampton, Lucy turned pale with agitation. It seemed a formidablething, now it had come so close, to meet her father, whom she had notseen for so many years. 

"When is he coming here?" she breathlessly asked. 

"To-morrow, " replied Lady Verner; not speaking until she had glancedover the whole contents of the letter. "He purposes to remain a day anda night with us, and then he will take you with him to London. "

"But a day and a night! Go away then to London! Shall I never comeback?" reiterated Lucy, more breathlessly than before. 

Lady Verner looked at her with calm surprise. "One would think, child, you wanted to remain in Deerham. Were I a young lady, I should be gladto get away from it. The London season is at its height. "

Lucy laughed and blushed somewhat consciously. She thought she shouldnot care about the London season; but she did not say so to Lady Verner. Lady Verner resumed. 

"Sir Henry wishes me to accompany you, Lucy. I suppose I must do so. What a vast deal we shall have to think of to-day! We shall be able todo nothing to-morrow when Sir Henry is here. "

Lucy toyed with her tea-spoon, toyed with her breakfast; but thecapability of eating more had left her. The suddenness of theannouncement had taken away her appetite, and a hundred doubts weretormenting her. Should she never again return to Deerham?--never againsee Li----

"We must make a call or two to-day, Lucy. "

The interruption, breaking in upon her busy thoughts, caused her tostart. Lady Verner resumed. 

"This morning must be devoted to business; to the giving directions asto clothes, packing, and such like. I can tell you, Lucy, that you willhave a great deal of it to do yourself; Catherine's so incapable sinceshe got that rheumatism in her hand. Thérèse will have enough to see towith my things. "

"I can do it all, " answered Lucy. "I can----"

"What next, my dear? _You_ pack! Though Catherine's hand is painful, shecan do something. "

"Oh, yes, we shall manage very well, " cheerfully answered Lucy. "Did yousay we should have to go out, Lady Verner?"

"This afternoon. For one place, we must go to the Bitterworths. Youcannot go away without seeing them, and Mrs. Bitterworth is too ill justnow to call upon you. I wonder whether Lionel will be here to-day?"

It was a "wonder" which had been crossing Lucy's own heart. She went toher room after breakfast, and soon became deep in her preparations withold Catherine; Lucy doing the chief part of the work, in spite ofCatherine's remonstrances. But her thoughts were not with her hands;they remained buried in that speculation of Lady Verner's--would Lionelbe there that day?

The time went on to the afternoon, and he had not come. They steppedinto the carriage (for Lady Verner could indulge in the luxury of horsesagain now) to make their calls, and he had not come. Lucy's heartpalpitated strangely at the doubt of whether she should really departwithout seeing him. A very improbable doubt, considering thecontemplated arrival at Deerham Court of Sir Henry Tempest. 

As they passed Dr. West's old house, Lady Verner ordered the carriageto turn the corner and stop at the door. "Mr. Jan Verner" was on theplate now, where "West and Verner" used to be. Master Cheese unwillinglydisturbed himself to come out, for he was seated over a washhand-basinof gooseberry fool, which he had got surreptitiously made for him in thekitchen. Mr. Jan was out, he said. 

So Lady Verner ordered the carriage on, leaving a message for Jan thatshe wanted some more "drops" made up. 

They paid the visit to Mrs. Bitterworth. Mr. Bitterworth was not athome. He had gone to see Mr. Verner. A sudden beating of the heart, arising flush in the cheeks, a mist for a moment before her eyes, andLucy was being whirled to Verner's Pride. Lady Verner had ordered thecarriage thither, as they left Mrs. Bitterworth's. 

They found them both in the drawing-room. Mr. Bitterworth had just risento leave, and was shaking hands with Lionel. Lady Verner interruptedthem with the news of Lucy's departure; of her own. 

"Sir Henry will be here to-morrow, " she said to Lionel. "He takes Lucyto London with him the following day, and I accompany them. "

Lionel, startled, looked round at Lucy. She was not looking at him. Hereyes were averted--her face was flushed. 

"But you are not going for good, Miss Lucy!" cried Mr. Bitterworth. 

"She is, " replied Lady Verner. "And glad enough, I am sure, she must be, to get away from stupid Deerham. She little thought, when she came toit, that her sojourn in it would be so long as this. I have seen therebellion, at her having to stop in it, rising often. "

Mr. Bitterworth went out on the terrace. Lady Verner, talking to him, went also. Lionel, his face pale, his breath coming in gasps, turned toLucy. 

"_Need_ you go for good, Lucy?"

She raised her eyes to him with a shy glance, and Lionel, with ahalf-uttered exclamation of emotion, caught her to his breast, and tookhis first long silent kiss of love from her lips. It was not like thosesnatched kisses of years ago. 

"My darling! my darling! God alone knows what my love for you hasbeen. "

Another shy glance at him through her raining tears. Her heart wasbeating against his. Did the glance seem to ask why, then, had he notspoken? His next words would imply that he understood it so. 

"I am still a poor man, Lucy. I was waiting for Sir Henry's return, tolay the case before him. He may refuse you to me!"

"If he should--I will tell him--that I shall never have further interestin life, " was her agitated answer. 

And Lionel's own face was working with emotion, as he kissed those tearsaway. 

At last! at last!

CHAPTER XCIII. 

LADY VERNER'S "FEAR. "

The afternoon express-train was steaming into Deerham station, just asJan Verner was leaping his long legs over rails and stones and shafts, and other obstacles apt to collect round the outside of a halting-placefor trains, to get to it. Jan did not want to get to the train; he hadno business with it. He only wished to say a word to one of therailway-porters, whose wife he was attending. By the time he had reachedthe platform the train was puffing on again, and the few passengers whohad descended were about to disperse. 

"Can you tell me my way to Lady Verner's?"

The words were spoken close to Jan's ear. He turned and looked at thespeaker. An oldish man with a bronzed countenance and upright carriage, bearing about him that indescribable military air which bespeaks thesoldier of long service, in plain clothes though he may be. 

"Sir Henry Tempest?" involuntarily spoke Jan, before the officialaddressed had time to answer the question. "I heard that my mother wasexpecting you. "

Sir Henry Tempest ran his eyes over Jan's face and figure: an honestface, but an ungainly figure; loose clothes that would have been all thebetter for a brush, and the edges of his high shirt-collar jagged out. 

"Mr. Verner?" responded Sir Henry doubtingly. 

"Not Mr. Verner. I'm only Jan. You must have forgotten me long ago, SirHenry. "

Sir Henry Tempest held out his hand, "I have not forgotten what youwere as a boy; but I should not have known you as a man. And yet--it isthe same face. "

"Of course it is, " said Jan, "Ugly faces, such as mine, don't alter. Iwill walk with you to my mother's: it is close by. Have you anyluggage?"

"Only a portmanteau. My servant is looking after it. Here he is. "

A very dark man came up--an Indian--nearly as old as his master. Janrecognised him. 

"I remember you!" he exclaimed "It is Batsha. "

The man laughed, hiding his dark eyes, but showing his white teeth. "Massa Jan!" he said, "used to call me Bat. "

Without the least ceremony, Jan shook him by the hand. He had morepleasant reminiscences of him than of his master. In fact, Jan couldonly remember Colonel Tempest by name. He, the colonel, had despised andshunned the awkward and unprepossessing boy; but the boy and Bat used tobe great friends. 

"Do you recollect carrying me on your shoulder, Bat? You have paid formany a ride in a palanquin for me. Riding on shoulders or in palanquins, in those days, used to be my choice recreation. The shoulders and thefunds both ran short at times. "

Batsha remembered it all. Next to his master, he had never liked anybodyso well as the boy Jan. 

"Stop where you are a minute or two, " said unceremonious Jan to SirHenry. "I must find one of the porters, and then I'll walk with you. "

Looking about in various directions, in holes and corners and sheds, inside carriages and behind trucks, Jan at length came upon a short, surly-looking man, wearing the official uniform. It was the one of whomhe was in search. 

"I say, Parkes, what is this I hear about your forcing your wife to getup, when I have given orders that she should lie in bed? I went in justnow, and there I found her dragging herself about the damp brewhouse. Ihad desired that she should not get out of her bed. "

"Too much bed don't do nobody much good, sir, " returned the man in asemi-resentful tone. "There's the work to do--the washing. If she don'tdo it, who will?"

"Too much bed wouldn't do you good; or me, either; but it is necessaryfor your wife in her present state of illness. I have ordered her to bedagain. Don't let me hear of your interfering a second time, and forcingher up. She is going to have a blister on now. "

"I didn't force her, sir, " answered Parkes. "I only asked her what wasto become of the work, and how I should get a clean shirt to put on. "

"If I had got a sick wife, I'd wash out my shirt myself, before I'd dragher out of bed to do it, " retorted Jan. "I can tell you one thing, Parkes; that she is worse than you think for. I am not sure that shewill be long with you; and you won't get such a wife again in a hurry, once you lose her. Give her a chance to get well. I'll see that she getsup fast enough, when she is fit for it. "

Parkes touched his peaked cap as Jan turned away. It was very rare thatJan came out with a lecture; and when he did, the sufferers did not likeit. A sharp word from Jan Verner seemed to tell home. 

Jan returned to Sir Henry Tempest, and they walked a way in thedirection of Deerham Court. 

"I conclude all is well at Lady Verner's, " remarked Sir Henry. 

"Well enough, " returned Jan. "I thought I heard you were not cominguntil to-morrow. They'll be surprised. "

"I wrote word I should be with them to-morrow, " replied Sir Henry. "ButI got impatient to see my child. Since I left India and have been fairlyon my way to her, the time of separation has seemed longer to me than itdid in all the previous years. "

"She's a nice girl, " returned Jan. "The nicest girl in Deerham. "

"Is she pretty?" asked Sir Henry. 

The question a little puzzled Jan. "Well, I think so, " answered he. "Girls are much alike for that, as far as I see. I like Miss Lucy'slook, though; and that's the chief thing in faces. "

"How is your brother, Janus?"

Jan burst out laughing. "Don't call me Janus, Sir Henry. I am not knownby that name. They wanted me to have Janus on my door-plate; but nobodywould have thought it meant me, and the practice might have gone off. "

"You are Jan, as you used to be, then? I remember Lucy has called you soin her letters to me. "

"I shall never be anything but Jan. What does it matter? One name's asgood as another. You were asking after Lionel. He has got Verner's Prideagain: all in safety now. "

"What a very extraordinary course of events seems to have taken place, with regard to Verner's Pride!" remarked Sir Henry. "Now your brother's, now not his, then his again, then not his! I cannot make it out. "

"It was extraordinary, " assented Jan. "But the uncertain tenure is at anend, and Lionel is installed there for life. There ought never to havebeen any question of his right to it. "

"He has had the misfortune to lose his wife, " observed Sir Henry. 

"It was not much of a misfortune, " returned Jan, always plain. "She wastoo sickly ever to enjoy life; and I know she must have worried Lionelnearly out of his patience. "

Jan had said at the station that Deerham Court was "close by. " Hisactive legs may have found it so; but Sir Henry began to think it ratherfar than close. As they reached the gates Sir Henry spoke. 

"I suppose there is an inn near, where I can send my servant to lodge. There may not be accommodation for him at Lady Verner's?"

"There's accommodation enough for that, " said Jan. "They have plenty ofroom, and old Catherine can make him up a bed. "

Lady Verner and Lucy were out. They had not returned from the call onMrs. Bitterworth--for it was the afternoon spoken of in the lastchapter. Jan showed Sir Henry in; told him to ring for any refreshmenthe wanted; and then left. 

"I can't stay, " he remarked. "My day's rounds are not over yet. "

But scarcely had Jan reached the outside of the gate when he met thecarriage. He put up his hand, and the coachman stopped. Jan advanced tothe window, a broad smile upon his face. 

"What will you give me for some news, Miss Lucy?"

Lucy's thoughts were running upon certain other news; news known but toherself and to one more. A strangely happy light shone in her soft, brown eyes, as she turned them on Jan; a rich damask flush on the cheekswhere _his_ lips had so lately been. 

"Does it concern me, Jan?"

"It doesn't much concern anybody else. --Guess. "

"I never can guess anything; you know I can't, Jan, " she answered, smiling. "You must please tell me. "

"Well, " said Jan, "there's an arrival. Come by the train. "

"Oh, Jan! Not papa?"

Jan nodded. 

"You will find him indoors. Old Bat's come with him. "

Lucy never could quite remember the details of the meeting. She knewthat her father held her to him fondly, and then put her from him tolook at her; the tears blinding her eyes and his. 

"You _are_ pretty, Lucy, " he said, "very pretty. I asked Jan whether youwere not, but he could not tell me. "

"Jan!" slightingly spoke Lady Verner, while Lucy laughed in spite of hertears. "It is of no use asking Jan anything of that sort, Sir Henry, Idon't believe Jan knows one young lady's face from another. "

It seemed to be all confusion for some time; all bustle; nothing butquestions and answers. But when they had assembled in the drawing-roomagain, after making ready for dinner, things wore a calmer aspect. 

"You must have thought I never was coming home!" remarked Sir Henry toLady Verner. "I have contemplated it so long. "

"I suppose your delays were unavoidable, " she answered. 

"Yes--in a measure. I should not have come now, but for the relievingyou of Lucy. Your letters, for some time past, have appeared to implythat you were vexed with her, or tired of her; and, in truth, I havetaxed your patience and good nature unwarrantably. I do not know how Ishall repay your kindness, Lady Verner. "

"I have been repaid throughout, Sir Henry, " was the quiet reply of LadyVerner. "The society of Lucy has been a requital in full. I rarely forman attachment, and when I do form one it is never demonstrative; but Ihave learned to love Lucy as I love my own daughter, and it will be areal grief to part with her. Not but that she has given me greatvexation. "

"Ah! In what way?"

"The years have gone on and on since she came to me; and I was in hopesof returning her to you with some prospect in view of the great end ofa young lady's life--marriage. I was placed here as her mother; and Ifelt more responsibility in regard to her establishment in life than Idid to Decima's. We have been at issue upon the point, Sir Henry; Lucyand I. "

Sir Henry turned his eyes on his daughter: if that is not speakingfiguratively, considering that he had scarcely taken his eyes off her. Afair picture she was, sitting there in her white evening dress and herpearl ornaments. Young, lovely, girlish, she looked, as she did thefirst day she came to Lady Verner's and took up her modest seat on thehearth-rug. Sir Henry Tempest had not seen many such faces as that; hehad not met with many natures so innocent and charming. Lucy was made tobe admired as well as loved. 

"If there is one _parti_ more desirable than another in the wholecounty, it is Lord Garle, " resumed Lady Verner. "The eldest son of theEarl of Elmsley, his position naturally renders him so; but had heneither rank nor wealth, he would not be much less desirable. His looksare prepossessing; his qualities of head and heart are admirable; heenjoys the respect of all. Not a young lady for miles round but--Iwill use a vulgar phrase, Sir Henry, but it is expressive of thefacts--would jump at him. Lucy refused him. "

"Indeed, " replied Sir Henry, gazing at Lucy's glowing face, at the smilethat hovered round her lips. 

Lady Verner resumed--

"She refused him in the most decidedly positive manner that you canimagine. She has refused also one or two others. They were not sodesirable in position as Lord Garle; but they were very well. And hermotive I never have been able to get at. It has vexed me much. I havepointed out to her that when ever you returned home, you might think Ihad been neglectful of her interests. "

"No, no, " replied Sir Henry, "I could not fancy coming home to find Lucymarried. I should not have liked it. She would have seemed to be gonefrom me. "

"But she must marry some time, and the years are going on, " returnedLady Verner. 

"Yes, I suppose she must. "

"At least, I should say she would, were it anybody but Lucy, " rejoinedLady Verner, qualifying her words. "After the refusal of Lord Garle, one does not know what to think. You will see him and judge foryourself. "

"What was the motive of the refusal, Lucy?" inquired Sir Henry. 

He spoke with a smile, in a gay, careless tone; but Lucy appeared totake the question in a serious light. Her eyelids drooped, her wholeface became scarlet, her demeanour almost agitated. 

"I did not care to marry, papa, " she answered in a low tone. "I did notcare for Lord Garle. "

"One grievous fear has been upon me ever since, haunting my rest atnight, disturbing my peace by day, " resumed Lady Verner. "I must speakof it to you, Sir Henry. Absurd as the notion really is, and as at timesit appears to me that it must be, still it does intrude, and I shouldscarcely be acting an honourable part by you to conceal it, sad as thecalamity would be. "

Lucy looked up in surprise. Sir Henry in a sort of puzzled wonder. 

"When she refused Lord Garle, whom she acknowledged she _liked_, andforbade him to entertain any future hope whatever, I naturally began tolook about me for the cause. I could only come to one conclusion, I amsorry to say--that she cared too much for another. "

Lucy sat in an agony; the scarlet of her face changing to whiteness. 

"I arrived at the conclusion, I say, " continued Lady Verner, "and Ibegan to consider whom the object could be. I called over in my mind allthe gentlemen she was in the habit of seeing; and unfortunately therewas only one--only one upon whom my suspicions could fix. I recalledphrases of affection openly lavished upon him by Lucy; I remembered thatthere was no society she seemed to enjoy and be so much at ease with ashis. I have done what I could since to keep him at arm's length; and Ishall never forgive myself for having been so blind. But, you see, I nomore thought she, or any other girl, could fall in love with him, thanthat she could with one of my serving men. "

"Lady Verner, you should not say it!" burst forth Lucy, with vehemence, as she turned her white face, her trembling lips, to Lady Verner. "Surely I might refuse to marry Lord Garle without caring unduly foranother!"

Lady Verner looked quite aghast at the outburst. "My dear, does not thisprove that I am right?"

"But who is it?" interrupted Sir Henry Tempest. 

"Alas!--Who! I could almost faint in telling it to you, " groaned LadyVerner. "My unfortunate son, Jan. "

The relief was so great to Lucy; the revulsion of feeling so sudden; theidea called up altogether so comical, that she clasped her hands onewithin the other, and laughed out in glee. 

"Oh, Lady Verner! Poor Jan! I never thought you meant him. Papa, " shesaid, turning eagerly to Sir Henry, "Jan is downright worthy and good, but I should not like to marry him. "

"Jan may be worthy; but he is not handsome, " gravely remarked Sir Henry. 

"He is better than handsome, " returned Lucy. "I shall love Jan all mylife, papa; but not in that way. "

Her perfect openness, her ease of manner, gave an earnest of the truthwith which she spoke; and Lady Verner was summarily relieved of the fearwhich had haunted her rest. 

"Why could you not have told me this before, Lucy?"

"Dear Lady Verner, how could I tell it you? How was I to know anythingabout it?"

"True, " said Lady Verner. "I _was_ simple; to suppose any young ladycould ever give a thought to that unfortunate Jan! You saw him, SirHenry. Only fancy _his_ being my son and his father's!"

"He is certainly not like either of you, " was Sir Henry's reply. "Yourother son was like both. Very like his father. "

"Ah! he _is_ a son!" spoke Lady Verner, in her enthusiasm. "A son worthhaving; a son that his father would be proud of, were he alive. Handsome, good, noble;--there are few like Lionel Verner. I spoke inpraise of Lord Garle, but he is not as Lionel. A good husband, a goodson, a good _man_. His conduct under his misfortunes was admirable. "

"His misfortunes have been like a romance, " remarked Sir Henry. 

"More like that than reality. You will see him presently. I asked him todine with me, and expect him in momentarily. Ah, he has had trouble inall ways. His wife brought him nothing else. "

"Jan dropped a hint of that, " said Sir Henry. "I should think he wouldnot be in a hurry to marry again!

"I should think not, indeed. He--Lucy, where are you going?"

Lucy turned round with her crimsoned face. "Nowhere, Lady Verner. "

"I thought I heard a carriage stop, my dear. See if it is Lionel. "

Lucy walked to the window in the other room. Sir Henry followed her. Theblue and silver carriage of Verner's Pride was at the Court gates, Lionel stepping from it. He came in, looking curiously at the gray headnext to Lucy's. 

"A noble form, a noble face!" murmured Sir Henry Tempest. 

He wore still the mourning for his wife. A handsome man never looks sowell in other attire. There was no doubt that he divined now who thestranger was, and a glad smile of welcome parted his lips. Sir Henry methim on the threshold, and grasped both his hands. 

"I should have known you, Lionel, anywhere, from your likeness to yourfather. "

CHAPTER XCIV. 

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN JAN!

Lionel could not let the evening go over without speaking of the greatsecret. When he and Sir Henry were left together in the dining-room, hesought the opportunity. It was afforded by a remark of Sir Henry's. 

"After our sojourn in London shall be over, I must look out for aresidence, and settle down. Perhaps I shall purchase one. But I mustfirst of all ascertain what locality would be agreeable to Lucy. "

"Sir Henry, " said Lionel in a low tone, "Lucy's future residence isfixed upon--if you will accord your permission. "

Sir Henry Tempest, who was in the act of raising his wine-glass to hislips, set it down again and looked at Lionel. 

"I want her at Verner's Pride. "

It appeared that Sir Henry could not understand--did not take in themeaning of the words. 

"What did you say?" he asked. 

"I have loved her for years, " answered Lionel, the, scarlet spot ofemotion rising to his cheeks. "We--we have known each other's sentimentsa long while. But I did not intend to speak more openly to Lucy until Ihad seen you. To-day, however, in the sudden excitement of hearing ofher contemplated departure, I betrayed myself. Will you give her to me, Sir Henry?"

Sir Henry Tempest looked grave. "It cannot have been so very long anattachment, " he observed. "The time since your wife's death can only becounted by months. "

"True. But the time since I loved Lucy can be counted by years. I lovedher before I married, " he added in a low tone. 

"Why, then, have married another?" demanded Sir Henry, after a pause. 

"You may well ask it, Sir Henry, " he replied, the upright line in hisbrow showing out just then all too deep and plain. "I engaged myself tomy first wife in an unguarded moment; as soon as the word was spoken Ibecame aware that she was less dear to me than Lucy. I might haveretracted; but the retractation would have left a stain on my honourthat could never be effaced. I am, not the first man who has paid byyears of penitence for a word spoken in the heat of passion. "

True enough! Sir Henry simply nodded his head in answer. 

"Yes, I loved Lucy; I married another, loving her; I never ceased lovingher all throughout my married life. And I had to force down my feelings;to suppress and hide them in the best manner that I could. "

"And Lucy?" involuntarily uttered Sir Henry. 

"Lucy--may I dare to say it to you?--loved me, " he answered, his breathcoming fast. "I believe, from my very heart, that she loved me in thatearly time, deeply perhaps as I loved her. I have never exchanged a wordwith her upon the point; but I cannot conceal from myself that it wasthe unhappy fact. "

"Did you know it at the time?"

"No!" he answered, raising his hand to his brow, on which the drops weregathering, "I did not suspect it until it was too late; until I wasmarried. She was so child-like. "

Sir Henry Tempest sat in silence, probably revolving the information. 

"If you had known it--what then?"

"Do not ask me, " replied Lionel, his bewailing tone strangely full ofpain. "I cannot tell what I should have done. It would have beenLucy--love--_versus_ honour. And a Verner never sacrificed honour yet. And yet--it seems to me that I sacrificed honour in the course I took. Let the question drop, Sir Henry. It is a time I cannot bear to recurto. "

Neither spoke for some minutes. Lionel's face was shaded by his hand. Presently he looked up. 

"Do not part us, Sir Henry!" he implored, his voice quite hoarse withits emotion, its earnestness. "We could neither of us bear it. I havewaited for her long. "

"I will deal candidly with you, " said Sir Henry. "In the old days it wasa favourite project of mine and your father's that our families shouldbecome connected by the union of our children--you and Lucy. We onlyspoke of it to each other; saying nothing to our wives: they might haveset to work, women fashion, and urged it on by plotting and planning:_we_ were content to let events take their course, and to welcome thefruition, should it come. Nearly the last words Sir Lionel said to me, when he was dying of his wound, were, that he should not live to seethe marriage; but lie hoped I might. Years afterwards, when Lucy wasplaced with Lady Verner--I knew, no other friend in Europe to whom Iwould entrust her--her letters to me were filled with Lionel Verner. 'Lionel was so kind to her!'--'Everybody liked Lionel!' In one shape orother you were sure to be the theme. I heard how you lost the estate; ofyour coming to stay at Lady Verner's; of a long illness you had there;of your regaining the estate through the death of the Massingbirds;and--next--of your marriage to Frederick Massingbird's widow. From thattime Lucy said less: in fact, her letters were nearly silent as to you:and, for myself, I never gave another thought to the subject. Yourpresent communication has taken me entirely by surprise. "

"But you will give her to me?"

"I had rather--forgive me if I speak candidly--that she married one whohad not called another woman wife. "

"I heartily wish I never had called another woman wife, " was theresponse of Lionel. "But I cannot alter the past. I shall not make Lucythe less happy; and, for moving her--I tell you that my love for her, throughout, has been so great, as to have put it almost beyond the powerof suppression. "

A servant entered, and said my lady was waiting tea. Lionel waved hishand towards the man with an impatient movement, and they were left atpeace again. 

"You tell me that her heart is engaged in this, as well as yours?"resumed Sir Henry. 

A half-smile flitted for a moment over Lionel's face; he was recallingLucy's whispered words to him that very afternoon. 

"Yes, " he answered, "her heart is bound up in me: I may almost say herlife. If ever love served out its apprenticeship, Sir Henry, ours has. It is stronger than time and change. "

"Well, I suppose you must have her, " conceded Sir Henry. "But for yourown marriage, I should have looked on this as a natural result. Whatabout the revenues of Verner's Pride?"

"I am in debt, " freely acknowledged Lionel. "In my wife's time we spenttoo much, and outran our means. Part of my income for three or fouryears must be set apart to pay it off. "

He might have said, "In my wife's time _she_ spent too much;" said itwith truth. But, as he spared her feelings, living, so he spared hermemory, dead. 

"Whoever takes Lucy, takes thirty thousand pounds on her wedding-day, "quietly remarked Sir Henry Tempest. 

The words quite startled Lionel. "Thirty thousand pounds!" he repeatedmechanically. 

"Thirty thousand pounds. Did you think I should waste all my best yearsin India, Lionel, and save up nothing for my only child?"

"I never thought about it, " was Lionel's answer. "Or if I ever didthink, I suppose I judged by my father. He saved no money. "

"He had not the opportunity that I have had; and he died early. Theappointment I held, out there, has been a lucrative one. That will bethe amount of Lucy's present fortune. "

"I am glad I did not know it!" heartily affirmed Lionel. 

"It might have made the winning her more difficult, I suppose youthink?"

"Not the winning _her_, " was Lionel's answer, the self-conscious smileagain on his lips. "The winning your consent, Sir Henry. "

"It has not been so hard a task, either, " quaintly remarked Sir Henry, as he rose. "I am giving her to you, understand, for your father's sake;in the trust that you are the same honourably good man, standing wellbefore the world and Heaven, that he was. Unless your looks belie you, you are not degenerate. "

Lionel stood before him, almost too agitated to speak. Sir Henry stoppedhim, laying his hand upon his shoulder. 

"No thanks, Lionel. Gratitude? You can pay all that to Lucy after sheshall be your wife. "

They went together into the drawing-room, arm-in-arm. Sir Henry advancedstraight to his daughter. 

"What am I to say to you, Lucy? He has been talking secrets. "

She looked up, like a startled fawn. But a glimpse at Lionel's facereassured her, bringing the roses into her cheeks. Lady Verner, wondering, gazed at them in amazement, and Lucy hid her hot cheeks onher father's breast. 

"Am I to scold you? Falling in love without my permission!"

The tone, the loving arm wound round her, brought to her confidence. Shecould almost afford to be saucy. 

"Don't be angry, papa!" were her whispered words. "It might have beenworse. "

"Worse!" returned Sir Henry, trying to get a look at her face. "Youindependent child! How could it have been worse?"

"It might have been Jan, you know, papa. "

And Sir Henry Tempest burst into an irrepressible laugh as he sat down. 

CHAPTER XCV. 

SUNDRY ARRIVALS. 

We have had many fine days in this history, but never a finer onegladdened Deerham than the last that has to be recorded, ere its scenein these pages shall close. It was one of those rarely lovely days thatnow and then do come to us in autumn. The air was clear, the sky bright, the sun hot as in summer, the grass green almost as in spring. It wasevidently a day of rejoicing. Deerham, since the afternoon, seemed to betaking holiday, and as the sun began to get lower in the heavens, groupsin their best attire were wending their way towards Verner's Pride. 

_There_ was the centre of attraction. A _fête_--or whatever you mightplease to call it, where a great deal of feasting is going on--was aboutto be held on no mean scale. Innumerable tables, some large, some small, were set out in different parts of the grounds, their white clothsintimating that they were to be laden with good cheer. Tynn and hissatellites bustled about, and believed they had never had such a day ofwork before. 

A day of pleasure also, unexampled in their lives; for their master, Lionel Verner, was about to bring home his bride. 

Everybody was flocking to the spot; old and young, gentle and simple. The Elmsleys and the half-starved Hooks; the Hautleys and thoseill-doing Dawsons; the Misses West and their pupils; Lady Verner and theFrosts; Mr. Bitterworth in a hand-chair, his gouty foot swathed up inlinen; Mrs. Duff, who had shut up her shop to come; Dan, in some newclothes; Mr. Peckaby and lady; Chuff the blacksmith, with rather arolling gait; and Master Cheese and Jan. In short, all Deerham and itsneighbourhood had turned out. 

This was to be Master Cheese's last appearance on any scene--so far asDeerham was concerned. The following day he would quit Jan for good; andthat gentleman's new assistant, a qualified practitioner, had arrived, and was present. Somewhat different arrangements from what had beenoriginally contemplated were about to be entered on, as regarded Jan. The Misses West had found their school prosper so well during thehalf-year it had been established that they were desirious of takingthe house entirely on their own hands. They commanded the good will andrespect of Deerham, if their father did not. Possibly it was because hedid not, and that their position was sympathised with and commiserated, that their scheme of doing something to place themselves independent ofhim, obtained so large a share of patronage. They wished to take thewhole house on their own hands. Easy Jan acquiesced; Lionel thought itthe best thing in all ways; and Jan began to look out for another home. But Jan seemed to waver in the fixing upon one. First, he had thought oflodgings; next he went to see a small, pretty new house that had justbeen built close to the Misses West. "It is too small for you, Mr. Jan, "had observed Miss Deborah. 

"It will hold me and my assistant, and the boy, and a cook, and thesurgery, " answered Jan. "And that's all I want. "

Neither the lodgings, however, nor the small house had been taken; andnow it was rumoured than Jan's plans were changed again. The report ranthat the surgery was to remain where it was, and that the assistant, agentleman of rather mature age, would remain with it; occupying Jan'sbedroom (which had been renovated after the explosion of Master Cheese), and taking his meals with the Misses West: Jan meanwhile being aboutthat tasty mansion called Belvedere House, which was situated midwaybetween his old residence and Deerham Court. Deerham's curiosity wasuncommonly excited on the point. What, in the name of improbability, could plain Jan Verner want with a fine place like that? He'd have tokeep five or six servants, if he went there. The most feasible surmisethat could be arrived at was, that Jan was about to establish amad-house--as Deerham was in the habit of phrasing a receptacle forinsane patients--of the private, genteel order. Deerham felt _very_curious; and Jan, being a person whom they felt at ease to questionwithout ceremony, was besieged upon the subject. Jan's answer (all theycould get from him this time) was--that he _was_ thinking of takingBelvedere House, but had no intention yet of setting up a mad-house. Andaffairs were in this stage at the present time. 

Lionel and his bride were expected momentarily, and the company of allgrades formed themselves into groups as they awaited them. They hadbeen married in London some ten days ago, where Sir Henry Tempest hadremained, after quitting Deerham with Lucy. The twelvemonth had beenallowed to go by consequent to the death of Sibylla. Lionel liked thatall things should be done decorously and in order. Sir Henry was now ona visit to Sir Edmund Hautley and Decima: he was looking out for asuitable residence in the neighbourhood, where he meant to settle. Thisgathering at Verner's Pride to welcome Lionel, had been a thought of SirHenry's and old Mr. Bitterworth's. "Why not give the poor an afternoon'sholiday for once?" cried Sir Henry. "I will repay them the wages theymust lose in taking it. " And so--here was the gathering, and Tynn hadcarried out his orders for the supply of plenty to eat and drink. 

They formed in groups, listening for the return of the carriage, whichhad gone in state to the railway station to receive them. All, saveMaster Cheese. He walked about somewhat disconsolately, thinking theproceedings rather slow. In his wandering he came upon Tynn, placinggood things upon one of the tables, which was laid in an alcove. 

"When's the feasting going to begin?" asked he. 

"Not until Mr. Verner shall have come, " replied Tynn. "The people willbe wanting to cheer him; and they can't do that well, if they are busyround the tables, eating. "

"Who's the feast intended for?" resumed Master Cheese. 

"It's chiefly intended for those who don't get feasts at home, " returnedTynn. "But anybody can partake of it that pleases. "

"I should like just a snack, " said Master Cheese. "I had such a shortdinner to-day. Now that all those girls are stuck down at thedining-table, Miss Deb sometimes forgets to ask one a third time tomeat, " he added in a grumbling tone. "And there was nothing but arubbishing rice pudding after it to-day! So I'd like to take a little, Tynn. I feel quite empty. "

"You can take as much as you choose, " said Tynn, who had known MasterCheese's appetite before to-day. "Begin at once, if you like, withoutwaiting for the others. Some of the tables are spread. "

"I think I will, " said Master Cheese, looking lovingly at a pie on thetable over which they were standing. "What's inside this pie, Tynn?"

Tynn bent his head to look closely. "I think that's partridge, " said he. "There are plenty of other sorts: and there's a vast quantity of coldmeats; beef and ham, and that. Sir Henry Tempest said I was not to stint'em. "

"I like partridge pie, " said Master Cheese, as he seated himself beforeit, his mouth watering. "I have not tasted one this season. Do youhappen to have a drop of bottled ale, Tynn?"

"I'll fetch a bottle, " answered Tynn. "Is there anything else you'dlike, sir?"

"What else is there?" asked Master Cheese. "Anything in the sweetsline?"

"There's about a hundred baked plum puddings. My wife has got somecustards, too, in her larder. The custards are not intended for outhere, but you can have one. "

Master Cheese wiped his damp face; he had gone all over into a glow ofdelight. "Bring a pudding and a custard or two, Tynn, " said he. "There'snothing in the world half so nice as a plate of plum pudding swimming incustard. "

Tynn was in the act of supplying his wants, when a movement and a noisein the distance came floating on the air. Tynn dashed the dish ofcustards on to the table, and ran like the rest. Everybody ran--exceptMaster Cheese. 

It was turning slowly into the grounds--the blue and silver carriage ofthe Verners, its four horses prancing under their studded harness. Lionel and his wife of a few days descended from it, when they foundthemselves in the midst of this unexpected crowd. They had cause, thoseserfs, to shout out a welcome to their lord; for never again would theylive in a degrading position, if he could help it. The variousimprovements for their welfare, which he had so persistently andhopefully planned, were not only begun, but nearly ended. 

Sir Henry clasped Lucy's sweet face to his own bronzed one, pushing backher white bonnet to take his kiss from it. Then followed Lady Verner, then Decima, then Mary Elmsley. Lucy shook herself free, and laughed. 

"I don't like so many kisses all at once, " said she. 

Lionel was everywhere. Shaking hands with old Mr. Bitterworth, with theMisses West, with Sir Edmund Hautley, with Lord Garle, with the Countessof Elmsley, with all that came in his way. Next he looked round upon apoorer class; and the first hand taken in his was Robin Frost's. By andby he encountered Jan. 

"Well, Jan, old fellow!" said he, his affection shining out in hisearnest, dark-blue eyes, "I am glad to be with you again. Is Cheesehere?"

"He came, " replied Jan. "But where he has disappeared to, I can't tell. "

"Please, sir, I see'd him just now in an alcove, " interposed Dan Duff, addressing Lionel. 

"And how are you, Dan?" asked Lionel, with his kindly smile. "Saw Mr. Cheese in an alcove, did you?"

"It was that there one, " responded Dan, extending his finger in thedirection of a spot not far distant. "He was tucking in at a pie. Isee'd him, please sir. "

"I must go to him, " said Lionel, winding his arm within Jan's, andproceeding in the direction of the alcove. Master Cheese, his hands fullof cold pudding and his mouth covered with custard, started up whensurprised at his feast. 

"It's only a little bit I'm tasting, " said he apologetically, "againstit's time to begin. I hope you have come back well, sir. "

"Taste away, Cheese, " replied Lionel, with a laugh, as he cast his eyeson some remaining fragments. "Partridge pie! do you like it?"

"Like it!" returned Master Cheese, the tears coming into his eyes witheagerness, "I wish I could be where I should have nothing else for awhole week. "

"The first week's holiday you get at Bartholomew's, you must come andpay Verner's Pride a visit, and we will keep you supplied. Mrs. Vernerwill be glad to see you. "

Master Cheese gave a great gasp. The words seemed too good to be real. 

"Do you mean it, sir?" he asked. 

"Of course I mean it, " replied Lionel. "I owe you a debt, you know. Butfor your having blown yourself and the room up, I might not now be inpossession of Verner's Pride. You come and spend a week with us when youcan. "

"That's glorious, and I'm much obliged to you, sir, " said Master Cheese, in an ecstasy. "I think I'll have just another custard on the strengthof it. "

Jan was imperturbable--he had seen too much of Master Cheese for anydisplay to affect him--but Lionel laughed heartily as they left thegentleman and the alcove. How well he looked--Lionel! The indented lineof pain had gone from his brow: he was as a man at rest within. 

"Jan, I feel truly glad at the news sent to us a day or two ago!" heexclaimed, pressing his brother's arm. "I always feared you would notmarry. I never thought you would marry one so desirable as MaryElmsley. "

"I don't think I'd have had anybody else, " answered Jan. "I like her;always did like her; and if she has taken a fancy to me, and doesn'tmind putting up with a husband that's called out at all hours, why--it'sall right. "

"You will not give up your profession, Jan?"

"Give up my profession?" echoed Jan, in surprise, staring with all hiseyes at Lionel. "What should I do that for?"

"When Mary shall be Lady Mary Verner, she may be for wishing it. "

"No, she won't, " answered Jan. "She knows her wishing it would be of nouse. She marries my profession as much as she marries me. It is allsettled. Lord Elmsley makes it a point that I take my degree, and Idon't mind doing that to please him. I shall be a hard-working doctoralways, and Mary knows it. "

"Have you taken Belvedere House?"

"I intend to take it. Mary likes it, and I can afford it, with herincome joined to mine. If she is a lady, she's not a fine one, " addedJan, "and I shall be just as quiet and comfortable as I have been in theold place. She says she'll see to the housekeeping and to my shirts, and--"

Jan stopped. They had come up with Lady Verner, and Mary Elmsley. Lionelspoke laughingly. 

"So Jan is appreciated at last!"

Lady Verner lifted her hands with a deprecatory movement. "It took methree whole days before I would believe it, " she gravely said. "Evennow, there are times when I think Mary must be playing with him. "

Lady Mary shook her head with a blush and a smile. Lionel took her onhis arm, and walked away with her. 

"You cannot think how happy it has made me and Lucy. We never thoughtJan was, or could be, appreciated. "

"He was by me. He is worth--shall I tell it you, Lionel?--more than allthe rest of Deerham put together. Yourself included. "

"I will indorse the assertion, " answered Lionel. "I am glad you aregoing to have him. "

"I would have had him, had he asked me, years ago, " candidly avowed LadyMary. 

"I was inquiring of Jan, whether you would not wish him to give up hisprofession. He was half offended with me for suggesting it. "

"If Jan could ever be the one to lead an idle, useless life, I thinkhalf my love for him would die out, " was her warm answer. "It was Jan'spractical industry, his way of always doing the right in straightforwardsimplicity, that I believe first won me to like him. This world was madeto work in; the next for rest--as I look upon it, Lionel. I shall beprouder of being wife to the surgeon Jan Verner, than I should be had Imarried a duke's eldest son. "

"He is to take his degree, he says. "

"I believe so: but he will practise generally all the same--just as hedoes now. Not that I care that he should become Dr. Verner; it is papa. "

"If he--Why, who can they be?"

Lionel Verner's interrupted sentence and question of surprise werecaused by the appearance of some singular-looking forms who werestalking into the grounds. Poor, stooping, miserable, travel-soiledobjects, looking fit for nothing but the tramp-house. A murmer ofastonishment burst from all present when they were recognised. It wasGrind's lot. Grind and his family, who had gone off with the Mormons, returning now in humility, like dogs with burnt tails. 

"Why, Grind, can it be you?" exclaimed Lionel, gazing with pity at theman's despairing aspect. 

He, poor meek Grind, not less meek and civil than of yore, sat down upona bench and burst into tears. They gathered round him in crowds, whilehe told his tale. How they had, after innumerable hardships on the road, too long to recite then, after losing some of their party by death, twoof his children being amongst them--how they had at length reached theSalt Lake city, so gloriously depicted by Brother Jarrum. And what didthey find? Instead of an abode of peace and plenty, of luxury, ofimmunity from work, they found misery and discomfort. Things werestrange to them, and they were strange in turn. He'd describe it allanother time, he said; but it was quite enough to tell them what it was, by saying that he resolved to come away if possible, and face again thehardships of the way, though it was only to die in the old land, thanhe'd stop in it. Brother Jarrum was a awful impostor, so to have led 'emaway!

"Wasn't there no saints?" breathlessly asked Susan Peckaby, who hadelbowed herself to the front. 

"Saints!" echoed Grind. "Yes, they be saints! A iniketous, bad-doing, sensitive lot. I'd starve on a crust here, sooner nor I'd stop among'em. Villains!"

Poor Grind probably substituted the word "sensitive" for another, in hisnarrow acquaintance with the English language. Susan Peckaby seemed toresent this new view of things. She was habited in the veryplum-coloured gown which had been prepared for the start, the whitepaint having been got out of it by some mysterious process, perhaps bythe turpentine suggested by Chuff. It looked tumbled and crinkled, thebeauty altogether gone out of it. Her husband, Peckaby, stood behind, grinning. 

"Villains, them saints was, was they?" said he. 

"They was villains, " emphatically answered Grind. 

"And the saintesses?" continued Peckaby--"What of them?"

"The less said about 'em the better, them saintesses, " responded Grind. "We should give 'em another name over here, we should. I had to leave myeldest girl behind me, " he added, lifting his face in a pitying appealto Mr. Verner's. "She warn't but fifteen, and one of them men took her, and she's his thirteenth wife. "

"I say, Grind, " put in the sharp voice of Mrs. Duff, "what's become ofNancy, as lived up here?"

"She died on the road, " he answered. "She married Brother Jarrum in NewYork--"

"Married Brother Jarrum in New York!" interrupted Polly Dawson tartly. "You are asleep, Grind. It was Mary Green as married him. Leastways, news, that she did, come back to us here. "

"He married 'em both, " answered Grind. "The consekence of which was, that the two took to quarrelling perpetual. It was nothing but snarlingand fighting everlasting. Nancy again Mary, and Mary again her. Wehadn't nothing else with 'em all the way to the Salt Lake city, andNancy, she got ill. Some said 'twas pining; some said 'twas a in'ardcomplaint as took her; some said 'twas the hardships killed her--thecold, and the fatigue, and the bad food, and the starvation. Anyhow, Nancy died. "

"And what became of Mary?" rather more meekly inquired Mrs. Peckaby. 

"She's Jarrum's wife still. He have got about six of 'em, he have. They_be_ saints, they be!"

"They bain't as bad off as the saintesses, " interrupted Mrs. Grind. "They has their own way, the saints, and the saintesses don't. Regularcowed down the saintesses be; they daredn't say as their right hand'stheir own. That poor sick lady as went with us, Miss Kitty Baynton--andnone on us thought she'd live to get there, but she did, and one of thesaints chose her. She come to us just afore we got away, and she saidshe wanted to write a letter to her mother to tell her how unhappy shewas, fit to die with it. But she knowed the letter could never be got toher in England, cause letters ain't allowed to leave the city, and shemust stop in misery for her life, she said; for she couldn't neverundertake the journey back again; even if she could get clear away; itwould kill her. But she'd like her mother to know how them Mormonsdeceived with their tales, and what sort of a place New Jerusalem was. "

Grind turned again to Lionel. 

"It is just blasphemy, sir, for them to say what they do; calling it theholy city, and the New Jerusalem. Couldn't they be stopped at it, andfrom deluding poor ignorant people here with their tales?"

"The only way of stopping it is for people to take their tales for whatthey are worth, " said Lionel. 

Grind gave a groan. "People is credilous, sir, when they think they aregoing to better theirselves. Sir, " he added, with a yearning, pleadinglook, "could I have a bit of work again upon the old estate, just tokeep us from starving? I shan't hanker after much now; to live here uponthe soil will be enough, after having been at that Salt Lake city. It'sa day's wonder, and 'ud take a day to tell, the way we stole away fromit, and how we at last got home. "

"You shall have work, Grind, as much as you can do, " quietly answeredLionel. "Work, and a home, and, I hope, plenty. If you will gothere, "--pointing to the tables--"with your wife and children, you willfind something to eat and drink. "

Grind clasped his hands together in an attitude of thankfulness, tearsstreaming down his face. They had walked from Liverpool. 

"What about the ducks, Grind?" called out one of the Dawsons. "Did youget 'em in abundance?"

Grind turned his haggard face round. 

"I never see a single duck the whole time I stopped there. If ducks wasthere, we didn't see 'em. "

"And what about the white donkeys, Grind?" added Peckaby. "Be _they_ inplenty?"

Grind was ignorant of the white donkey story, and took the questionliterally. "I never see none, " he repeated. "There's nothing white therebut the great Salt Lake, which strikes the eyes with blindness--"

"Won't I treat you to a basting!"

The emphatic remark, coming from Mrs. Duff, caused a divertisement, especially agreeable to Susan Peckaby. The unhappy Dan, by someunexplainable cause, had torn the sleeve of his new jacket to ribbons. He sheltered himself from wrath behind Chuff the blacksmith, and thecompany began to pour in a stream towards the tables. 

The sun had sunk in the west when Verner's Pride was left in quiet; thegratified feasters, Master Cheese included, having wended their wayhome. Lionel was with his wife at the window of her dressing-room, wherehe had formerly stood with Sibylla. The rosy hue of the sky played uponLucy's face. Lionel watched it as he stood with his arm round her. Lifting her eyes suddenly, she saw how grave his looked, as they werebent upon her. 

"What are you thinking of, Lionel?"

"Of you, my darling. Standing with you here in our own home, feelingthat you are mine at last; that nothing, save the hand of Death, canpart us, I can scarcely yet believe in my great happiness. "

Lucy raised her hand, and drew his face down to hers. "I can, " shewhispered. "It is very real. "

"Ay, yes! it is real, " he said, his tone one of almost painfulintensity. "God be thanked! But we waited. Lucy, _how_ we waited forit!"

COLLINS' CLEAR-TYPE PRESS, LONDON AND GLASGOW.