Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “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. In vain Lionel pressed her to eat. She could touch nothing. She took a piece of rolled bread-and-butter, but left it.

  “You must have dined on the road, Mrs. Massingbird?” he said, with a smile.

  “I? I have not taken anything all day. I kept thinking ‘I shall get to Verner’s Pride in time for my aunt’s dinner.’ But the train arrived later than I anticipated; and when I got here she was gone.”

  Sibylla bent her head, as if playing with her teaspoon. Lionel detected the 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 come here. Unfortunately, I found them gone out; and young Cheese says they will not be home until two in the morning.”

  “Why, where can they be gone?” cried Sibylla, aroused to interest. It was so unusual for the Misses West to be out late.

  “To some gathering at Heartburg. Cheese was eating apple-puffs with unlimited satisfaction.”

  The connection of apple-puffs with Master Cheese called up a faint smile into Sibylla’s face. She pushed her chair away from the table, turning it 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 before the mantel-piece when they were left alone, unconsciously looking at herself in the glass. Lionel stood near her.

  “I have not got a widow’s cap,” she exclaimed, turning to him, the thought appearing suddenly to strike her. “I had two or three curious things made, that they called widows’ caps in Melbourne, but they were spoiled 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 from the 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 invite further question.

  “Did you succeed in getting particulars of the fate of John?”

  “No. Captain Cannonby promised to make inquiries, but we had not heard from 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 was so singular,” she continued, with some animation in her tone. “Luke Roy came to Melbourne after John was killed, and fell in with the Eyres. He told them about John, little thinking that I and Frederick should meet the 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? — the Bendigo 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 of gold on him, in a belt round his waist, and Luke supposes that it got known. 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, mentally beholding 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, and tried to discover the men; but he could not. It was this striving at discovery which brought him in contact with Mr. Eyre. After we reached Melbourne and I became acquainted with the Eyres, they did all they could 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 he thought he had obtained a clue to the men who killed John. He promised to go back the following day and tell Mr. Eyre more about it. But he did not. And they never saw him afterwards. Mrs. Eyre used to say to me that she 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 Luke should have found the men, and been imprudent enough to allow them to know 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’s heart was beating as he gazed on her, he alone knew. She was once again the 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 past resentment faded in that moment: nothing was present to him but his love; 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. It surprised 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 that Melbourne was. It was not fit for a lady. We had lodgings in a wooden house, near a spot that had used to be called Canvas Town. The place was crowded 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, but they were full; and then somebody recommended him to get a lodging. It was 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 — money and letters of credit. He had a few bank-notes, only, left in his pocket-book. It never was recovered. I owe my passage-money home, and I believe Captain Cannonby supplied him with some funds — which of course ought 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 it came to him naturally. It was a sort of intermittent fever. At times he was 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 alike full of pain. “He, not always himself; and I, out there in that wretched place, alone. I went down on my knees to him one day, and begged him to send me back to England.”

  “Sibylla!”

  He was unconscious that he called her by the familiar name. He was wishing he could have shielded her from all this. Painful as the retrospect 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 he was kind to us. He got us to change to an hotel — made them find room for us — and then introduced me to the Eyres. Afterwards, he and Fred started from Melbourne, and I went to stay at the Eyres.”

  Lionel did not interrupt her. She had made a pause, her eyes fixed on the fire.

  “A day or two, and Captain Cannonby came back, and said that my husband was dead. I was not very much surprised. I thought he would not live when he left me: he had death written in his face. And so I am alone in the world.”

  She raised her large blue eyes, swimming in tears, to Lionel. It completely disarmed him. He forgot all his prudence, all his caution; he forgot things that it was incumbent upon him to remember; and, as many another has done before him, older and wiser than Lionel Verner, he suffered a moment’s impassioned impulse to fix the destiny of a life.

  “Not alone from henceforth, Sibylla,” he murmured, bending towards her in agitation, his lips apart, his breath coming fast and loud, his che
eks scarlet. “Let me be your protector. I love you more fondly than I have ever done.”

  She was entirely unprepared for the avowal. It may be that she did not know what to make of it — how to understand it. She stepped back, her eyes strained on him inquiringly, her face turning to pallor. Lionel threw his arms around her, drew her to him, and sheltered her on his breast, as if he would ward off ill from her for ever.

  “Be my wife,” he fondly cried, his voice trembling with its own tenderness. “My darling, let this home be yours! Nothing shall part us more.”

  She burst into tears, raised herself, and looked at him. “You cannot mean it! After behaving to you as I did, can you love me still?”

  “I love you far better than ever,” he answered, his voice becoming hoarse with emotion. “I have been striving to forget you ever since that cruel time; and not until to-night did I know how utterly futile has been the strife. You will let me love you! you will help me to blot out its remembrance!”

  She drew a long, deep sigh, like one who is relieved from some wearing pain, and laid her head down again as he had placed it. “I can love you better 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, how he loved me! All the while, Lionel, that you hovered near me — never speaking, 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 the decision, and he asked me to marry him, and to go out to Australia, then papa interfered. He suspected that I cared for you — that you cared for me; and he — he—”

  Sibylla stopped and hesitated.

  “Must I tell you all?” she asked. “Will you never, never repeat it to papa, 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 that Verner’s Pride was left to Frederick, and he ordered me to marry him. He did not say how he knew, it — how he heard it; he only said that it was so. 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. And I 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 how weak, how wrong it was; but you cannot tell how entirely obedient we have always been to papa.”

  “Dr. West became accidentally acquainted with the fact that the property was left away from me,” returned Lionel, in a tone of scorn he could not entirely 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. “I married him, pressed to it by my father, that I might share in Verner’s Pride; and, before the news came out that Verner’s Pride was ours, he was dead. It had lapsed to you, whom I rejected! Lionel, I never supposed that you would cast another thought to me; but, many a time have 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 this new state of things, and her face turned crimson as she looked at Lionel.

  “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 you can make arrangements to remove to some temporary home. Mrs. Tynn will make 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 enough to keep you up,” he added, preparing to depart. “Good-night, my dearest.”

  She burst into fresh tears, and clung to his hand. “I shall be thinking it must be a dream as soon as you leave me. You will be sure to come back and see me to-morrow?”

  “Come back — ay!” he said, with a smile; “Verner’s Pride never contained the magnet for me that it contains now.”

  He gave a few brief orders to Mrs. Tynn and to his own servant, and quitted the house. Neither afraid of ghosts nor thieves, he took the field way, the road which led by the Willow Pond. It was a fine, cold night, his mind was unsettled, his blood was heated, and the lonely route appeared to him preferable to the one through the village.

  As he passed the Willow Pond with a quick step, he caught a glimpse of some figure bending over it, as if it were looking for something in the water, 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 happen on his estate, Lionel strode towards the figure and caught it by the arm. The head was flung upwards at the touch, and Lionel recognised Robin Frost.

  “Robin! what do you do here?” he questioned, his tone somewhat severe in spite of its kindness.

  “No harm,” answered the man. “There be times, Mr. Lionel, when I am forced to come. If I am in my bed, and the thought comes over me that I may see her if I only stay long enough upon the brink of this here water, which was her ending, I’m obliged to get up and come here. There be nights, sir, when I have stood here from sunset to sunrise.”

  “But you never have seen her, Robin?” returned Lionel, humouring his grief.

  “No; never. But it’s no reason why I never may. Folks say there be some of 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,” returned Robin, in a low whisper; and there was something so wild in the man’s tone as to make Lionel doubt his perfect sanity. “Many a time do I hear her voice a-calling to me. It comes at all hours, abroad and at home; in the full sunshine, and in the dark night. ‘Robin!’ it says, ‘Robin!’ But it never says nothing more.”

  Lionel laid his hand on the man’s shoulder, and drew him with him. “I am going 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,” he resumed, more calmly; “Mrs. Massingbird, that is. Somebody said they saw her at the station. Have you seen her, sir?”

  “Yes; I have,” replied Lionel.

  “Does she say anything about John Massingbird?” continued the man, with feverish eagerness. “Is he dead? or is he alive?”

  “He is dead, Robin. There has never been a doubt upon the point since the 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. “And Luke Roy, sir? Is he coming? I’m a-waiting for him.”

  “Of Luke, Mrs. Massingbird knows nothing. For myself, I think he is sure to come home, sooner or later.”

  “Heaven send him!” aspirated Robin.

  Lionel saw the man turn to his home, and very soon afterwards he was at his mother’s. Lady Verner had retired for the night. Decima and Lucy were about retiring. They had risen from their seats, and Decima — who was too cautious to trust it to servants — was taking the fire off the grate. They looked inexpressibly surprised at the entrance of Lionel.

  “I have come an a visit, Decima,” began he, speaking in a gay tone. “Can you take me in?”

  She did not understand
him, and Lionel saw by the questioning expression of her face that Lady Verner had not made public the contents of his note 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 a refreshing dew. Why it should do so, he did not seek to analyse; and he was all too self-conscious that he dared not.

  “A friend has come unexpectedly on a visit, and taken possession of Verner’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 was there no room left for you?”

  “No,” answered Lionel.

  “What very unconscionable people they must be, to invade you in such numbers as that! You can have your old chamber, Lionel. But I will just go and speak to Catherine.”

  She hastened from the room. Lionel stood before the fire, positively turning his back upon Lucy Tempest. Was his conscience already smiting him? 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 the threatened 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 brow contracting as does that of one in unpleasant thought. Was he recalling the 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 his bed, turning and tossing from side to side. His conscience was smiting him — smiting him from more points than one. Carried away by the impulse of the moment, he had spoken words that night, in his hot passion, which might not be redeemed; and now that the leisure for reflection was come, he could not conceal from himself that he had been too hasty. Lionel Verner 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 case deserved. It was so now. He loved Sibylla — there had been no mistake there; but it is certain that the unexpected delight of meeting her, her presence palpably before him in all its beauty, her manifested sorrow and grief, her lonely, unprotected position, had all worked their effect upon 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, he did not love Sibylla as he had loved her of old; else why should the image of Lucy Tempest present itself to him surrounded by a halo of regret? The point is as unpleasant for us to touch upon, as it was to Lionel to think of: but the fact was all too palpable, and cannot be suppressed. He did love Sibylla: nevertheless there obtruded the unwelcome reflection that, in asking her to be his wife, he had been hasty; that it had been better had he taken time for consideration. He almost doubted whether Lucy would not have been more acceptable to him; not loved yet so much as Sibylla, but better suited to him in all other ways; worse than this, he doubted whether he had not in honour bound himself tacitly to Lucy that very day.