Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  Miss West herself was thinking the same — that help from her father never would come.

  This conversation between Jan and Lionel had taken place at Verner’s Pride, in the afternoon subsequent to the arrival of Dr. West’s letter. Deborah West had also received one from her father. She learned by it that he was about to retire from the partnership, and that Mr. Jan Verner would carry on the practice alone. The doctor intimated that she and Amilly would continue to live on in the house with Mr. Jan’s permission, whom he had asked to afford them house-room; and he more loudly promised to transmit them one hundred pounds per annum, in stated payments, as might be convenient to him.

  The letter was read three times over by both sisters. Amilly did not like it, but upon Deborah it made a painfully deep impression. Poor ladies! Since the discovery of the codicil they had gone about Deerham with veils over their faces and their heads down, inclined to think that lots in this world were dealt out all too unequally.

  At the very time that Jan was at Verner’s Pride that afternoon, Deborah sat alone in the dining-room, pondering over the future. Since the finding of the codicil, neither of the sisters had cared to seat themselves in state in the drawing-room, ready to receive visitors, should they call. They had no heart for it. They chose, rather, to sit in plain attire, and hide themselves in the humblest and most retired apartment. They took no pride now in anointing their scanty curls with castor 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 changed for the old turned black silk of the afternoon. Her elbow rested on the faded and not very clean table-cover, and her fingers were running unconsciously 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 face it, and make the best of it. If Jan Verner and her father were about to dissolve partnership, and the practice henceforth was to be Jan’s, what was to become of her and Amilly? Taught by past experience, she knew how much dependence was to be placed upon her father’s promise to pay to them an income. Very little reliance indeed could be placed on Dr. West in 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’s imagination. The proposed dissolution of partnership she believed in: she had expected Jan to take the step ever since that night which restored the codicil.

  “I had better ask Mr. Jan about it,” she murmured. “It is of no use to remain in this uncertainty.”

  Rising from her seat, she proceeded to the side-door, opened it, and glanced cautiously out through the rain, not caring to be seen by strangers in her present attire. There was nobody about, and she crossed the little path and entered the surgery. Master Cheese, with somewhat of a scorchy look in the eyebrows, but full of strength and appetite as ever, turned round at her entrance.

  “Is Mr. Jan in?” she asked.

  “No, he is not,” responded Master Cheese, speaking indistinctly, for he had 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. “I wish he would come back! If a message came for one of us, I don’t care to 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 from Lady 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 her finger.”

  “Be so kind as tell Mr. Jan, when he does come in, that I should be glad to 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 sat down in the parlour, as before. She knew that she ought to go up and dress, but she had not spirits for it.

  She sat there until Jan entered. Full an hour, it must have been, and she had turned over all points in her mind, what could and what could not be done. It did not appear much that could be. Jan came in, rather wet. On his road from Verner’s Pride he had overtaken one of his poor patients, who was in delicate health, and had lent the woman his huge cotton 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 to take a chair. Mr. Jan responded by partially sitting down on the arm of one.

  “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 practice will be carried on by you alone, on your own account; and that — but you had 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 Jan was accustomed to it. The letter was soon read.

  “It’s true, Miss Deb. The doctor thinks he shall not be returning to Deerham, and so I am going to take to the whole of the practice,” continued Jan, who possessed too much innate good feeling to hint to Miss 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 and Cheese want with all this big house to ourselves? Besides, if you and Amilly go, who’d see to our shirts and the puddings?”

  “When papa went away at first, was there not some arrangement made by which the furniture became yours?”

  “No,” stoutly answered Jan. “I paid something to him to give me, as he called it, a half-share in it with himself. It was a stupid sort of arrangement, and one that I should never care to act upon, Miss Deb. The furniture is yours; not mine.”

  “Mr. Jan, you would give up your right in everything, I believe. You will 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 can pay the housekeeping bills. Your stopping here will be a saving,” good-naturedly added Jan. “With nobody in the house to manage, except servants, only think the waste there’d be! Cheese would be for getting two dinners a day served, fish, and fowls, and tarts at each.”

  The tears were struggling in Deborah West’s eyes. She did her best to repress 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 there was no longer any place in the world for me and Amilly. You may be sure I would not mention it, but that you know it as well as I do — that there is, I fear, no dependence to be placed on this promise of papa’s, to allow us an income. I have been thinking—”

  “Don’t let that trouble you, Miss Deb,” interrupted Jan, tilting himself backwards over the arm of the chair in a very ungraceful fashion, and leaving his legs dangling. “Others will, if he wo — if he can’t. Lionel has just been saying that as Sibylla’s sisters, he shall see that you don’t want.”

  “You and he are very kind,” she answered, the tears dropping faster than she could wipe them away. “But it seems to me the time is come when we ought 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 single good 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 in this house while we were getting a few together; establishing it, as it were. 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? It might prove an attraction.”

  It was a novel feature in a school prospectus, and Miss Deb had to take some minutes to consider it. She came to the conclusion that it would look 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 to you. But I hope,” she added, moderating her tone of satisfaction, “that they’d not think it meant Master Cheese. People would not have much faith in him, I fear.”

  “Tell them to the contrary,” answered Jan. “And Cheese will be leaving shortly, you know.”

  “True,” said Miss Deb. “Mr. Jan,” she added, a strange eagerness in her tone, in her meek, blue eyes, “if we, I and Amilly, can only get into the way of doing something for ourselves, by which we may be a little independent, and look forward to be kept out of the workhouse in our old age, we shall feel as if removed from a dreadful nightmare. Circumstances have been preying upon us, Mr. Jan: the care is making us begin to look old before we might have looked it.”

  Jan answered with a laugh. That notion of the workhouse was so good, he said. 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 two sisters, and Miss Deb sat on, crying silently.

  How many of these silent tears must be shed in the path through life! It would appear that the lot of some is only made to shed them, and to bear.

  CHAPTER XCII.

  AT LAST!

  Meanwhile the spring was going on to summer — and in the strict order of precedence that conversation of Miss Deb’s with Jan ought to have been related before the departure of John Massingbird and the Roys from Deerham. But it does not signify. The Misses West made their arrangements and sent out their prospectuses, and the others left: it all happened in the spring-time. That time was giving place to summer when the father of Lucy Tempest, now Colonel Sir Henry Tempest, landed in 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 was on his road home, by the sea passage, but precisely when he might be expected, 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 met occasionally, but nothing further had passed between them. Lionel was silent; possibly he deemed it too soon after his wife’s death to speak of love to another, although the speaking of it would have been news to neither. Lucy was a great deal at Lady Hautley’s. Decima would have had her there permanently; but Lady Verner negatived it.

  They were sitting at breakfast one morning, Lady Verner and Lucy, when the 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; but the 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 at Southampton, Lucy turned pale with agitation. It seemed a formidable thing, now it had come so close, to meet her father, whom she had not seen for so many years.

  “When is he coming here?” she breathlessly asked.

  “To-morrow,” replied Lady Verner; not speaking until she had glanced over the whole contents of the letter. “He purposes to remain a day and a 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 come back?” 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 glad to get away from it. The London season is at its height.”

  Lucy laughed and blushed somewhat consciously. She thought she should not 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 to do nothing to-morrow when Sir Henry is here.”

  Lucy toyed with her tea-spoon, toyed with her breakfast; but the capability of eating more had left her. The suddenness of the announcement had taken away her appetite, and a hundred doubts were tormenting her. Should she never again return to Deerham? — never again see Li —

  “We must make a call or two to-day, Lucy.”

  The interruption, breaking in upon her busy thoughts, caused her to start. Lady Verner resumed.

  “This morning must be devoted to business; to the giving directions as to clothes, packing, and such like. I can tell you, Lucy, that you will have a great deal of it to do yourself; Catherine’s so incapable since she got that rheumatism in her hand. Thérèse will have enough to see to with my things.”

  “I can do it all,” answered Lucy. “I can—”

  “What next, my dear? You pack! Though Catherine’s hand is painful, she can do something.”

  “Oh, yes, we shall manage very well,” cheerfully answered Lucy. “Did you say we should have to go out, Lady Verner?”

  “This afternoon. For one place, we must go to the Bitterworths. You cannot go away without seeing them, and Mrs. Bitterworth is too ill just now 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 to her room after breakfast, and soon became deep in her preparations with old Catherine; Lucy doing the chief part of the work, in spite of Catherine’s remonstrances. But her thoughts were not with her hands; they remained buried in that speculation of Lady Verner’s — would Lionel be there that day?

  The time went on to the afternoon, and he had not come. They stepped into the carriage (for Lady Verner could indulge in the luxury of horses again now) to make their calls, and he had not come. Lucy’s heart palpitated strangely at the doubt of whether she should really depart without seeing him. A very improbable doubt, considering the contemplated arrival at Deerham Court of Sir Henry Tempest.

  As they passed Dr. West’s old house, Lady Verner ordered the carriage to turn the corner and stop at the door. “Mr. Jan Verner” was on the plate now, where “West and Verner” used to be. Master Cheese unwillingly disturbed himself to come out, for he was seated over a washhand-basin of gooseberry fool, which he had got surreptitiously made for him in the kitchen. Mr. Jan was out, he said.

  So Lady Verner ordered the carriage on, leaving a message for Jan that she wanted some more “drops” made up.

  They paid the visit to Mrs. Bitterworth. Mr. Bitterworth was not at home. He had gone to see Mr. Verner. A sudden beating of the heart, a rising flush in the cheeks, a mist for a moment before her eyes, and Lucy was being whirled to Verner’s Pride. Lady Verner had ordered the carriage thither, as they left Mrs. Bitterworth’s.

  They found them both in the drawing-room. Mr. Bitterworth had just risen to leave, and was shaking hands with Lionel. Lady Verner interrupted them with the news of Lucy’s departure; of her own.

  “Sir Henry will be here to-morrow,” she said to Lionel. “He takes Lucy to London with him the following day, and I accompany them.”

  Lionel, startled, looked round at Lucy. She was not looking at him. Her eyes were averted — her face was flushed.

  “But you are not going for good, Miss Lucy!” cried Mr. Bitterworth.

  “She is,” replied La
dy Verner. “And glad enough, I am sure, she must be, to get away from stupid Deerham. She little thought, when she came to it, that her sojourn in it would be so long as this. I have seen the rebellion, 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 to Lucy.

  “Need you go for good, Lucy?”

  She raised her eyes to him with a shy glance, and Lionel, with a half-uttered exclamation of emotion, caught her to his breast, and took his first long silent kiss of love from her lips. It was not like those snatched kisses of years ago.

  “My darling! my darling! God alone knows what my love for you has been.”

  Another shy glance at him through her raining tears. Her heart was beating against his. Did the glance seem to ask why, then, had he not spoken? 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, to lay the case before him. He may refuse you to me!”

  “If he should — I will tell him — that I shall never have further interest in life,” was her agitated answer.

  And Lionel’s own face was working with emotion, as he kissed those tears away.

  At last! at last!

  CHAPTER XCIII.

  LADY VERNER’S “FEAR.”

  The afternoon express-train was steaming into Deerham station, just as Jan Verner was leaping his long legs over rails and stones and shafts, and other obstacles apt to collect round the outside of a halting-place for trains, to get to it. Jan did not want to get to the train; he had no business with it. He only wished to say a word to one of the railway-porters, whose wife he was attending. By the time he had reached the platform the train was puffing on again, and the few passengers who had descended were about to disperse.