Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/363

. 20, 1862.] 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 on 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: 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 later in the day?

he did not recal 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, all had 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.

The fit of repentance was upon him, and he tossed and turned from side to side upon his uneasy bed. But, toss and turn as he would, he could not undo his night’s work. There remained nothing for him but to carry it out, and make the best of it; and he strove to deceive his conscience with the hope that Lucy Tempest, in her girlish innocence, had not understood his hinted allusions to her becoming his wife: that she had looked upon his snatched caresses as but trifling pastime, such as he might offer to a child. Most unjustifiable he now felt those hints, those acts to have been, and his brow grew red with shame at their recollection. One thing he did hope, hope sincerely—that Lucy did not care for him. That she liked him very much, and had been on most confidential terms with him, he knew: but he did hope her liking went no deeper. Strange sophistry! how it will deceive the human heart! how prone 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 delusion that Lucy did love him.