Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/364

356 Towards morning he dropped into an uneasy sleep. He awoke later than his usual hour from a dream of Frederick Massingbird. Dreams play us strange fantasies. Lionel’s had taken him to that past evening, prior to Frederick 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 the interview over again, and the first words when he awoke, rushing over his brain with minute and unpleasant reality, were those he had himself spoken in reference to Sibylla:—“Were she free as air this moment, were she to come to my feet, and say ‘Let me be your wife,’ I should tell her that the whole world was before her to choose from, save myself. She can never again be anything to me.”

Brave words: fully believed in when they were spoken: but what did Lionel think of them now?

He went down to breakfast. He was rather late, and found they had assembled. Lady Verner, who had just heard for the first time of Lionel’s presence in the house, made no secret now of Lionel’s note to her. Therefore Decima and Lucy knew that the “invasion” of Verner’s Pride had been caused by Mrs. Massingbird.

She—Lady Verner—scarcely gave herself time to greet Lionel before she commenced upon it. She did not conceal, or seek to conceal, her sentiments—either of Sibylla herself, or of the step she had taken. And Lionel had the pleasure of hearing his intended bride alluded to, in a manner that was not altogether complimentary.

He could not stop it. He could not take upon himself the defence of Sibylla, 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 courage to bring home to himself his own dishonour: to avow that, after wooing her (it was very like it), he had turned round and asked another to marry him. The morning sun shone into the room upon the snowy cloth, upon the silver breakfast service, upon the exquisite cups of painted porcelain, upon those seated round the table. Decima sat opposite to Lady Verner, Lionel and Lucy were face to face on either side. The walls exhibited a few choice paintings; the room and its appurtenances were in excellent taste. Lady Verner liked things that pleased the eye. That silver service had been a recent present of Lionel’s, who had delighted in showering elegancies and comforts upon his mother since his accession.

“What could have induced her ever to think of taking up her residence at Verner’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 learnt Mrs. Verner was dead.”

“She did learn it there?”

“Yes. She learnt 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 her remarks.

“She was so fatigued, so low-spirited, that I believed she was scarcely conscious where she drove,” he returned. “I am certain that the idea of there being any impropriety in it never once crossed her mind.”

Lady Verner drew her shawl around her with a peculiar movement. If ever action expressed scorn, that one did;—scorn of Sibylla, scorn of her conduct, scorn of Lionel’s credulity in believing in her. Lionel read it all. Happening to glance across the table, he caught the eyes of Lucy Tempest fixed upon him with an open expression of wonder. Wonder at what? At his believing in Sibylla? It might be. With all Lucy’s straightforward plainness, she would have been one of the last to storm Lionel’s abode, and take refuge in it. A retort, defending Sibylla, had been 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 present plans may be,” he answered, his cheek burning at the thought of the avowal he had to make—that her future plans would be contingent upon his. Not the least painful of the results which Lionel’s haste had brought in its train, was the knowledge of the shock it would prove to his mother, whom he so loved and reverenced. Why had he not thought of it at the time?

Breakfast over, Lionel went out, a very coward. A coward, in so far as that he had shrunk from making yet the confession. He was aware that it ought to be done. The presence of Decima and Lucy Tempest had been his mental excuse for putting off the unwelcome task.

But a better frame of mind came over him ere he had gone many paces from the door; better, at any rate, as regarded the cowardice.

“A Verner never shrank yet from his duty,” was his comment, as he bent his steps back again. “Am I turning renegade?”

He went straight up to Lady Verner, and asked her, in a low tone, to grant him a minute’s private interview. They had breakfasted in the room which made the ante-room to the drawing-room: it was their usual morning-room. Lady Verner answered her son by stepping into the drawing-room.

He followed her and closed the door. The fire was but just lighted, scarcely giving out any heat. She slightly shivered, and requested him to stir it. He did so mechanically; wholly absorbed by the revelation he had to impart. He remembered how she had once fainted at nearly the same revelation.

“Mother, I have a communication to make to you,” he began with desperate energy. “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 looked composedly at Lionel. She did not dread the communication very much. He was 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 widow of Frederick Massingbird, than she would have done to his marrying that gentleman’s wife. Buried in this semi-security, the shock must be all the greater.