Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/446

438 As to what Lucy may consider or not consider in the matter, that is of very little consequence. Lucy is so perfectly unsophisticated, so simple in her ideas, that were I to desire my maid Thérèse to give her a lecture, 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 I had been all over the house for her, Catherine told me Miss Decima had gone out. She has gone to Clay Lane on some errand for Jan.”

“Oh, of course for Jan!” resentfully spoke Lady Verner. “Nothing else, I should 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 the handle in her hand, turning round to speak.

“Lucy, I have been acquainting Lionel with this affair between you and Lord Garle. I have requested him to speak to you upon the point; to ascertain your precise grounds of objection, and—so far as he can—to do 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 so innocent, so good, in her delicate morning dress, with its grey ribbons and its white lace on the sleeves, open to the small fair arms. Simple as the dress was, it looked, in its exquisite taste, worth ten of Sibylla’s elaborate French costumes. Her cheeks were glowing, her hands were trembling, as she stood there in her self-consciousness.

Terribly self-conscious was Lionel. He strove to say something, but in his embarrassment could not get out a single word. The conviction of the grievous fact, that she loved him, went right to his heart in that moment, 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 the suspicion away from his mind, refused to dwell on it, kept it down, it was all too plain to him now. He had made Sibylla his wife: and he stood there, 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 his white and trembling lips. “My own punishment is heavier than yours.”

There was no need of further explanation on either side. Each knew that the love of the other was theirs, the punishment keenly bitter, as surely as if a hundred words had told it. Lucy sat down as the door closed behind him, and wondered how she should get through the long dreary life before her.

And Lionel? Lionel went out by Jan’s favourite way, the back, and plunged into a dark lane where neither ear nor eye was on him. He uncovered his head, he threw back his coat, he lifted his breath to catch only a gasp of air. The sense of dishonour was stifling him.

was just in that frame of mind which struggles to be carried out of itself. No matter whether by pleasure or pain, so that it be not that particular pain from which it would fain escape, the mind seeks yearningly to forget itself, to be lifted out anywhere, or by any means, from its trouble. Conscience was doing heavy work with Lionel. He had destroyed his own happiness: that was nothing; he could battle it out, and nobody be the wiser or the worse, save himself: but he had blighted Lucy’s. There was the sting that tortured him. A man of sensitively refined organisation, keenly alive to the feelings of others—full of repentant consciousness when wrong was worked through him, he would have given his whole future life, and all its benefits, to undo 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 would have preferred to recall, he did not trust himself to think: whatever may have been his faults, he had, until now, believed himself to be a man 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: it was one of those unhappy things for which there is no redress; they must be borne, as they best can, in patience and silence.

With these thoughts and feelings full upon him, little wonder was there that Lionel Verner, some two hours after quitting Lucy, should turn into Peckaby’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, and he stepped in to question her: anything for a minute’s divertisement; anything to drown the care that was racking him. There was a subject on which 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, curtsied, and sat down again. But for the state of tribulation she was in, she would have remained standing.

“Oh, sir, I have just had a upset!” she sobbed. “I see the white tail of a pony a-going by, and I thought it might be some ’at else. It did give me a turn!”

“What did you think it might be?”

“I thought it might be the tail of a different sort of animal. I be a-going a far journey, sir, and I thought it was, may be, the quadruple come 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 heavy heart. “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. “The gentleman that was sent back to me by Brother Jarrum, hadn’t had particulars revealed to him. There’s difficulties in the way of a animal on four legs, which can’t swim, doing it all, that I don’t pertend to explain away. I’m content, when the hour comes, sir, to start, and trust. Peckaby, he’s awful