Dr. West may be believed. Do you know, Lionel, what I fancy he thinks?”
“What?” asked Lionel.
“That if mamma were obliged to exert and rouse herself; were like any poor person, for instance, who cannot lie by and be nursed, she would be well directly. And—unkind, unlike a daughter as it may seem in me to acknowledge it—I do very much incline to the same opinion.”
Lionel made no reply.
“Only Dr. West has not the candour to say so,” went on Decima. “So long as he can keep her lying here, he will do it; she is a good patient for him. Poor mamma gives way, and he helps her to do it. I wish she would discard him, and trust to Jan.”
“You don’t like Dr. West, Decima?”
“I never did,” said Decima. “And I believe that, in skill, Jan is quite equal to him. There’s this much to be said of Jan, that he is sincere and open as if he were made of glass. Jan will never keep a patient in bed unnecessarily, or give the smallest dose more than is absolutely requisite. Did you hear of Sir Rufus Hautley sending for Jan?”
“No.”
“He is ill, it seems. And when he sent to Dr. West’s, he expressly desired that it might be Mr. Jan Verner to answer the summons. Dr. West will not forgive that in a hurry.”
“That comes of prejudice,” said Lionel; “prejudice not really deserved by Dr. West. Since the reading of the will, Sir Rufus has been bitter against the Massingbirds; and Dr. West, as connected with them, comes in for his share of the feeling.”
“I hope he may not deserve it in any worse way than as connected with them,” returned Decima, with more acrimony than she, in her calm gentleness, was accustomed to speak.
The significant tone struck Lionel. “What do you mean, Decima?”
Decima glanced round. They were standing at the far end of the corridor at the window which overlooked the domains of Sir Rufus Hautley. The doors of the several rooms were closed, and no one was about. Decima spoke in a whisper.
“Lionel, I cannot divest myself of the opinion that—that—”
“That what?” he asked, looking at her in wonder, for she was hesitating strangely, her manner shrinking, her voice awestruck.
“That it was Dr. West who took the codicil.”
Lionel’s face flushed—partially with pain; he did not like to hear it said, even by Decima.
“You have never suspected so much yourself?” she asked.
“Never, never. I hope I never shall suspect it. Decima, you perhaps cannot help the thought, but you can help speaking of it.”
“I did not mean to vex you. Somehow, Lionel, it is for your sake that I seem to have taken a dislike to the Wests—”
“To take a dislike to people is no just cause for accusing them of crime,” he interrupted. “Decima, you are not like yourself to-day.”
“Do you suppose that it is my dislike which caused me to suspect him? No, Lionel. I seem to see people and their motives very clearly: and I do honestly believe”—she dropped her voice still lower—“that Dr. West is a man capable of almost anything. At the time when the codicil was being searched for, I used to think and think it over, how it could be—how it could have disappeared. All its points, all its bearings, I deliberated upon again and again. One certain thing was, the codicil could not have disappeared from the desk without its having been taken out. Another point, almost equally certain to my mind, was that my Uncle Stephen did not take it out, but died in the belief that it was in, and that it would give you your inheritance. A third point was, that whoever took it must have had some strong motive for the act. Who (with possible access to the desk) could have had this motive, even in a remote degree? There were but two—Dr. West and Mrs. Verner. Mrs. Verner I judge to be incapable of anything so wrong; Dr. West I believe to be capable of even worse than that. Hence I drew my deductions.”
“Deductions which I shall never accept, and which I would advise you to get rid of, Decima,” was his answer. “My dear, never let such an accusation cross your lips again.”
“I never shall. I have told you; and that is enough. I have longed to tell you for some time past. I did not think you would believe me.”
“Believe it, say, Decima. Dr. West take the codicil! Were I to bring myself to that belief, I think all my faith in man would go out. You are sadly prejudiced against the Wests.”
“And you in their favour,” she could not help saying. “But I shall ever be thankful for one thing—that you have escaped Sibylla.”
Was he thankful for it? Scarcely. While that pained heart of his, those coursing pulses, could beat on in this tumultuous manner at the bare sound of her name.
In the silence that ensued—for neither felt inclined to break it—they heard a voice in the hall below, inquiring whether Mr. Verner was within. Lionel recognised it as Tynn’s.
“For all I know he is,” answered old Catherine. “I saw him a few minutes agone in the court out there, a talking to the doctor.”
“Will you please ask if I can speak to him.”
Lionel did not wait further, but descended to the hall. The butler, in his deep mourning, had taken his seat on the bench. He rose as Lionel approached.
“Well, Tynn, how are you? What is it?”
“My mistress has sent me to ask if you’d be so kind as come to Verner’s Pride, sir?” said Tynn, standing with his hat in his hand. “She bade me say that she did not feel well enough, or she’d have written you a note with the request, but she wishes particular to see you.”
“Does she wish to see me to-day?”
“As soon as ever you could get there, sir, I fancy. I am sure she meant to-day.”
“Very well, Tynn. I’ll come over. How is Mrs. Verner?”
“She’s very well, sir, now; but she gets worried on all sides about things out-of-doors.”
“Who worries her with those tales?” asked Lionel.
