say to inquisitive friends, “We could not attend it, we were engaged to Heartburg.” Many a lady, of more account in the world than Deborah and Amilly West, has resorted to a less innocent ruse to conceal a slight offered. Jan had despatched Master Cheese that morning with the information of Sibylla’s illness; and here they were back again, full of grief, of consternation, and ready to show it in their demonstrative way.
Lionel hastened out to them, a Hush—sh! upon his tongue. He caught hold of them as they were hastening in.
“Yes; but not like this. Be still for her sake.”
Deborah looked at his pale face, reading it aright.
“Is she so ill as that?” she gasped. “Is there no hope?”
He only shook his head.
“Whatever you do, preserve a calm demeanour before her. We must keep her in tranquillity.”
“Master Cheese says she went to the ball—and danced,” said Deborah. “Mr. Verner, why did you allow it?”
“She did go,” he answered. “It was no fault of mine.”
Heavier footsteps up the stairs now. They were those of the physician, who had come by the train which had brought the Miss Wests. He, Dr. Hayes, entered the room, and they stole in after him; Lionel followed; Jan came bustling in, and made another; and Lucy remained outside.
Lady Verner saw Dr. Hayes when he was going away.
“There was no change,” he said, in answer to her inquiries; “Mrs. Verner was certainly in a very weak, sick state, and—there was no change.”
The Miss Wests removed their travelling garments, and took up their stations in the sick room—not to leave it again until the life should have departed from Sibylla. Lionel remained in it. Decima and Catherine went in and out, and Jan made frequent visits to the house.
“Tell papa it is the leaving Verner’s Pride that has killed me,” said Sibylla to Amilly with nearly her latest breath.
There was no bed for any of them that night, any more than there had been the previous one. A life was hovering in the balance. Lucy sat with Lady Verner, and the rest went in to them occasionally, taking news. Dawn was breaking when one went in for the last time.
It was Jan. He had come to break the tidings to his mother, and he sat himself down on the arm of the sofa—Jan fashion—while he did it.
The flickering lamp of life had burnt out at last.
A PICTURE IN THREE PANELS.
How many years is it, I ask, since I first listened to that music? And you come and lean over the back of my chair and call me foolish. I know you are there, though I do but look on into the fire and read from a book whose pages no printing-press hath touched. Foolish, am I? Well, I am only living over again some old days, happy and unhappy, which have made you and me what we are. Foolish! You forget that you have been playing the “Coro religioso,” and that when I first heard it—well, go your way, and while you are gone, let me think out the story, and paint my picture.
PANEL I.
You stood, one of a merry party, near the piano, with your hand on the chair of the player, even as it rested on mine but now. I saw you for the first time, and you were singing the “Coro religioso:” I heard your voice amongst all others, distinct and clear. I was to have taken the Count’s part, but foolish then as I am now, some strange bewilderment seized me, and your Cousin Ernest Haughton stepped forward with his resolute, musical “No, no, non piu,” which I ought to have sung. I sank back abashed, and looked at you both. His hand touched your shoulder—how dared he? And I saw how handsome he was, how polished; with “gentleman” written in every line of his mobile face and every movement of his figure. I heard some one say, “well matched,” and it was true. You looked well together—a fitting couple. Do you see me there, in the dark shadow of the door, biting my moustache and watching you? I was a great, strong, rough fellow compared with Ernest, and I felt it. I was unused to ladies’ society; no mother or sister had taught me gentleness, or its simulation; and so, seeing you for the first time, and feeling my own awkwardness, jealousy took possession of me. I would have had that smoothfaced Ernest out on the hill side with the hounds in full cry and a mighty fence before him; then, would he have beaten me? But there, in the drawing-room, he shone and triumphed, while I stood in the shade watching him.
There is the first panel of my picture. You remember it, I know, but it is not written on your brain as it is on mine.
Its colour was on the days that followed, and it had set a mark on my life for ever. You know how at first you thought me shy and awkward, and in your kindness tried to draw out my scanty words on every occasion; at least, I thought so, and I would not be drawn out. I preferred watching you and your cousin, gloomily; I was in a fever of infatuation, or I should have quitted the house that held you at once, instead of lingering on, buying dearly my first knowledge of the great passions of life. Ernest Haughton would have made friends with me, but I repulsed him; at times I heard him speak light words, which shook my first acknowledgment of admiration for him, and I believed from my heart that he was not worthy of you. Was I? That question never occurred to me; I contented myself with seeing his faults, not thinking of my own. I had a jealous envy of him, for all that; I delighted to outdo him in any way; often I have startled you by some wild feat of daring which I knew Ernest with all his high spirit, would never attempt, but he only laughed at me. Once, I remember, your face grew pale at a momentary danger which I had scorned to fear, and when I saw that, a mad