Verner's Pride

Front matter

BY MRS. HENRY WOOD, AUTHOR of "east lynne," "the channings," "johnny ludlow," etc., etc. Œ&trtietf) lEtfftton LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, publishers in ©rtinarg to $tr fHajcstg tfjr ©uern. 1888. (All rights reserved.) LONDON: PRINTED EY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, Limited STAMFORD STREET AUD CHARING CROSS. CONTENTS. CHAPTER TAGE I. Rachel Frost... ... ... ... ... i LT. The Willow Pond ... ... ... n III. The News brought Home ... ... ... iS IV. The Crowd in the Moonlight ... ... 23 V. The Tall Gentleman in the Lane ... ... 26 VI. Dinah Roy's "Ghost" ... ... ... 35 VII. The Revelation at the Inquest ... ... 42 VIII. Robin's Vow ... ... ... ... 47 IX. Mr. Verner's Estrangement ... ... ... 52 X. Lady Verner ... ... ... ... 56 XI. Lucv Tempest ... ... ... ... 60 XII. Dr. West's Home ... ... ... ... 68 XIII.

A Contemplated Voyage ... ... ... 77 XIV. The Night before the Wedding ... ... 84 XV. A Troubled Mind ... ... ... ... 86 XVI. The Will altered ... ... ... 92 XVII. Disappeared ... ... ... ... ... 96 XVIII. Perplexity ... ... ... ... 102 XIX. The Revelation to Lady Verner ... ... 105 XX. Dry Work ... ... ... ... CONTENTS. VI CHAPTER PAGE XXI. A Whispered Suspicion ... ... ... iJ3 XXII. The Peckabys ... ... ... ... n6 XXIII. Days and Nights of Pain ... ... ... i25 XXIV. Dangerous Companionship ... ... 131 XXV. Home Truths for Lionel ... ... ... 135 X-XVI. The Packet in the Drawer ... ... 140 XXVII. Dr. West's Sanctum ... ... ... 145 XXVIII. Miss Deborah's Astonishment ... ... 153 XXIX. An Intercepted Journey ... ... ... 157 XXX. News from Australia ... ... ... 160 XXXI. Roy eating Humble-pie ... ... ... 165 XXXII.

Jan's Remedy for a Cold ... ... 171 XXXIII. Improvements ... ... ... ... ... 176 XXXIV. Back again ... ... ... ... 179 XXXV. A Moment's Delirium ... ... ... 184 XXXVI. News for Lady Verner ... ... ... 192 XXXVII. Brother Jarrum ... ... ... ... 197 XXXVIII. A Visit of Ceremony ... ... ... 206 XXXIX. A Special Vision ... ... ... ... 211 XL. A Surprise for Mrs. Tvnn ... ... 217 XLI. Lionel's Prayer for Forgiveness ... ... 323 XLII. Farmer Blow's White-tailed Pony ... 229 XLIII. Stifled with Dishonour ... ... ... Zja XLIV. Shadowed-forth Embarrassment ... .. 239 XLV. The Yew-tree on the Lawn ... ... ... 245 XLVI. Dan Duff ... ... ... ... 254 XLVII. Mr. and Mrs. Verner ... ... ... ... 262 XLVIII. Matthew Frost's Night Encounter ... 27, XLIX. Master Cheese's Fright ... ... ... 28o L. Mrs. Duff's Bill ... ... ... ...

Chapter I. Rachel Frost

THE rays of the afternoon sun, drawing towards the horizon, fell on a fair scene of country life ; flickered through the young foliage of the oak and lime-trees, touched the budding hedges, rested on the growing grass, all lovely in their early green, and lighted up the windows of the fine mansion, that, rising on a gentle eminence, looked down on that fair scene as if it were its master, and could boast the ownership of those broad lands, of those glinting trees. Not that the house possessed attraction for those whose taste in clined to the antique. No time-worn turrets were there, or gabled ends, or crooked eaves, or mullioned Gothic casements. Neither was the edifice constructed of grey stone, or of bricks toned down with age. It was a handsome, well-built white mansion, giving promise of excellent rooms within, whose chimneys never smoked or windows rattled, and where there was sufficient space to turn in.

The lower windows opened on a gravelled terrace, which ran the whole length of the house, a broad flight of steps descending from its centre. Lawns, gently sloping, extended from the terrace, on either side the steps and the broad walk which branched from them ; lawns gay with parterres of flowers already scenting the air, and giving promise of the advancing summer. Beyond, were covered walks, yielding a shelter from the sultry noontide sun ; shrubberies and labyrinths of intricate turnings and windings, suggestive of secret meetings, were secret meetings desirable ; groves of scented shrubs ; cascades and rippling fountains ; mossy dells, concealing the sweet primrose, the sweeter violet ; and verdant spots open to the country round, the charming distant scenery. These open places were supplied with benches, where you might sit and feast the eyes upon the exquisite views through the livelong summer day.

It was not summer yet — scarcely spring — and the sun, I say, was drawing to its setting, lighting up the large clear windows as with burnished gold. The house, the grounds, the surrounding estate, Verner's Pride. all belonged to Mr. Verner. It had come to him by bequest, not by entailed inheritance. Busybodies were fond of saying that it never ought to have been his ; that if the strict law of right and justice had been observed, it would have gone to his elder brother ; or, rather, to that elder brother's son. Old Mr. Verner, the father of these two brothers, had been a modest country gentleman, until one morning when he awoke to the news that valuable mines had been discovered on his land. The mines brought him wealth, and in his later years he purchased this estate, pulled down the house that was upon it— a high, narrow old tenement, looking like a crazy tower or a capacious belfry — and had erected this one, calling it "Verner's Pride."

An appropriate name. For if ever a poor human creature was proud of a house he has builded, old Mr. Verner was proud of his — proud to folly. He lavished money upon it ; he made its grounds beautiful and seductive as a scene in fairyland ; and he ended by leaving it to the younger of his two sons. These two sons comprised all his family. The elder had gone into the army early, and left for India; the younger had remained always with his father, helping him to make money, sharing in the planning and building of Verner's Pride, living there with him after it was built. The elder son — Captain Verner then — paid one visit only to England, during which visit he married, and took his wife out with him when he went back. These long separations, however much we may feel inclined to ignore the fact, do play strange havoc with home affections, wearing them away inch by inch.

The years went on and on. Captain Verner became Colonel Sir Lionel Verner, and a boy of his had been sent home in due course, and was at Eton. Old Mr. Verner drew near to death. News went out to India that his days were numbered, and Sir Lionel Verner was requested to obtain leave of absence, if possible, and start for home without a day's delay, if he would see his father alive. " If possible," you observe, they added to the request; for the Sikhs were at that time giving trouble in our Indian possessions, and Colonel Verner was one of the experienced officers least likely to be spared. But there is a mandate that must be obeyed whenever it comes to us — grim, imperative death. At the very hour when Mr. Verner was summoning his son to his death-bed, at the precise time that the military authorities in India would have said, if asked, that Colonel Sir Lionel Verner could not be spared, death had marked out that brave officer for his own especial prey.

He fell in one of the skirmishes that took place near Moultan, and the two letters — one going to Europe with tidings of his death, the other going to India with news of his father's illness— crossed each other on the route. " Steevy," said old Mr. Verner to his younger son, after giving a passing lament to Sir Lionel, " I shall leave Verner's Pride to you." " Ought it not to go to the lad at Eton, father ? " was the reply of Stephen Verner. "What's the lad at Eton to me?" cried the old man. " I would not have left it away from Lionel, as he was my firstborn ; but it has always seemed to me that you had more right to it ; that to leave it away from you savoured of injustice. You helped to build it, Steevy ; it has been your home as much as it has been mine ; and I'll never turn you from it for a stranger, let him be whose child he may.

No, no ! Verner's Pride shall be yours. But, look you, Stephen ! you have no children ; bring up young Lionel as your heir, and let it descend to him after you." And that is how Stephen Verner had inherited Verner's Pride. Neighbouring gossipers, ever fonder of laying down the law for other people's business than of minding their own, protested against it amongst themselves as a piece of injustice. Had they cause to do so? Many very just-minded persons would consider that Stephen Verner possessed a fairer claim to it than the boy at Eton. I will tell you of one who did not think so. And that was the widow of Sir Lionel Verner. When she arrived from India with her other two children, a son and daughter, she found old Mr. Verner dead, and Stephen the inheritor. Deeply annoyed and disappointed, Lady Verner deemed that a crying wrong had been per petrated upon her and hers.

But she had no power to alter it. Stephen Verner had strictly fulfilled his father's injunctions touching young Lionel. He brought up the boy as his heir. During his days at Eton and at college, Verner's Pride was his home, and he subsequently took up his permanent residence there. Stephen Verner, though long married, had no children. One daughter had been born to him years ago, but had passed away when three or four years old. His wife had died a very short time after the death of his father. He afterwards married again, a widow named Massingbird, who had two nearly grown-up sons. She had brought her sons home with her to Verner's Pride, and they had made it their home ever since. Mr. Verner kept it no secret that his nephew Lionel was to be his heir ; [and, as such, Lionel was universally regarded on the estate.

" Always provided that you merit it," Mr. Verner would say to Lionel in private ; and so he had said to him from the very first. " Be what you ought to be — what I fondly believe my brother Lionel was : a man of goodness, of honour, of integrity ; a gentleman and a Christian in the highest acceptation of the terms— and Verner's Pride shall undoubtedly be yours. But if I find you forget your fair conduct, and forfeit the esteem of good men, so surely will I leave it away from you." And now, after these few words of introduction, we must return to the light of that spring evening. Ascending the broad flight of steps and crossing the terrace, the house door is entered. A spacious hall, paved with delicately grained marble, its windows mellowed by the soft tints of stained glass, gives entrance to reception rooms on either side.

Those to the right are chiefly reserved for state occasions ; those on the left are dedicated to everyday life and use. All these rooms are just now empty of occupants, one excepted. That one is a small room on the right, behind the two great drawing-rooms, and it looks out to the side of the house towards the south. It is called " Mr. Verner's study." And in it sits Mr. Verner himself, leaning back in his chair and reading. A large fire burns in the grate, and he is sitting over it : for he is always chilly. Ay, always chilly. For Mr. Verner's last illness — at least, what will in all probability prove his last ; his ending — has already taken possession of him. One generation passes away after another. It seems only the other day that a last illness seized his father, and now his own turn has come : but several years have elapsed since then.

Mr. Verner is not sixty, and he thinks that age is young for the disorder that has fastened upon him. It is no impatient dis order ; he may live for years yet ; but the end, when it does come, will be tolerably sudden ; and that he knows. It is water on the chest. He is a little man with light eyes ; very much what his father was before him : but not in the least like his late brother Sir Lionel, who was a fine, handsome man. He has a mild, pleasing countenance : but there comes a slight scowl to his brow as he turns hastily at a noisy interruption. Some one had burst into the room— forgetting, probably, that it was the quiet room of an invalid. A tall, dark young man, with broad shoulders and a somewhat peculiar stoop in them. His hair was black, his complexion sallow ; but his features were good.

He might have been called handsome, but for a strange, very ugly mark upon his cheek. A very strange mark indeed, as large as a pigeon's egg, with what looked like radii shooting from it on all sides. Some of the villagers, talking familiarly among themselves, would call it a hedgehog, some would call it a "porkypine;" but it resembled a star-fish as much as anything. That is, if you can imagine a black star-fish. The mark was black as jet ; and his pale cheek, and the fact of his possessing no whiskers, made it the more conspicuous. He was born with the mark; and his mother used to say But that is of no consequence to us. It was Frederick Massingbird, the present Mrs. Verner's younger son. " Roy has come up, sir," said he, addressing Mr. Verner. " He says the Dawsons have turned obstinate and won't go out.

They have barricaded the door, and protest that they'll stay, in spite of him. He wishes to know if he shall use force." " No," said Mr. Verner. " I don't like harsh measures resorted to, and I will not have them attempted. Roy knows that." " Well, sir, he waits your orders. He says there's half the village collected round Dawson's door. The place is in a regular com motion." Mr. Verner looked vexed. Of late years he had declined active management on his estate ; and, since he grew ill, he particularly disliked being disturbed with details. " Where's Lionel ? " he asked peevishly. " I saw Lionel ride out an hour ago. I don't know where he has gone." " Tell Roy to let the affair rest until to-morrow, when Lionel will see to it. And, Frederick, I wish you would remember that a little noise disturbs me : try to come in more quietly.

You burst in as if my nerves were as strong as your own." Mr. Verner turned to his fire again with an air of relief, glad to have got rid of the trouble in some way, and Frederick Massingbird proceeded to what was called the steward's room, where Roy waited. This Roy, a hard-looking man with a face very much seamed with small-pox, was working-bailiff to Mr. Verner. Until within a few years he had been a labourer on the estate. He was not liked among the poorer tenants, and was generally honoured with the appellation of " Old Grips," or " Grip Roy." " Roy," said Frederick Massingbird, " Mr. Verner says it is to be left until to-morrow morning. Mr. Lionel will see about it then. He is out at present." " And let the mob have it all their own way to-night ? " returned Roy, angrily. " They be in a state of mutiny ; saying everything they can lay their tongues to."

" Let them say it," responded Frederick Massingbird. " Leave them alone, and they'll disperse quietly enough. I shall not go in to Mr. Verner again, Roy. I caught it now for disturbing him. You must let it rest until you can see Mr. Lionel." The bailiff went off, growling. He would have liked to receive carte blanche for dealing with the mob — as he was pleased to term them — between whom and himself there was no love lost. As he was crossing a paved yard at the back of the house, some one came hastily out of the laundry in the detached premises at the side, and crossed his path, A very beautiful girl. Her features were delicate, her complexion was fair as alabaster, and a bright colour mantled in her cheeks. But for the modest cap upon her head, a stranger might have been puzzled to guess her condition in life.

She looked gentle and refined as any lady, and her manners and speech would not have destroyed the illusion. She might be called a prote'ge'e of the house, as will be explained presently ; but she acted as maid to Mrs. Verner. The bright colour deepened to a glow when she saw the bailiff. , He put out his hand and stopped her. " Well, Rachel, how are you ? " " Quite well, thank you," she answered, endeavouring to pass on. But he would not suffer it. " I say, I want to come to the bottom of this business between you and Luke," he said, lowering his voice. " What's the rights of it?" " Between me and Luke ? " she repeated, turning upon the bailiff an eye that had some scorn in it, and stopping now of her own accord. " There is no business whatever between me and Luke. There never has been. What do you mean ?

" " Chut ! " cried the bailiff. " Don't I know that he has followed your steps everywhere like a shadder ; that he has been ready to kiss the very ground you trod on ? And right mad I have been with him for it. You can't deny that he has been after you, wanting you to be his wife." " I do not wish to deny it," she replied. " You and the whole world are quite welcome to know all that has passed between me and Luke. He asked to be allowed to come here to see me — to ' court ' me, as he phrased it ; which I distinctly declined. Then he took to following me about. He did not molest me, he was not rude— I do not wish to make it out worse than it was — but it is not pleasant, Mr. Roy, to be followed whenever you may take a walk. Especially by one you dislike." " What is there to dislike in Luke ?

" demanded the bailiff. " Perhaps I ought to have said by one you do not like," she re sumed. " To like Luke in the way he wished, was impossible for me, and I told him so from the first. When I found that he dodged my steps, I spoke to him again, and threatened that I should ac quaint Mr. Verner. I told him so, once for all, that I could not like him, that I never would have him ; and since then he has kept his distance. That is all that has ever passed between me and Luke." "Well, your hard-heartedness has done for him, Rachel Frost. It has driven him away from his native home, and sent him, an exile" to rough it in foreign lands. You may fix upon one as won't do for you and be your slave as Luke would. He could have kept you well," " I heard he had gone to London," she remarked. " London !

" returned the bailiff, slightingly. " That's only the first halt on the journey. And you have driven him to it ! " " I can't help it," she replied, turning to the house. " I had no liking for him, and I could not force it. I don't believe he has gone away for that trifling reason, Mr. Roy. If he has, he must be very foolish." " Yes, he is foolish," muttered the bailiff to himself as he strode away. " He's an idiot, that's what he is ! and so be all men that lose their wits sighing after a girl. Vain, deceitful, fickle creatures, girls be when they're young ; but once let them get a hold on you, your ring on their finger, and they turn into vixenish, snarling women ! Luke's a sight best off without her." Rachel Frost proceeded indoors. The door of the steward's room stood open, and she turned into it, fancying it was empty.

Down on a chair sat she, a marked change coming over her air and manner. Her bright colour had faded, her hands hung down listlessly, and there was an expression on her face of care and perplexity. Suddenly she lifted her hands and struck her temples, with a gesture that looked very like despair. " What ails you, Rachel ? " The question came from Frederick Massingbird, who had been standing at the window behind the high desk, unobserved by Rachel. Violently startled, she sprang up from her seat, her face glowing, and muttered some disjointed words, to the effect that she did not know any one was there. " What were you and Roy discussing so eagerly in the yard ? " continued Frederick Massingbird. But the words had scarcely escaped his lips, when the housekeeper, Mrs. Tynn, entered the room.

She had a mottled face and mottled arms, and her sleeves just now were turned up. "It was nothing particular, Mr. Frederick," replied Rachel. " Roy is gone, is he hot ? " he continued to Rachel. " Yes, sir." " Rachel," interposed the housekeeper, " are those things not ready yet, in the laundry ? " " Not quite. In a quarter-of-an-hour, they say." The housekeeper, with a word of impatience at the laundry's delay, went out and crossed the yard towards it. Frederick Mas singbird turned again to Rachel. " Roy seemed to be grumbling at you." " He accused me of being the cause of his son's going away. He thinks I ought to have noticed him." Frederick Massingbird made no reply. He raised his finger and gently rubbed it round and round the mark upon his cheek : a habit he had acquired when a child, and they could not entirely break him of it.

He was seven-and-twenty years of age now, but he was sure to begin rubbing that mark unconsciously, if in deep thought. Rachel resumed, her tone a covert one, as if the subject on which she was about to speak might not be breathed, even to the walls. " Roy hinted that his son was going to foreign lands. I did not choose to let him see that I knew anything, so remarked that I had heard he was gone to London. ' London ! ' he answered : ' that was only the first halt on the journey ! ' " " Did he give any hint about John ? " " Not a word," replied Rachel. " He would not be likely to do that." " No. Roy can keep counsel, whatever other virtues he may run short of. Suppose you had joined your fortunes to sighing Luke's, Rachel, and gone out with him to grow rich together?" added Frederick Massingbird, in a tone which could be taken for either jest or earnest.

She evidently took it as the latter, and it appeared to call up an angry spirit. She was vexed almost to tears. Frederick Massing bird detected it. "Silly Rachel!" he said, with a smile. "Do you suppose I should really counsel your throwing yourself away upon Luke Roy ? — Rachel," he continued, as the housekeeper again made her appearance, " you must bring up the things as soon as they are ready. My brother is waiting for them." " I'll bring them up, sir," replied Rachel. ' Frederick Massingbird passed through the passages to the hall, and then proceeded upstairs to the bedroom occupied by his brother. A sufficiently spacious room for all ordinary purposes, but it did not look half large enough now for the litter that was in it. Ward robes and drawers were standing open, their [contents half out, half in ; chairs, tables, bed, were strewed ; boxes and portmanteaus were gaping open on the floor.

John Massingbird, the elder brother, was stowing away some of this litter into the boxes ; not all sixes and sevens, as it looked where it lay, but compactly and artistically. John Massingbird possessed a ready hand at packing and arrang ing; and therefore he preferred doing it himself to deputing it to others. He was one year older than his brother, and there was a great likeness between them in figure and in feature. Not in ex pression : in that, they were widely different. They were about the same height, and there was the same stoop observable in the shoulders ; the features also were similar in cast, and sallow in hue; the same black eyes and hair. John had large whiskers, otherwise the likeness would have been more striking : and his face was not disfigured by the strange black mark.

He was the better looking of the two : his face wore an easy, good-natured, free expression; whilst Frederick's was cold and reserved. Many people called John Massingbird a handsome man. In character they were quite opposite. John was a harum-scarum fellow, up to every scrape ; Frederick was cautious and steady as Old Time. Seated in the only chair in the room free from litter was a tall, stout lady. But that she had so much crimson about her, she would have borne a remarkable resemblance to those two young men, her sons. She wore a silk dress, gold in one light, green in another, with broad crimson stripes running across it : her cap was of white lace trimmed with crimson ribbons, and her cheeks and nose were crimson to match. As if this were not enough, she wore crimson streamers at her wrists, and a crimson bow in the front of her gown.

Had you been outside, you might have seen that the burnished gold on the window-panes had also turned to crimson, for the setting sun had changed its hue ; but the panes could not look more brightly, deeply red, than did Mrs. Verner. In that particular, there was a great contrast between her and the perfectly pale, sallow faces of her sons : otherwise the resemblance was striking. " Fred," said Mrs. Verner, " I wish you would see what they are about with the shirts and things. I sent Rachel after them, but she does not come back, and then I sent Mary Tynn, and she does not come either. Here's John as impatient as he can be." She spoke in a slow, somewhat indifferent tone, as if she did not care to put herself out of the way about it. Indeed it was not Mrs. Verner's custom to put herself out of the way for anything.

She liked to eat. drink, and sleep in undisturbed peace ; and she generally did so. " John's impatient because he wants to get it over," spoke up that gentleman himself in a merry voice. " Fifty thousand things have I to do between now and to-morrow night. If they don't bring the things soon, I shall close the boxes without them, and leave them as a legacy for Fred." " You have only yourself to thank, John," said his mother. " You never gave the things out until after breakfast this morning, and then required them to be done by the afternoon. Such nonsense, to say they had turned yellow in the drawers ! They'll be yellower by the time you get o'ut there. It is just like you ! driving every thing off to the last moment. You have known you were going some days past." John was throwing all his weight upon a box to get down the lid, and did not attend to the reproach.

" See if it will lock, Fred, will you ? " said he. Frederick Massingbird stooped and tried to turn the key. And just then Mrs. Tynn entered with a tray of clean linen, which she put down. Rachel followed ; a contrivance in her hand, made of silk, for holding of needles, threads, and pins, all in one. She looked positively beautiful as she held it out before Mrs. Verner. The evening rays fell upon her exquisite face, with its soft dark eyes and its changing colour; they fell upon her silk dress, a relic of Mrs. Verner's— but it had no crimson stripes upon it ; upon her lace collar, and the little edging of lace at her wrists. Nature had certainly intended Rachel for a lady, with her graceful form, her charming manners, and her delicate hands. "Will this do, ma'am?" she inquired. "Is it the sort of thing you meant ?

" "Ay, that will do, Rachel," replied Mrs. Verner. "John, here's a housewife for you ! " "A what?" asked John Massingbird, arresting his work. "A book to hold your needles and thread. Rachel has made it very nicely. Won't you want a thimble ? " " Goodness knows," replied John. " That's it, Fred ! that's it ! Give it a turn." Frederick Massingbird locked the box, and then left the room. His mother followed him, telling John she had a large steel thimble somewhere, and would try and find it for him. Rachel began filling the housewife with needles, and John went on with his packing. " Holloa! " he presently exclaimed. And Rachel looked up. " What's the matter, sir ? " " I have pulled one of the strings off this green case. You must sew it on again, Rachel." He brought a piece of green baize to her and a broken string.