contingency, “certain” of Verner’s Pride, there is little doubt but he would have brought him to book at once, by demanding his intentions with regard to Sibylla. There were very few persons in Deerham, but deemed Lionel as indisputably certain of Verner’s Pride as though he were already in possession of it. Dr. West was probably an unusually cautious man.
“It is singular,” observed Lionel, looking at the moth. “The day has been sunshiny, but far too cold to call these moths into life. At least, according to my belief; but I am not learned in entomology.”
“Ento, what a hard word!” cried Sibylla, in her prettily affected manner. “I should never find out how to spell it.”
Lionel smiled. His deep love was shining out of his eyes as he looked down upon her. He loved her powerfully, deeply, passionately; to him she was as a very angel, and he believed her to be pure-souled, honest-hearted, single-minded as one.
“Where did my aunt go to to-day?” inquired Sibylla, alluding to Mrs. Verner.
“She did not go out at all that I am aware of,” he answered.
“I saw the carriage out this afternoon.”
“It was going to the station for Miss Tempest.”
“Oh! she’s come, then? Have you seen her? What sort of a demoiselle does she seem?”
“The sweetest child!—she looks little more than a child!” cried Lionel, impulsively.
“A child, is she? I had an idea she was grown up. Have any of you at Verner’s Pride heard from John?”
“No.”
“But the mail’s in, is it not? How strange that he does not write!”
“He may be coming home with his gold,” said Lionel.
They were interrupted. First of all came in the tea-things—for at Dr. West’s the dinner-hour was early—and, next, two young ladies, bearing a great resemblance to each other. It would give them dire offence not to call them young. They were really not very much past thirty, but they were of that class of women who age rapidly; their hair was sadly thin, some of their teeth had gone, and they had thin flushed faces and large twisted noses; but their blue eyes had a good-natured look in them. Little in person, rather bending forward as they walked, and dressing youthfully, they yet looked older than they really were. Their light brown hair was worn in short straggling ringlets in front, and twisted up with a comb behind. Once upon a time that hair was long and tolerably thick, but it had gradually and spitefully worn down to what it was now. The Miss Wests were proud of it still, however; as may be inferred by the disappearance of the castor oil. A short while back, somebody had recommended to them castor oil as the best specific for bringing on departed hair. They were inoffensive in mind and manners, rather simple, somewhat affected and very vain, quarrelling with no person under the sun, except Sibylla. Sibylla was the plague of their lives. So many years younger than they, they had petted her and indulged her as a child, until at length the child became their mistress. Sibylla was rude and ungrateful, would cast scornful words at them and call them “old maids,” with other reproachful terms. There was open warfare between them: but in their hearts they loved Sibylla still. They had been named respectively Deborah and Amilly. The latter name had been intended Amelie; but by some mistake of the parents or of the clergyman, none of them French scholars, Amilly, the child was christened and registered. It remained a joke against Amilly to this day.
“Sibylla!” exclaimed Deborah, somewhat in surprise, as she shook hands with Lionel, “I thought you had gone to Verner’s Pride.”
“Nobody came for me. It got dusk, and I did not care to go alone,” replied Sibylla.
“Did you think of going to Verner’s Pride this evening, Sibylla?” asked Lionel. “Let me take you now. We shall be just in time for dinner. I’ll brink you back this evening.”
“I don’t know,” hesitated Sibylla. The truth was, she had expected Frederick Massingbird to come for her. “I—think—I’ll—go,” she slowly said, apparently balancing some point in her mind.
“If you do go, you should make haste and put your things on,” suggested Miss Amilly. And Sibylla acquiesced, and left the room.
“Has Mr. Jan been told that the tea’s ready, I wonder?” cried Miss Deborah.
Mr. Jan apparently had been told, for he entered as she was speaking; and Master Cheese—his apron off and his hair brushed—with him. Master Cheese cast an inquisitive look at the tea-table, hoping he should see something tempting upon it: eating good things, forming the pleasantest portion of that young gentleman’s life.
“Take this seat, Mr. Jan,” said Miss Amilly, drawing a chair forward next her own. “Master Cheese, have the kindness to move a little round: Mr. Jan can’t see the fire if you sit there.”
“I don’t want to see it,” said literal Jan. “I’m not cold.” And Master Cheese took the opportunity, the words gave, to remain where he was. He liked to sit in the warmth, with his back to the fire.
“I cannot think where papa is,” said Miss Deborah. “Mr. Lionel, is it of any use asking you to take a cup of tea?”
“Thank you, I am going home to dinner,” replied Lionel. “Dr. West is coming in now,” he added, perceiving that gentleman’s approach from the window.
“Miss Amilly,” asked Jan, “have you been at the castor oil?”
Poor Miss Amilly turned all the colours of the rainbow: if she had one weakness, it was upon the subject of her diminishing locks. While Cheese, going red also, administered to Jan sundry kicks under the table, as an intimation that he should have kept counsel. “I—took—just a little drop, Mr. Jan,” said she. “What’s the dose, if you please? Is it one teaspoonful or two?”
“It depends upon the age,” said Jan, “if you mean taken inwardly. For you it would be—I say, Cheese, what are you kicking at?”
Cheese began to stammer something about
