one containing the castor oil. “Who has been at it?”
“Miss Amilly. She came and filled that great fat glass pot of hers, with her own hands; and she made me drop in some essence of cloves to scent it. Won’t her hair smell of it to night!”
“They’ll make castor oil scarce, if they go at it like that,” said Jan, indifferently.
“They use about a quart a month; I know they do; the three of ’em together,” exclaimed young Cheese, as vehemently as if the loss of the castor oil was personal. “How their nightcaps must be greased!”
“Sibylla doesn’t use it,” said Jan.
“Doesn’t she, though!” retorted young Cheese with acrimony. “She uses many things on the sly that she pretends not to use. She’s as vain as a peacock. Did you hear about—”
Master Cheese cut his question short: coming in at the surgery door was Lionel Verner.
“Well, Jan! What about Decima? After waiting ages at the Court for you to come down stairs and report, I found you were gone.”
“It’s a twist,” said Jan. “It will be all right in a few days. How’s Uncle Stephen to-day?”
“Just the same. Are the young ladies in?”
“Go and see,” said Jan. “I know nothing about ’em.”
“Yes, they are in, sir,” interrupted Master Cheese. “They have not been out all the afternoon, for a wonder.”
Lionel left the surgery, stepped round to the front door, and entered the house.
In a square, moderate-sized drawing-room, with tasty things scattered about it to catch the eye, stood a young lady, figuring off before the chimney-glass. Had you looked critically into the substantial furniture you might have found it old and poor: of a different class from the valuable furniture at Verner’s Pride, widely different from the light, elegant furniture at Lady Verner’s. But, what with white anti-macassars, many-coloured mats on which reposed pretty ornaments, glasses and vases of flowers, and other trifles, the room looked well enough for anything. In like manner, had you, with the same critical eye, scanned the young lady, you would have found that of real beauty she possessed little. A small pretty doll’s face with blue eyes and gold-coloured ringlets; a round face, betraying nothing very great, or good, or intellectual; only something fascinating and pretty. Her chief beauty lay in her complexion: by candle-light it was radiantly lovely, a pure red and white, looking like wax-work. A pretty, graceful girl she looked; and, what with her fascinations of person, of dress, and of manner, all of which she perfectly well knew how to display, she had contrived to lead more than one heart captive, and to hold it in fast chains.
The light of the gas chandelier shone on her now; on her blue gauzy dress, set off with ribbons, on her sleepy blue eyes, on her rose-coloured cheeks. She was figuring off before the glass, I say, twisting her ringlets round her fingers, and putting them in various positions to try the effect: her employment, her look, her manner, all indicating the very essence of vanity. The opening of the door caused her to turn her head, and she shook her ringlets into their proper place, and dropped her hands by her side, at the entrance of Lionel Verner.
“Oh, Lionel! is it you?” said she, with as much composure as if she had not been caught gazing at herself. “I was looking at this,” pointing to an inverted tumbler on the mantlepiece. “Is it not strange that we should see a moth at this cold season? Amilly found it this afternoon on the geraniums.”
Lionel Verner advanced and bent his head to look at the pretty speckled moth, reposing so still on its green leaf. Did he see through the artifice? Did he suspect that the young lady had been admiring her own pretty face, and not the moth? Not he. Lionel’s whole heart had long ago been given to that vain butterfly, Sibylla West, who was gay and fluttering, and really of little more use in life than the moth. How was it that he had suffered himself to love her? Suffered! Love plays strange tricks, and it has fooled many a man like it was fooling Lionel Verner.
And what of Sibylla? Sibylla did not love him. The two ruling passions of her heart were vanity and ambition. To be sometime the mistress of Verner’s Pride was a very vista of desire, and therefore she encouraged Lionel. She did not encourage him very much; she was rather in the habit of playing fast and loose with him; but that only served to rivet tighter the links of his chain. All the love—such as it was!—that Sibylla West was capable of giving, was in possession of Frederick Massingbird. Strange tricks again! It was scarcely credible that one should fall in love with him by the side of attractive Lionel; but so it had been. Sibylla loved Frederick Massingbird for himself, she liked Lionel because he was the heir to Verner’s Pride, and she had managed to keep both her slaves.
Lionel had never spoken of his love. He knew that his marriage with Sibylla West would be so utterly distasteful to Mr. Verner, that he was content to wait. He knew that Sibylla could not mistake him—could not mistake what his feelings were; and he believed that she also was content to wait until he should be his own master and at liberty to ask for her. When that time should come, what did she intend to do with Frederick Massingbird, who made no secret to her that he loved her and expected to make her his wife? Sibylla did not know; she did not much care; she was of a careless nature, and allowed the future to take its chance.
The only person who had penetrated to the secret of her love for Frederick Massingbird was her father, Dr. West.
“Don’t be a simpleton, child, and bind yourself with your eyes bandaged,” he abruptly and laconically said to her one day. “When Verner’s Pride falls in, then marry whoever is its master.”
“Lionel will be its master for certain, will he not?” she answered, startled out of the words.
“We don’t know who will be its master,” was Dr. West’s rejoinder. “Don’t play the simpleton, I say, Sibylla, by entangling yourself with your cousin Fred.”
Dr. West was one who possessed an eye to the main chance; and, had Lionel Verner been, beyond
