wards to Melbourne, and tried to discover the men; but he could not. It was this striving at discovery which brought him in contact with Mr. Eyre. After we reached Melbourne and I became acquainted with the Eyres, they did all they could to find out Luke, but they were unsuccessful.”
“What had become of him?”
“They could not think. The last time Mr. Eyre saw him, Luke said he thought he had obtained a clue to the men who killed John. He promised to go back the following day and tell Mr. Eyre more about it. But he did not. And they never saw him afterwards. Mrs. Eyre used to say to me that she sincerely trusted no harm had come to Luke.”
“Harm, in what way?” asked Lionel.
“She thought—but she would say that it was a foolish thought—if Luke should have found the men, and been sufficiently imprudent to allow them to know that he recognised them, they might have worked him some ill. Perhaps killed him.”
Sibylla spoke the last words in a low tone. She was standing very still; her hands lightly resting before her, one upon another. How Lionel’s heart was beating as he gazed on her, he alone knew. She was once again the Sibylla of past days. He forgot that she was the widow of another; that she had left him for that other of her own free will. All his past resentment faded in that moment: nothing was present to him but his love; and Sibylla with her fascinating beauty.
“You are thinner than when you left home,” he remarked.
“I grew thin with vexation; with grief. He ought not to have taken me.”
The concluding sentence was spoken in a strangely resentful tone. It surprised Lionel. “Who ought not to have taken you?—taken you where?” he asked, really not understanding her.
“He. Frederick Massingbird. He might have known what a place that Melbourne was. It is not fit for a lady. We had lodgings in a wooden house, near a spot that had used to be called Canvas Town. The place was crowded with people.”
“But surely there are decent hotels at Melbourne!”
“All I know is, he did not take me to one. He inquired at one or two, but they were full; and then somebody recommended him to get a lodging. It was not right. He might have gone to it himself, but he had me with him. He lost his desk, you know.”
“I heard that he did,” replied Lionel.
“And I suppose that frightened him. Everything was in the desk: money, letters of credit. He had a few bank notes, only, left in his pocket-book. It never was recovered. I owe my passage money home, and I believe Captain Cannonby supplied him with some funds—which of course ought to be repaid. He took to drink brandy,” she continued.
“I am much surprised to hear it.”
“Some fever came on. I don’t know whether he caught it, or whether it came to him naturally. It was a sort of intermittent fever. At times he was very low with it, and then it was that he would drink the brandy. Only fancy what my position was!” she added, her face and voice alike full of pain. “He, not always himself; and I, out there in that wretched place alone. I went down on my knees to him one day, and begged him to send me back to England.”
“Sibylla!”
He was unconscious that he called her by the familiar name. He was wishing he could have shielded her from all this. Painful as the retrospect might be to her, the recital was far more painful to him.
“After that, we met Captain Cannonby. I did not much like him, but he was kind to us. He got us to change to an hotel, made them find room for us, and then introduced me to the Eyres. Afterwards, he and Fred started from Melbourne, and I went to stay at the Eyres’.”
Lionel did not interrupt her. She had made a pause, her eyes fixed on the fire.
“A day or two, and Captain Cannonby came back, and said that my husband was dead. I was not very much surprised. I thought he would not live when he left me: he had death written in his face. And so, I am alone in the world.”
She raised her large blue eyes, swimming in tears, to Lionel. It completely disarmed him. He forgot all his prudence, all his caution; he forgot things that it was incumbent upon him to remember; and, like many another has done before him, older and wiser than Lionel Verner, he suffered a moment’s impassioned impulse to fix the destiny of a life.
“Not alone from henceforth, Sibylla,” he murmured, bending towards her in agitation, his lips apart, his breath coming fast and loud, his cheeks scarlet. “Let me be your protector. I love you more fondly than I have ever done.”
She was entirely unprepared for the avowal. It may be, that she did not know what to make of it—how to understand it. She stepped back, her eyes strained on him inquiringly, her face turning to pallor. Lionel threw his arms round her, drew her to him, and sheltered her on his breast: as if he would ward off ill from her for ever.
“Be my wife,” he fondly cried, his voice trembling with its own tenderness. “My darling, let this home be yours! Nothing shall part us more.”
She burst into tears, raised herself, and looked at him.
“You cannot mean it! After behaving to you as I did, can you love me still?”
“I love you far better than ever,” he answered, his voice becoming hoarse with emotion. “I have been striving to forget you ever since that cruel time; and not until to-night did I know how utterly futile has been the strife. You will let me love you! you will help me to blot out its remembrance!”
She drew a long deep sigh, like one who is relieved from some wearing pain, and laid her head down again as he had placed it.
“I can love you better than I loved him,” she breathed.
“Sibylla, why did you leave me? Why did you marry him?”
“O Lionel, don’t reproach me!—don’t re-