promote her comfort: he would have sacrificed every feeling of his heart for her sake.
The wine in his hand, he turned into the room again. A change had taken place in her aspect. She had left the chair, and was standing against the wall opposite the door, her tears dried, her eyes unnaturally bright, her cheeks burning.
“Lionel,” she uttered, a catching of the breath betraying her emotion, “if he is alive, whose is Verner’s Pride?”
“His,” replied Lionel, in a low tone.
She shrieked out, very much after the manner of a petulant child.
“I won’t leave it!—I won’t leave Verner’s Pride! You could not be so cruel as to wish me. Who says he is alive? Lionel, I ask you who it is that says he is alive?”
“Hush, my dear! This excitement will do you a world of harm, and it cannot mend the matter, however it may be. I want to know who told you of this, Sibylla. I supposed it to be Cannonby: but Tynn says Cannonby has not been here.”
The question appeared to divert her thoughts into another channel.
“Cannonby! What should bring him here? Did you expect him to come?”
“Drink your wine, and then I will tell you,” he said, holding the glass towards her.
She pushed the wine from her capriciously. “I don’t want wine now. I am hot. I should like some water.”
“I will get it for you directly. Tell me, first of all, how you came to know of this?”
“Deborah told me. She sent for me out of the drawing-room where I was so happy, to tell me this horrid tale. Lionel”—sinking her voice again to a whisper—“is—he—here?”
“I cannot tell you”
“But you must tell me,” she passionately interrupted. “I will know. I have a right to know it, Lionel.”
“When I say I cannot tell you, Sibylla, I mean that I cannot tell you with any certainty. I will tell you all I do know. Some one is in the neighbourhood who bears a great resemblance to him. He is seen sometimes at night: and—and—I have other testimony that he has returned from Australia.”
“What will be done if he comes here?”
Lionel was silent.
“Shall you fight him?”
“Fight him!” echoed Lionel. “No.”
“You will give up Verner’s Pride without a struggle! You will give up me! Then, are you a coward, Lionel Verner?”
“You know that I would give up neither willingly, Sibylla.”
Grievously pained was his tone as he replied to her. She was meeting this as she did most other things—without sense or reason; not as a thinking, rational being. Her manner was loud, her emotion violent: but, deep and true, her grief was not. Depth of feeling, truth of nature, were qualities that never yet had place in Sibylla Verner. Not once, throughout all their married life, had Lionel been so painfully impressed with the fact as he was now.
“Am I to die for the want of that water?” she resumed. “If you don’t get it for me I shall ring for the servants to bring it.”
He opened the door again without a word. He knew quite well that she had thrown in that little shaft about ringing for the servants, because it would not be pleasant to him that the servants should intrude upon them then. Outside the door, about to knock at it, was Deborah West.
“I must go home,” she whispered. “Mr. Verner, how sadly she is meeting this!”
The very thought that was in Lionel’s heart. But, not to another would he cast a shade of reflection on his wife.
“It is a terrible thing for any one to meet,” he answered. “I could have wished, Miss West, that you had not imparted it to her. Better that I should have done it, when it must have been done.”
“I did it from a good motive,” was the reply of Deborah, who was looking sadly down-hearted, and had evidently been crying. “She ought to leave you until some certainty is arrived at.”
“Nonsense! No,” said Lionel. “I beg you—I beg you, Miss West, not to say anything more that can distress or disturb her. If the—the—explosion comes, of course it must come; and we must all meet it as we best may, and see then what is best to be done.”
“But it is not right that she should remain with you in this uncertainty,” urged Deborah, who could be obstinate when she thought she had cause. “The world will not deem it to be right. You should remember this.”
“I do not act to please the world. I am responsible to God and my conscience.”
“Responsible to Good gracious, Mr. Verner!” returned Deborah, every line in her face expressing astonishment. “You call keeping her with you acting as a responsible man ought! If Sibylla’s husband is living, you must put her away from your side.”
“When the time shall come. Until then, my duty—as I judge it—is to keep her by my side, to shelter her from harm and annoyance, petty as well as great.”
“You deem that your duty!”
“I do,” he firmly answered. “My duty to her and to God.”
Deborah shook her head and her hands.
“It ought not to be let go on,” she said, moving nearer to the study-door. “I shall urge the leaving you upon her.”
Lionel calmly laid his hand upon the lock.
“Pardon me, Miss West. I cannot allow my wife to be subjected to it.”
“But if she is not your wife?”
A streak of red came into his pale face.
“It has yet to be proved that she is not. Until that time shall come, Miss West, she is my wife, and I shall protect her as such.”
“You will not let me see her?” asked Deborah, for his hand was not lifted from the handle.
“No. Not if your object be the motives you avow. Sleep a night upon it, Miss West, and see if you do not change your mode of thinking and