do?—how would she act? He believed, in his honest heart, that Sibylla, in spite of her aggravations shown to him, and whatever may have been her preference for Frederick Massingbird in the early days, best cared for him, Lionel, now. He believed that she would not willingly return to Frederick Massingbird. Or, if she did, it would be for the sake of Verner’s Pride.
He was right. Heartless, selfish, vain, and ambitious, Verner’s Pride possessed far more attraction for Sibylla than did either Lionel or Frederick Massingbird. Allow her to keep quiet possession of that, and she would not cast much thought to either of them. If the conflict actually came, Lionel felt, in his innate refinement, that the proper course for Sibylla to adopt would be to retire from all social ties, partially to retire from the world—as Miss West had suggested she should do now in the uncertainty. Lionel did not wholly agree with Miss West. He deemed that, in the uncertainty, Sibylla’s place was by his side, still his wife: but, when once the uncertainty was set at rest by the actual appearance of Frederick Massingbird, then let her retire. It was the one only course that he could pursue, were the case his own. His mind was made up upon one point—to withdraw himself out of the way when that time came. To India, to the wilds of Africa—anywhere far, far away. Never would he remain to be an eye-sore to Sibylla or Frederick Massingbird,—inhabiting the land that they inhabited, breathing the air that sustained life in them. Sibylla might rely on one thing—that when Frederick Massingbird did appear beyond doubt or dispute, that very hour he said adieu to Sibylla. The shock soothed—and he would soothe it for her to the very utmost of his power—he should depart. He would be no more capable of retaining Sibylla in the face of her first husband, than he could have taken her, knowingly, from that husband in his lifetime.
But where was Frederick Massingbird? Tynn’s opinion had been—he had told it to his master—that when he saw Frederick Massingbird steal into the grounds of Verner’s Pride the previous evening, he was coming on to the house, there and then. Perhaps Lionel himself had entertained the same conviction. But the night had passed, and no Frederick Massingbird had come. What could be the meaning of it? What could be the meaning of his dodging about Deerham in this manner, frightening the inhabitants?—of his watching the windows of Verner’s Pride? Verner’s Pride was his; Sibylla was his; why, then, did he not arrive to assume his rights?
Agitated with these and many other conflicting thoughts, Lionel lay on his uneasy bed, and saw in the morning light. He did not rise until his usual hour: he would have risen far earlier but for the fear of disturbing Sibylla. To lie there, a prey to these reflections, to this terrible suspense, was intolerable to him, but he would not risk the waking her. The day might prove long enough and bad enough for her, without arousing her to it before her time. He rose, but she slept on still: Lionel did wonder how she could.
Not until he was going out of the room, dressed, did she awake. She awoke with a start. It appeared as if recollection, or partial recollection, of the last night’s trouble flashed over her. She pushed aside the curtain, and called to him in a sharp tone of terror.
“Lionel!”
He turned back. He drew the curtain entirely away, and stood by her side. She caught his arm, clasping it convulsively.
“Is it a dreadful dream, or is it true?” she uttered, beginning to tremble. “Oh, Lionel, take care of me! Won’t you take care of me?”
“I will take care of you as long as ever I may,” he whispered, tenderly.
“You will not let him force me away from you? You will not give up Verner’s Pride? If you care for me, you will not.”
“I do care for you,” he gently said, avoiding a more direct answer. “My whole life is occupied in caring for you, in promoting your happiness and comfort. How I have cared for you, you alone know.”
She burst into tears. Lionel bent his lips upon her hot face.
“Depend upon my doing all that I can do,” he said.
“Are you going to leave me by myself?” she resumed, in fear, as he was turning to quit the room. “How do I know but he may be bursting in upon me?”
“Is that all your faith in me, Sibylla? He shall not intrude upon you here: he shall not intrude upon you anywhere without warning. When he does come, I shall be at your side.”
Lionel joined his guests at breakfast. His wife did not. With smiling lips and bland brow, he had to cover a mind full of intolerable suspense, an aching heart. A minor puzzle—though nothing compared to the puzzle touching the movements of Frederick Massingbird—was working within him, as to the movements of Captain Cannonby. What could have become of that gentleman? Where could he be halting on his journey? Had his halt anything to do with them, with this grievous business?
To Lionel’s great surprise, just as they were concluding breakfast, he saw the close carriage driven to the door, attended by Wigham and Bennet. You may remember the latter name. Master Dan Duff had called him “Calves” to Mr. Verner. If Verner’s Pride could not keep its masters, it kept its servants. Lionel knew he had not ordered it; and he supposed his wife to be still in bed. He went out to the men.
“For whom is the carriage ordered, Bennet?”
“For my mistress, I think, sir.”
And at that moment Lionel heard the steps of his wife upon the stairs. She was coming down, dressed. He turned in, and met her in the hall.
“Are you going out?” he cried, his voice betokening surprise.
“I can’t be worried with this uncertainty,” was Sibylla’s answer, spoken anything but courteously. “I am going to make Deborah tell me all she knows, and where she heard it.”
“But—”
“I won’t be dictated to, Lionel,” she querulously