“I am sorry to leave you so abruptly, as mamma is not here,” she said. I dare say Lionel will be in to dinner. If not, you must for once entertain each other.”
“But where are you going?” cried Mrs. Verner.
“To Sir Rufus Hautley’s. He wishes to see me.”
“What does he want with you?” continued Sibylla.
“I do not know,” replied Decima.
She quitted the room and went down to the carriage, which had waited for her. Mrs. Verner and Lucy heard it drive away again as quickly as it had driven up. As it turned the corner and pursued its way up the road, past the window they were looking from, but at some distance from it, they fancied they saw the form of Decima inside, looking out at them.
“Sir Rufus is taken ill,” said old Catherine to them, by way of news. “The servants say that it’s feared he won’t live through the night. Mr. Jan is there, and Dr. Hayes.”
“But what can he want with Miss Verner?” reiterated Sibylla.
Catherine shook her head. She had not the remotest idea.
Lionel Verner did not come in for dinner. His non-appearance was no improvement to the temper of his wife. It had occurred lately that Lionel did not always get home to dinner. Sometimes, when detained at Verner’s Pride, he would take it with John Massingbird; if out on the estate, and unable to get home in time, he would eat something when he came in. Her fractious state of mind did not tend to soothe the headache she had complained of earlier in the day. Every half-hour that passed without her husband’s entrance, made her worse in all ways, head and temper; and about nine o’clock she went up to her sitting-room and lay down on the sofa, saying that her temples were splitting.
Lucy followed her. Lucy thought she must really be ill. She could not understand that any one should be so fractious, except from wearying pain.
“I will bathe your temples,” she gently said.
Sibylla did not appear to care whether her temples were bathed or not. Lucy got some water in a basin and two thin handkerchiefs, wringing out one and placing it on Mrs. Verner’s head and forehead, kneeling to her task. That her temples were throbbing and her head hot, there was no question: the handkerchief was no sooner on than it was warm, and Lucy had to exchange it for the other.
“It is Lionel’s fault,” suddenly burst forth Sibylla.
“His fault?” returned Lucy. “How can it be his fault?”
“What business has he to stop out?”
“But if he cannot help it?” returned Lucy. “The other evening, don’t you remember, Mr. Verner said, when he came in, that he could not help being late sometimes now?”
“You need not defend him,” said Sibylla. “It seems to me that you are all ready to take his part against me.”
Lucy made no reply. An assertion more unfounded could not be spoken. At that moment the step of Lionel was heard on the stairs. He came in, looked jaded and tired.
“Up here this evening!” he exclaimed, laying down a paper or parchment which he had in his hand. “Catherine says my mother and Decima are out. Why, Sibylla, what is the matter?”
Sibylla dashed the handkerchief off her brow as he advanced to her, and rose up, speaking vehemently. The sight of her husband appeared to have brought the climax to her temper.
“Where have you been? Why were you not in to dinner?”
“I could not get home in time. I have been detained.”
“It is false,” she retorted, her blue eyes flashing fire. “Business, business! it is always your excuse now! You stay out for no good purpose.”
The outbreak startled Lucy. She backed a few paces, looking scared.
“Sibylla!” was all the amazed reply uttered by Lionel.
“You leave me here, hour after hour, to solitude and tears, while you are out, taking your pleasure! I have all the endurance of our position, and you the enjoyment.”
He battled for a moment with his rising feelings; battled for calmness, for forbearance, for strength to bear. There were moments when he was tempted to answer her in her own spirit.
“Pleasure and I have not been very close friends of late, Sibylla,” he gravely said. “None can know that, better than you. My horse fell lame, and I have been leading him these last two hours. I have now to go to Verner’s Pride. Something has arisen on which I must see Mr. Massingbird.”
“It is false, it is false,” reiterated Sibylla. “You are not going to Verner’s Pride; you are not going to see Mr. Massingbird. You best know where you are going; but it is not there. It is the old story of Rachel Frost over again.”
The words confounded Lionel: both that they were inexplicable, and spoken in such vehement passion.
“What do you say about Rachel Frost?” he asked.
“You know what I say, and what I mean. When Deerham looked far and near for the man who did the injury to Rachel, they little thought they might have found him in Lionel Verner. Lucy Tempest, it is true. He—”
But Lionel had turned imperatively to Lucy, drawing her to the door, which he opened. It was no place for her, a discussion such as this.
“Will you be so kind as to go down and make me a cup of tea, Lucy?” he said, in a wonderfully calm tone, considering the provocation he was receiving. He closed the door on Lucy, and turned to his wife.
“Sibylla, allow me to request, nay, to insist, that when you have fault to find, or reproach to cast to me, you choose a moment when we are alone. If you have no care for what may be due to me and to yourself, you will do well to bear in mind that something is due to others. Now