her still—that her illness of body caused in her the irritation of mind. Or, at any rate, greatly increased it.
An eye, far less experienced than that of Dr. West—who, whatever may have been his other shortcomings, was clever in his profession—could have seen at a glance how weak Sibylla was. She wore an evening dress of white muslin, its body very low, its sleeves very short: her chest was painfully thin, and every breath she took lifted it ominously: she seemed to be breathing outside as well as in. The doctor touched the muslin.
“This is not a fit dress for you, Sibylla. It—”
“Lionel has been putting you up to say it, papa!” she burst forth.
Dr. West looked at her. He surmised what was indeed the case, that her husband had remonstrated against the unsuitableness of the attire, to one in her condition.
“You have heard every word Mr. Verner has spoken to me, Sibylla. You should be wrapped up warmly always: to be exposed like this, is enough to—to—” give you your death he was about to say, but changed the words—“make you very ill.”
“Decima and Lucy Tempest dress so,” she returned, in a tone that threatened tears.
Dr. West lifted his eyes to where Decima and Lucy were standing with Lord Garle. Decima wore a silk dress; Lucy a white one: each made evening fashion.
“They are both healthy,” he said, “and may wear what they please. Look at their necks, compared to yours, Sibylla. I shall ask Mr. Verner to put all these thin, low bodies behind the fire.”
“He would only have the pleasure of paying for others to replace them,” was the undutiful rejoinder. “Papa, I have enough trouble without your turning against me.”
Turning against her! Dr. West did not point out how purposeless were her words. His intention was to come in in the morning, and talk to her seriously of her state of health, and the precautions it was necessary to observe. He took a sip of his coffee, and turned to Lionel.
“I was about to ask you a superfluous question, Mr. Verner—whether that lost codicil has been heard of. But your leaving Verner’s Pride is an answer.”
“It has never been heard of,” replied Lionel. “When John Massingbird returned and put in his claim—when he took possession, I may say, for the one was coeval with the other—the wanting of the codicil was indeed a grievance: far more than it had appeared at the time of its loss.”
“You must regret it much.”
“I regret it always,” he answered. “I regret it bitterly for Sibylla’s sake.”
“Papa,” she cried in deep emotion, her cheeks becoming crimson, her blue eyes flashing with an unnatural light, “if that codicil could be found, it would save my life. Jan, in his rough, stupid way, tells me I am fretting myself into my grave. Perhaps I am. I want to go back to Verner’s Pride.”
It was not a pleasant subject to converse on; it was a subject utterly hopeless—and Dr. West sought one more genial. Ranging his eyes over the room, they fell upon Lord Garle, who was still talking with Decima and Lucy.
“Which of the two young ladies makes the viscount’s attraction, Mr. Verner?”
Lionel smiled. “They do not take me into their confidence, sir; any one of the three.”
“I am sure it is not Decima, papa,” spoke up Sibylla. “She’s as cold as a stone. I won’t answer for its not being Lucy Tempest. Lord Garle comes here a good deal, and he and Lucy seem great friends. I often think he comes for Lucy.”
“Then there’s little doubt upon the point,” observed the doctor, coming to a more rapid conclusion than the words really warranted. “Time was, Mr. Verner, when I thought that young lady would have been your wife.”
“Who?” asked Lionel. But that he only asked the question in his confusion, without need, was evident: the tell-tale flush betrayed it. His pale face had turned red, to the very roots of his hair.
“In those old days when you were ill, lying here, and Miss Tempest was so much with you, I fancied I saw the signs of a mutual attachment,” continued the doctor. “I conclude I must have been mistaken.”
“Little doubt of that, doctor,” lightly answered Lionel, recovering his equanimity, though he could not yet recover his disturbed complexion, and laughing as he spoke.
Sibylla’s greedy ears had drunk up the words, her sharp eyes had caught the conscious flush, and her jealous heart was making the most of it. At that unfortunate moment, as ill-luck had it, Lucy brought up the basket of cakes and held it out to Dr. West. Lionel rose to take it from her.
“I was taking your name in vain, Miss Tempest,” said the complacent doctor. “Did you hear me?”
“No,” replied Lucy, smiling, “What about?”
“I was telling Mr. Verner that in the old days I had deemed his choice was falling upon another, rather than my daughter. Do you remember, young lady?—in that long illness of his?”
Lucy did remember. And the remembrance, thus called suddenly before her, the words themselves, the presence of Lionel, all brought to her far more emotion than had arisen to him. Her throat heaved, as with a spasm, and the startled colour dyed her face. Lionel saw it. Sibylla saw it.
“It proves to us how we may be mistaken, Miss Tempest,” observed the doctor, who, from that habit of his, already hinted at, the never looking people in the face when he spoke to them, had failed to observe anything. “I hear there is a probability of this fair hand being appropriated by another: one who can enhance his value by coupling it with a coronet.”
“Don’t take the trouble, Lucy. I am holding it.”
It was Lionel who spoke. In her confusion she had not loosed hold of the cake-basket, although he had taken it. Quietly, impassively, in the most un-