Page:Once a Week Volume 8.djvu/83

. 10, 1863.] sweet brown eyes open with innocent wonder. Then the full sense of the words appeared to penetrate to her, and her face grew hot with a glowing scarlet flush. She said nothing. She rose quietly, not hurriedly, took up the book she had put on the table, and quietly left the room.

Lionel’s face was glowing, too,—glowing with the red blood of indignation. He bit his lips for calmness, leaving the mark there for hours. He strove manfully with his angry spirit: it was rising up to open rebellion. A minute, and the composure of self-control came to him. He stood before his wife, his arms folded.

“You are my wife,” he said. “I am bound to defend, to excuse you so far as I may; but these insults to Lucy Tempest I cannot excuse. She is the daughter of my dead father’s dearest friend; she is living here under the protection of my mother, and it is incumbent upon me to put a stop to these scenes, so far as she is concerned. If I cannot do it in one way, I must in another.”

“You know she and you would like to stay at home together—and get the rest of us out.”

“Be silent!” he said, in a sterner tone than he had ever used to her. “You cannot reflect upon what you are saying. Accuse me as you please; I will bear it patiently, if I can; but Miss Tempest must be spared. You know how utterly unfounded are such thoughts; you know that she is refined, gentle, single-hearted; that all her thoughts to you, as my wife, are those of friendship and kindness. What would my mother think were she to hear this?”

Sibylla made no reply.

“You have never seen a look or heard a word pass between me and Lucy Tempest that was not of the most open nature, entirely compatible with her position, that of a modest and refined gentlewoman, and of mine, as your husband. I think you must be mad, Sibylla.”

The words Jan had used. If such temperaments do not deserve the name of madness, they are near akin to it. Lionel spoke with emotion; it all but overmastered him, and he went back to his place by the mantelpiece, his chest heaving.

“I shall leave this residence as speedily as may be,” he said, “giving some trivial excuse to my mother for the step. I see no other way to put an end to this.”

Sibylla, her mood changing, burst into tears. “I don’t want to leave it,” she said, quite in a humble tone.

He was not inclined for argument. He had rapidly made his mind up, believing it was the only course open to him. He must go away with his wife, and so leave the house in peace. Saying something to that effect, he quitted the room, leaving Sibylla sobbing fractiously on the pillow of the chair.

He went down to the drawing-room. He did not care where he went, or what became of him: it is an unhappy thing when affairs grow to that miserable pitch, that the mind has neither ease nor comfort anywhere. At the first moment of entering, he thought the room was empty, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the dusk, he discerned the form of some one standing at the distant window. It was Lucy Tempest. Lionel went straight up to her: he felt that some apology or notice from him was due. She was crying bitterly, and turned to him before he could speak.

“Mr. Verner, I feel my position keenly. I would not remain here to make things unpleasant to your wife, for the whole world. But I cannot help myself. I have nowhere to go to until papa shall return to Europe.”

“Lucy, let me say a word to you,” he whispered, his tones impeded, his breath coming thick and fast from his hot and crimsoned lips. “There are moments in a man’s lifetime when he must be true; when the artificial gloss thrown on social intercourse fades out of sight. This is one.”

Her tears fell more quietly.

“I am so very sorry!” she continued to murmur.

“Were you other than what you are, I might meet you with some of this artifice; I might pretend not to know aught of what has been said; I might attempt some elaborate apology. It would be worse than folly from me to you. Let me tell you, that could I have shielded you from this insult with my life, I would have done it.”

“Yes, yes,” she hurriedly answered.

“You will not mistake me. As the daughter of my father’s dearest friend, as my mother’s honoured guest, I speak to you. I speak to you as one whom I am bound to protect from harm and insult, only in a less degree than I would protect my wife. You will do me the justice to believe it.”

“I know it. Indeed I do not blame you.”

“Lucy, I would have prevented this, had it been in my power. But it was not. I could not help it. All I can do, is to take steps that it shall not occur again in the future. I scarcely know what I am saying to you. My life, what with one thing and another, is well-nigh wearied out.”

Lucy had long seen that. But she did not say so.

“It will not be long now before papa is at home,” she answered, “and then I shall leave Deerham Court free. Thank you for speaking to me,” she simply said, as she was turning to leave the room.

He took both her hands in his; he drew her nearer to him, his head was bent down to hers, his whole frame shook with emotion. Was he tempted to take a caress from her sweet face, as he had taken it years ago? Perhaps he was. But Lionel Verner was not one to lose his self-control where there was real necessity for his retaining it. His position was different now from what it had been then; and, if the temptation was strong, it was kept in check, and Lucy never knew it had been there.

“You will forget it for my sake, Lucy? You will not resent it upon her? She is very ill.”

“It is what I wish to do,” she gently said. “I do not know what foolish things I might not say, were I suffering like Mrs. Verner.”

“God bless you for ever, Lucy!” he murmured. “May your future life be more fortunate than mine is.”

Relinquishing her hands, he watched her disappear through the darkness of the room. She was