supposed Mrs. Verner to be its mistress still. I made my way here last night to ask you to come up, and found you were gone to Heartburg.”
“But—she—is not remaining at it?” exclaimed Deborah, speaking with hesitation, in her doubt, the flush on her face deepening.
“I placed it at her disposal until other arrangements could be made,” replied Lionel. “I am at present the guest of Lady Verner. You will go to Sibylla, will you not?”
Go to her? Ay! They tore the curl-papers out of their hair, and flung on bonnets and shawls, and hastened to Verner’s Pride.
“Say that I will call upon her in the course of the morning, and see how she is after her journey,” said Lionel.
In hurrying out, they encountered Jan. Deborah stopped to say a word about his breakfast: it was ready she said, and she thought he must want it.
“I do,” responded Jan. “I shall have to get an assistant, after all, Miss Deb. I find it doesn’t answer to go quite without meals and sleep; and that’s what I have done lately.”
“So you have, Mr. Jan. I say every day to Amilly that it can’t go on, for you to be walked off your legs in this way. Have you heard the cheering news, Mr. Jan? Sibylla’s come home. We are going to her now, at Verner’s Pride.”
“I have heard it,” responded Jan. “What took her to Verner’s Pride?”
“We have yet to learn all that. You know, Mr. Jan, she never was given to consider a step much, before she took it.”
They tripped away, and Jan, in turning from them, met his brother. Jan was one utterly incapable of finesse: if he wanted to say a thing, he said it out plainly. What havoc Jan would have made, enrolled in the corps of diplomatists!
“I say, Lionel,” began he, “is it true that you are going to marry Sibylla West?”
Lionel did not like the plain question, so abruptly put. He answered curtly:
“I am going to marry Sibylla Massingbird.”
“The old name comes the readiest,” said Jan. “How did it come about, Lionel?”
“May I ask whence you derived your information, Jan?” returned Lionel, who was marvelling where Jan could have heard this.
“At Deerham Court. I have been calling in, as I passed it, to see Miss Lucy. The mother is going wild, I think. Lionel, if it is as she says, that Sibylla drew you into it against your will, don’t you carry it out. I’d not. Nobody should hook me into anything.”
“My mother said that, did she? Be so kind as not to repeat it, Jan. I am marrying Sibylla because I love her; I am marrying her of my own free will. If anybody—save my mother—has aught of objection to make to it, let them make it to me.”
“Oh! that’s it, is it?” returned Jan. “You need not be up, Lionel, it is no business of mine. I’m sure you are free to marry her for me. I’ll be groomsman, if you like.”
“Lady Verner has always been prejudiced against Sibylla,” observed Lionel. “You might have remembered that, Jan.”
“So I did,” said Jan; “though I assumed that what she said was sure to be true. You see, I have been on the wrong scent lately. I thought you were getting fond of Lucy Tempest—it has looked like it.”
Lionel murmured some unintelligible answer, and turned away, a hot flush dyeing his brow.
Meanwhile Sibylla was already up, but not down. Breakfast she would have carried up to her room, she told Mrs. Tynn. She stood at the window, looking forth; not so much at the extensive prospect that swept the horizon in the distance, as at the fair lands immediately around. “All his,” she murmured, “and I shall be his wife at last!”
She turned languidly round at the opening of the door, expecting to see her breakfast. Instead of which, two frantic little bodies burst in and seized upon her. Sibylla shrieked.
“Don’t, Deb! don’t, Amilly! Are you going to hug me to death?”
Their kisses of welcome over, they went round about her, fondly surveying her from all points with their tearful eyes. She was thinner: but she was more lovely. Amilly expressed an opinion that the bloom on her delicate wax face was even brighter than of yore.
“Of course it is, at the present moment,” answered Sibylla, “when you have been kissing me into a fever.”
“She is not tanned a bit with her voyage, that I see,” cried Deborah, with undisguised admiration. “But Sibylla’s skin never did tan. Child,” she added, bending towards her, and allowing her voice to become grave, “how could you think of coming to Verner’s Pride? It was not right. You should have come home.”
“I thought Mrs. Verner was living still.”
“And if she had been?—This is Mr. Lionel’s house now; not hers. You ought to have come home, my dear. You will come with us now, will you not?”
“I suppose you’ll allow me to have some breakfast first,” was Sibylla’s answer. Secure in her future position, she was willing to go home to them temporarily now. “Why is papa gone away, Deborah?”
“He will be coming back some time, dear,” was Deborah’s evasive answer, spoken soothingly. “But tell us a little about yourself, Sibylla. When poor Frederick—”
“Not this morning, Deborah,” she interrupted, putting up her hand. “I will tell you all another time. It was an unlucky voyage.”
“Have you realised John’s money that he left? That he lost, I should rather say.”
“I have realised nothing,” replied Sibylla. “Nothing but ill luck. We never got tidings of John in any way, beyond the details of his death: we never saw a particle of gold belonging to him, or could hear of it. And my husband lost his desk the day we landed—as I sent you word; and I had no money out there, and I have only a few shillings in my pocket.”
This catalogue of ills nearly stunned Deborah and Amilly West. They had none too much of life’s great need, gold, for themselves; and the burden of keeping Sibylla would be sensibly felt.
