Miss Deb split upon some rock, and Sibylla got into her carriage, and went off in anger.”
He was walking away, with his usual rapid strides on his way to some patient, when Lionel caught hold of him. “Jan, this is Captain Cannonby. The friend who was with Frederick Massingbird when he died. He assures me that he is dead. Dead and buried. My brother, Captain Cannonby.”
“There cannot be a doubt of it,” said Captain Cannonby, alluding to the death. “I saw him die; I helped to bury him.”
“Then who is it that walks about, dressed up as his ghost?” debated Jan.
“I cannot tell,” said Lionel, a severe expression arising to his lips. I begin to think with Captain Cannonby; that there can be no doubt that Frederick Massingbird is dead; therefore, he, it is not. But that it would be undesirable, for my wife’s sake, to make this doubt public, I would have every house in the place searched. Whoever it may be, he is concealed in one of them.”
“Little doubt of that,” nodded Jan. “I’ll pounce upon him, if I get the chance.”
Lionel and Captain Cannonby continued their way to Verner’s Pride. The revived hope, in Lionel’s mind, strengthened with every step they took. It did seem utterly impossible, looking at it from a practical, matter-of-fact point of view, that a man buried deep in the earth, and supposed to be dead before he was placed there, could come to life again.
“What a relief for Sibylla!” he involuntarily cried, drawing a long, relieved breath on his own score. “This must be just one of those cases, Captain Cannonby, when good Catholics, in the old days, made a vow to the Virgin, of so many valuable offerings, should the dread be removed, and turn out to have been no dread at all.”
“Ay. I should like to be in at the upshot.”
“I hope you will be. You must not run away from us immediately. Where’s your luggage?”
Captain Cannonby laughed.
“Talk to a returned gold-digger of his ‘luggage!’ Mine consists of a hand portmanteau, and that is at the Golden Fleece. I can order it up here if you’d like me to stay with you a few days. I should enjoy some shooting beyond everything.”
“That is settled then,” said Lionel. “I will see that you have your portmanteau. Did you get rich at the Diggings?”
The captain shook his head.
“I might have made something, had I stuck at it. But I grew sick of it altogether. My brother, the doctor, makes a sight of money, and I can get what I want from him,” was the candid confession.
Lionel smiled.
“These rich brothers in reserve are a terrible lag upon self-exertion. Here we are!” he added, as they turned in at the gates. “This is Verner’s Pride.”
“What a fine place!” exclaimed Captain Cannonby, bringing his steps to a halt as he gazed at it.
“Yes it is. Not a pleasant prospect, was it, to contemplate the being turned out of it by a dead man.”
“A dead—You do not mean to say that Frederick Massingbird—if in life—would be the owner of Verner’s Pride?”
“Yes, he would be. I was its rightful heir, and why my uncle willed it away from me, to one who was no blood relation, has remained a mystery to this day. Frederick Massingbird succeeded, to my exclusion. I only came into it with his death.”
Captain Cannonby appeared completely thunderstruck at the revelation.
“Why, then,” he cried, after a pause, “this may supply the very motive-power that is wanted, for one to personate Fred Massingbird.”
“Scarcely,” replied Lionel. “No ghost, or seeming ghost, walking about in secret at night, could get Verner’s Pride resigned to him. He must come forward in the broad face of day, and establish his identity by indisputable proof.”
“True, true. Well, it is a curious tale! I should like, as I say, to witness the winding-up.”
Lionel looked about for his wife. He could not find her. But few of their guests were in the rooms; they had dispersed somewhere or other. He went up to Sibylla’s dressing-room, but she was not there. Mademoiselle Benoite was coming along the corridor as he left it again.
“Do you know where your mistress is?” he asked.
“Mais certainement,” responded Mademoiselle. “Monsieur will find Madame at the archerie.”
He bent his steps to the targets. On the lawn, flitting amidst the other fair archers, in her dress of green and gold, was Sibylla. All traces of care had vanished from her face, her voice was of the merriest, her step of the fleetest, her laugh of the lightest. Truly Lionel marvelled. There flashed into his mind the grieving face of another, whom he had not long ago parted from; grieving for their woes. Better for his mind’s peace that these contrasts had not been forced so continually upon him!
Could she, in some unaccountable manner, have heard the consoling news that Cannonby brought? In the first moment, he thought it must be so: in the next, he knew it to be impossible. Smothering down a sigh, he went forward, and drew her apart from the rest; choosing that covered walk where he had spoken to her a day or two previously, regarding Mrs. Duff’s bill. Taking her hands in his, he stood before her, looking with a reassuring smile into her face.
“What will you give me for some good news, Sibylla?”
“What about?” she rejoined.
“Need you ask? There is one only point upon which news could greatly interest either of us just now. I have seen Cannonby. He is here, and—”
“Here! At Verner’s Pride!” she interrupted. “Oh, I shall like to see Cannonby: to talk over old Australian times with him.”
Who was to account for her capricious moods? Lionel remembered the evening, during the very moon not yet dark to the earth, when Sibylla had made a scene in the drawing-room, saying she
