Whether she cast a reflection to Lionel Verner in the matter, she best knew: had she reflected properly, she might have surmised that Lionel would be living at it, its master. But—the voyage ended, the home gained—what did she find? That Mrs. Verner was no longer at Verner’s Pride, to press the kiss of welcome upon her lips; a few feet of earth was all her home now.
It was a terrible disappointment. There could be no doubt of that. And another disappointment was, to find Dr. West away. Sibylla’s sisters had been at times over-strict with her, much as they loved her, and the vision of returning to her old home, to them, was one of bitterness. So bitter, in fact, that she would not glance at its possibility.
Fatigued, low-spirited, feverishly perplexed, Sibylla did not know what she could do. She was not in a state that night to give much care to the future. All she hoped was, to stay in that haven until something else could be arranged for her. Let us give her her due. Somewhat careless, naturally, of the punctilios of life, it never occurred to her that it might not be the precise thing for her to remain, young as she was, the sole guest of Lionel Verner. Her voyage out, her residence in that very unconventional place, Melbourne, the waves and storms which had gone over her there in more ways than one, the voyage back again alone, all had tended to give Sibylla Massingbird an independence of thought; a contempt for the rules and regulations, the little points of etiquette obtaining in civilised society. She really thought no more harm of staying at Verner’s Pride with Lionel, than she would have thought it had old Mr. Verner been its master. The eyelashes, resting on her hot cheeks, were wet, as she turned round when Lionel entered.
“Have you taken anything, Mrs. Massingbird?”
“No.”
“But you should have done so,” he remonstrated, his tone one of the most considerate kindness.
“I did not observe that tea waited,” she replied, the covered table catching her eye for the first time. “I have been thinking.”
He placed a chair for her before the tea-tray, and she sat down. “Am I to preside?” she asked.
“If you will. If you are not too tired.”
“Who makes tea for you in general?” she continued.
“They send it in, made.”
Sibylla busied herself with the tea, in a languid sort of manner. In vain Lionel pressed her to eat. She could touch nothing. She took a piece of rolled bread-and-butter, but left it.
“You must have dined on the road, Mrs. Massingbird,” he said with a smile.
“I? I have not taken anything all day. I kept thinking ‘I shall get to Verner’s Pride in time for my aunt’s dinner.’ But the train arrived later than I anticipated; and when I got here she was gone.”
Sibylla bent her head, as if playing with her tea-spoon. Lionel detected the dropping tears.
“Did you wonder where I was going just now, when I went out?”
“I did not know you had been out,” replied Sibylla.
“I went to your sisters’. I thought it would be better for them to come here. Unfortunately, I found them gone out: and young Cheese says they will not be home until two in the morning.”
“Why, where can they be gone?” cried Sibylla, aroused to interest. It was so unusual for the Miss Wests to be out late.
“To some gathering at Heartburg. Cheese was eating apple-puffs with unlimited satisfaction.”
The connection of apple-puffs with Master Cheese called up a faint smile into Sibylla’s face. She pushed her chair away from the table, turning it towards the fire.
“But you surely have not finished, Mrs. Massingbird?”
“Yes, thank you. I have drank my tea. I cannot eat anything.”
Lionel rang, and the things were removed. Sibylla was standing before the mantel-piece when they were left alone, unconsciously looking at herself in the glass. Lionel stood near her.
“I have not got a widow’s cap,” she exclaimed, turning to him, the thought appearing suddenly to strike her. “I had two or three curious things made, that they called widow’s caps in Melbourne, but they were spoilt in the voyage.”
“You have seen some trouble since you went out,” Lionel observed.
“Yes, I have. It was an ill-starred voyage. It has been ill-starred from the beginning to the end; all of it together.”
“The voyage has, you mean?”
“I mean more than the voyage,” she replied. But her tone did not invite further question.
“Did you succeed in getting particulars of the fate of John?”
“No. Captain Cannonby promised to make inquiries, but we had not heard from him before I came away. I wish we could have found Luke Roy.”
“Did you not find him?”
“We heard of him from the Eyres—the friends I was staying with. It was so singular,” she continued, with some animation in her tone. “Luke Roy came to Melbourne after John was killed, and fell in with the Eyres. He told them about John: little thinking that I and Frederick should meet the Eyres afterwards. John died from a shot.”
“From a shot!” involuntarily exclaimed Lionel.
“He and Luke were coming down to Melbourne from—where was it?—the Bendigo Diggings, I think; but I heard so much of the different names, that I am apt to confound one with another. John had a great deal of gold on him, in a belt round his waist, and Luke supposes that it got known. John was attacked as they were sleeping by night in the open air, beaten, and shot. It was the shot that killed him.”
“Poor fellow!” exclaimed Lionel, his eyes fixed on vacancy, mentally beholding John Massingbird. “And they robbed him!”
“They had robbed him of all. Not a particle of gold was left upon him. Luke came on after-