proach me!” she answered, bursting into tears. “Papa made me. He did, indeed.”
“He made you! Dr. West?”
“I liked Frederick a little. Yes, I did; I will not deny it. And oh, how he loved me! All the while, Lionel, that you hovered near me—never speaking, never saying that you loved—he told me of it incessantly.”
“Stay, Sibylla. You could not have mistaken me.”
“True. Yours was silent love; his was urgent. When it came to the decision, and he asked me to marry him, and to go out to Australia, then papa interfered. He suspected that I cared for you—that you cared for me; and he—he”
Sibylla stopped and hesitated.
“Must I tell you all?” she asked. “Will you never, never repeat it to papa, or reproach him? Will you let it remain a secret between us?”
“I will, Sibylla. I will never speak upon the point to Dr. West.”
“Papa said that I must choose Frederick Massingbird. He told me that Verner’s Pride was left to Frederick, and he ordered me to marry him. He did not say how he knew it—how he heard it; he only said that it was so. He affirmed that you were cut off with nothing, or next to nothing; that you would not be able to take a wife for years—perhaps never. And I weakly yielded.”
A strangely stern expression had darkened Lionel’s face. Sibylla saw it, and wrung her hands.
“Oh, don’t blame me!—don’t blame me more than you can help! I know how weak, how wrong it was; but you cannot tell how entirely obedient we have always been to papa.”
“Dr. West became accidentally acquainted with the fact that the property was left away from me,” returned Lionel, in a scorn he could not entirely suppress. “He made good use, it seems, of his knowledge.”
“Do not blame me!” she reiterated. “It was not my fault.”
“I do not blame you, my dearest.”
“I have been rightly served,” she said, the tears streaming down. “I married him, pressed to it by my father, that I might share in Verner’s Pride; and, before the news came out that Verner’s Pride was ours, he was dead. It had lapsed to you, whom I rejected! Lionel, I never supposed that you would cast another thought to me; but, many a time have I felt that I should like to kneel and ask your forgiveness.”
He bent his head, fondly kissing her.
“We will forget it together, Sibylla.”
A sudden thought appeared to strike her, called forth, no doubt, by this new state of things, and her face turned crimson as she looked at Lionel.
“Ought I to remain here now?”
“You cannot well do anything else, as it is so late,” he answered. “Allow Verner’s Pride to afford you an asylum for the present, until you can make arrangements to remove to some temporary home. Mrs. Tynn will make you comfortable. I shall be, during the time, my mother’s guest.”
“What is the time now?” asked Sibylla.
“Nearly ten. And, I dare say you are tired. I will not be selfish enough to keep you up,” he added, preparing to depart. Good-night, my dearest.”
She burst into fresh tears, and clung to his hand.
“I shall be thinking it must be a dream as soon as you leave me. You will be sure to come back and see me to-morrow?”
“Come back—aye!” he said, with a smile; “Verner’s Pride never contained the magnet for me that it contains now.”
He gave a few brief orders to Mrs. Tynn and to his own servant, and quitted the house. Neither afraid of ghosts nor thieves, he took the field way, the road which led by the willow pond. It was a fine, cold night, his mind was unsettled, his blood was heated, and the lonely route appeared to him preferable to the one through the village.
As he passed the willow pond with a quick step, he caught a glimpse of some figure bending over it, as if it were looking for something in the water, or else about to take a leap in. Remembering the fate of Rachel, and not wishing to have a second catastrophe of the same nature happen on his estate, Lionel strode towards the figure and caught it by the arm. The head was flung upwards at the touch, and Lionel recognised Robin Frost.
“Robin! what do you do here?” he questioned, his tone somewhat severe in spite of its kindness.
“No harm,” answered the man. “There be times, Mr. Lionel, when I am forced to come. If I am in my bed, and the thought comes over me that I may see her if I only stay long enough upon the brink of this here water, which was her ending, I’m obliged to get up and come here. There be nights, sir, when I have stood here from sunset to sunrise.”
“But you never have seen her, Robin?” returned Lionel, humouring his grief.
“No; never. But it’s no reason why I never may. Folks say there be some of the dead that comes again, sir—not all.”
“And if you did see her, what end would it answer?”
“She’d tell me who the wicked one was that put her into it,” returned Robin, in a low whisper; and there was something so wild in the man’s tone as to make Lionel doubt his perfect sanity. “Many a time do I hear her voice a-calling to me. It comes at all hours, abroad and at home; in the full sunshine, and in the dark night. ‘Robin!’ it says, ‘Robin!’ But it never says nothing more.”
Lionel laid his hand on the man’s shoulder, and drew him with him.
“I am going your way, Robin; let us walk together.”
Robin made no resistance; he went along with his head down.
“I heard a word said to-night, sir, as Miss Sibylla had come back,” he resumed, more calmly, “Mrs. Massingbird, that is. Somebody said they