doubt might be solved—as it suddenly occurred to Lionel. And that was through Captain Cannonby. If this gentleman really was with Frederick Massingbird when he died, and saw him buried, it was evident that it could not be Frederick come back to life. In that case, who or what it might be, Lionel did not stay to speculate: his business lay in ascertaining by the most direct means in his power, whether it was, or was not, Frederick Massingbird. How was it possible to do this, how could it be possible to set the question at rest?
By a very simple process, it may be answered—the waiting for time and chance. Ay, but do you know what that waiting involves, in a case like this? Think of the state of mind that Lionel Verner must live under, during the suspense!
He made no doubt that the man who had been under the tree on the lawn, a few nights before, watching his window, whom they had set down as being Roy, was Frederick Massingbird. And yet, it was scarcely believable. Where now was Lionel to look for him? He could not, for Sibylla’s sake, make inquiries in the village in secret or openly: he could not go to the inhabitants and ask—have you seen Frederick Massingbird? or say to each individual, I must send a police-officer to search your house, for I suspect Frederick Massingbird is somewhere concealed, and I want to find him. For her sake he could not so much as breathe the name, in connection with his being alive.
Given that it was Frederick Massingbird, what could possibly prevent his making himself known? As he dwelt upon this problem, trying to solve it, the idea taken up by Lucy Tempest—that the man under the tree was watching for an opportunity to harm him—came into his mind. That, surely, could not be the solution! If he had taken Frederick Massingbird’s wife to be his wife, he had done it in all innocence. Lionel spurned the notion as a preposterous one: nevertheless, a remembrance crossed him of the old days when the popular belief at Verner’s Pride had been, that the younger of the Massingbirds was of a remarkably secretive and also of a revengeful nature. But all that he barely glanced at: the terrible fear touching Sibylla absorbed him.
He was leaning against a tree in the covered walk near Verner’s Pride, the walk which led to the willow-pond, his head bared, his brow bent with the most unmistakeable signs of care, when something not unlike a small white balloon came flying down the path. A lady, with her silk dress turned over her shoulders, leaving only the white lining exposed to view. She was face to face with Lionel before she saw him.
“Lucy!” he exclaimed, in extreme surprise.
Lucy Tempest laughed, and let her dress drop into a more dignified position. “I and Decima went to call on Mrs. Bitterworth,” she explained, “and Decima is staying there. It began to rain as I came out, so I turned into the back walk and put my dress up to save it. Am I not economical, Mr. Verner?”
She spoke quickly. Lionel thought it was done with a view to hide her agitation. “You cannot go home through this rain, Lucy. Let me take you indoors: we are close at home.”
“No, thank you,” said Lucy, hastily, “I must return to Lady Verner. She will not be pleased at Decima’s staying out, therefore I must return. Poor Mrs. Bitterworth has had an attack of—what did they call it?—spasmodical croup, I think. She is better now, and begged Decima to stay with her the rest of the day: Mr. Bitterworth and the rest of them are out. Jan says it is highly dangerous for the time it lasts.”
“She has had something of the same sort before, I remember,” observed Lionel. “I wish you would come in, Lucy. If you must go home, I will send you in the carriage: but I think you might stay and dine with us.”
A soft colour mantled in Lucy’s cheeks. She had never made herself a familiar acquaintance at Lionel Verner’s. He had observed it, if no one else had. Sibylla had once said to her that she hoped they should be great friends, that Verner’s Pride would see a great deal of her. Lucy had never responded to the wish. A formal visit with Decima or Lady Verner when she could not help herself; but alone, in a social manner, she had never put her foot over the threshold of Verner’s Pride.
“You are very kind. I must go home at once. The rain will not hurt me.”
Lionel, self-conscious, did not urge it further.
“Will you remain here, then, under the trees, while I go home and get an umbrella?”
“Oh dear no, I don’t want an umbrella; thank you all the same. I have my parasol, you see.”
She took her dress up again as she spoke, not high, as it was previously, but turning it a little.
“Lady Verner scolds me so if I spoil my things,” she said, in a tone of laughing apology. “She buys me very good ones, and orders me to take care of them. Good-bye, Mr. Verner.”
Lionel took the hand in his which she held out. But he turned with her, and then loosed it again.
“You are not coming with me, Mr. Verner?”
“I shall see you home.”
“But—I had rather you did not. I prefer—not to trouble you.”
“Pardon me, Lucy. I cannot suffer you to go alone.”
It was a calm reply, quietly spoken. There were no fine phrases of its being “no trouble,” that the “trouble was a pleasure,” as others might indulge in. Fine phrases from them! from the one to the other! Neither could have spoken them.
Lucy said no more, and they walked on side by side in silence, both unpleasantly self-conscious. Lionel’s face had resumed its strange expression of care. Lucy had observed it when she came up to him; she observed it still.
“You look as if you had some great trouble upon you, Mr. Verner,” she said, after awhile.
“Then I look what is the truth. I have one, Lucy.”
“A heavy one?” asked Lucy, struck with his tone.
“A grievously heavy one. One that does not often fall to the lot of man.”
