dearer to him than his own life; he loved her better than all earthly things. That the knowledge was all too palpable then, he was bitterly feeling, and he could not suppress it. He could neither suppress the knowledge, nor the fact; it had been very present with him for long and long. He could not help it, as he said. He believed in his honest heart that he had not encouraged the passion; that it had taken root and spread unconsciously to himself. He would have driven it away had it been in his power; he would drive it away now, could he do it by any amount of energy or will. But it could not be. And Lionel Verner leaned in the dark there against the window-frame, resolving to do as he had done before—had done all along. To suppress it ever; to ignore it, so far as might be; and to do his duty as honestly and lovingly by his wife, as though the love were not there.
He had been enabled to do this hitherto, and he would still: God helping him.
CHAPTER LVIII. GOING TO THE BALL.
It was the day of the fête at Deerham Hall. Sibylla awoke in an amiable mood, unusually so for her, and Lionel, as he dressed, talked to her gravely and kindly, urging upon her the necessity of relinquishing her determination to be present. It appeared that she was also reasonable that morning, as well as amiable, for she listened to him, and at length voluntarily said she would think no more about it.
“But you must afford me some treat in place of it,” she immediately added. “Will you promise to take me for a whole day next week to Heartburg?”
“Willingly,” replied Lionel. “There is to be a morning concert at Heartburg next Tuesday. If you feel well enough, we can attend that.”
He did not think morning concerts, and the fatigue they sometimes entail, particularly desirable things for his wife; but, compared with hot ball-rooms and the night air, they seemed innocuous. Sibylla liked morning concerts uncommonly, nearly as much as Master Cheese liked tarts: she liked anything that afforded an apology for dress and display.
“Mind, Lionel, you promise to take me,” she reiterated.
“Yes. Provided you feel equal to going.”
Sibylla took breakfast in her own room, according to custom. Formerly she had done so through idleness: now she was really not well enough to rise early. Lionel, when he joined the family breakfast table, announced the news: announced it in his own characteristic manner.
“Sibylla thinks, after all, that she will be better at home, this evening,” he said. “I am glad she has so decided it.”
“Her senses have come to her, have they!” remarked Lady Verner.
He made no reply. He never did make a reply to any shaft lanced by Lady Verner at his wife. My lady was sparing of her shafts in a general way since they had resided with her, but she did throw one out now and then.
“You will go with me, then, Lionel.”
He shook his head, telling his mother she must excuse him: it was not his intention to be present.
Sibylla continued in a remarkably quiet, not to say affable, temper all day. Lionel was out, but returned home to dinner. By-and-by Lady Verner and Decima retired to dress. Lucy went up with Decima, and Lionel remained with his wife.
When they came down, Sibylla was asleep on the sofa. Lady Verner wore some of the magnificent and yet quiet attire that had pertained to her gayer days; Decima was in white. Lionel put on his hat and went out to hand them into the carriage that waited. As he did so, the aspect of his sister’s face struck him.
“What is the matter, Decima?” he exclaimed. “You are looking perfectly white.”
She only smiled in answer: a forced, unnatural smile, as it appeared to Lionel. But he said no more: he thought the white hue might be only the shade cast by the moonlight. Lady Verner looked from the carriage to ask a question.
“Is Jan really going, do you know, Lionel? Lucy says she thinks he is. I do hope and trust that he will be attired like a Christian, if he is absurd enough to appear.”
“I think I’ll go and see,” answered Lionel, a smile crossing his face. “Take care, Catherine.”
Old Catherine, who had come out with shawls, was dangerously near the wheels—and the horses were on the point of starting. She stepped back, and the carriage drove on.
The bustle had aroused Sibylla. She rose to look from the window: saw the carriage depart, saw Catherine come in, saw Lionel walk away towards Deerham. It was all clear in the moonlight. Lucy Tempest was looking from the other window.
“What a lovely night it is!” she exclaimed. “I should not mind a drive of ten miles, such a night as this.”
“And yet they choose to say that going out would hurt me!” spoke Sibylla, in a resentful tone. “They only do it on purpose to vex me.”
Lucy chose to ignore the subject: it was not her business to enter into it one way or the other. She felt that Mrs. Verner had done perfectly right in remaining at home; that her strength would have been found unequal to support the heat and excitement of a ball-room, following on the night air of the transit to it. Lovely as the night was, it was cold: for some few evenings past the gardeners had complained of frost.
Lucy drew from the window with a half sigh: it seemed almost a pity to shut out that pleasant moonlight: turned, and stirred the fire into a blaze. Sibylla’s chilly nature caused them to enter upon evening fires before other people thought of them.
“Shall I ring for lights, Mrs. Verner?”
“I suppose it’s time, and past time,” was Sibylla’s answer. “I must have been asleep ever so long.”
Catherine brought them in. The man-servant had gone in attendance on his mistress. The moderate household of Lady Verner consisted now but of four domestics: Thérèse, Catherine, the cook, and the man.
