A CRISIS IN SIBYLLA'S LIFE.
Sibylla Verner improved neither in health nor in temper. Body and mind
were alike diseased. As the spring had advanced, her weakness appeared
to increase; the symptoms of consumption became more palpable. She would
not allow that she was ill; she, no doubt, thought that there was
nothing serious the matter with her; nothing, as she told everybody, but
the vexing after Verner's Pride.
Dr. West had expressed an opinion that her irritability, which she could
neither conceal nor check, was the result of her state of health. He was
very likely right. One thing was certain; that since she grew weaker and
worse, this unhappy frame of mind had greatly increased. The whole
business of her life appeared to be to grumble, to be cross, snappish,
fretful. If her body was diseased, most decidedly her temper was also.
The great grievance of quitting Verner's Pride she made a plea for the
indulgence of every complaint under the sun. She could no longer gather
a gay crowd of visitors around her; she had lost the opportunity with
Verner's Pride; she could no longer indulge in unlimited orders for new
dresses and bonnets, and other charming adjuncts to the toilette,
without reference to how they were to be paid for; she had not a dozen
servants at her beck and call; and if she wanted to pay a visit, there
was no elegant equipage, the admiration of all beholders, to convey her.
She had lost all with Verner's Pride. Not a day--scarcely an
hour--passed, but one or other, or all of these vexations, were made the
subject of fretful, open repining. Not to Lady Verner--Sibylla would not
have dared to annoy her; not to Decima or to Lucy; but to her husband.
How weary his ear was, how weary his spirit, no tongue could tell. She
tried him in every way--she did nothing but find fault with him. When he
stayed out, she grumbled at him for staying, meeting him with reproaches
on his entrance; when he remained in, she grumbled at him. In her sad
frame of mind it was essential--there are frames of mind in which it
_is_ essential, as the medical men will tell you, where the sufferer
cannot help it--that she should have some object on whom to vent her
irritability. Not being in her own house, there was but her husband. He
was the only one sufficiently nearly connected with her to whom the
courtesies of life could be dispensed with; and therefore he came in for
it all. At Verner's Pride there would have been her servants to share it
with him; at Dr. West's there would have been her sisters; at Lady
Verner's there was her husband alone. Times upon times Lionel felt
inclined to run away; as the disobedient boys run to sea.
The little hint, dropped by Dr. West, touching the past, had not been
without its fruits in Sibylla's mind. It lay and smouldered there. _Had_
Lionel been attached to Lucy?--had there been love-scenes, love-making
between them? Sibylla asked herself the questions ten times in a day.
Now and then she let drop a sharp, acrid bit of venom to him--his "old
love, Lucy." Lionel would receive it with impassibility, never
answering.
On the day spoken of in the last chapter, when Matthew Frost was dying,
she was more ill at ease, more intensely irritable, than usual. Lady
Verner had gone with some friends to Heartburg, and was not expected
home until night; Decima and Lucy walked out in the afternoon, and
Sibylla was alone. Lionel had not been home since he went out in the
morning to see Matthew Frost. The fact was Lionel had had a busy day of
it: what with old Matthew and what with his conversation with John
Massingbird afterwards, certain work which ought to have been done in
the morning he had left till the afternoon. It was nothing unusual for
him to be out all day; but Sibylla was choosing to make his being out on
this day an unusual grievance. As the hours of the afternoon passed on
and on, and it grew late, and nobody appeared, she could scarcely
suppress her temper, her restlessness. She was a bad one to be alone;
had never liked to be alone for five minutes in her life; and thence
perhaps the secret of her having made so much of a companion of her
maid, Benoite. In point of fact, Sibylla Verner had no resources within
herself; and she made up for the want by indulging in her naturally bad
temper.
Where were they? Where was Decima? Where was Lucy? Above all, where was
Lionel? Sibylla, not being able to answer the questions, suddenly began
to get up a pretty little plot of imagination--that Lucy and Lionel were
somewhere together. Had Sibylla possessed one of Sam Weller's patent
self-acting microscopes, able to afford a view through space and stairs
and deal doors, she might have seen Lionel seated alone in the study at
Verner's Pride, amidst his leases and papers; and Lucy in Clay Lane,
paying visits with Decima from cottage to cottage. Not possessing one of
those admirable instruments--if somebody at the West End would but set
up a stock of them for sale, what a lot of customers he'd have!--Sibylla
was content to cherish the mental view she had conjured up, and to
improve upon it. All the afternoon she kept improving upon it, until she
worked herself up to that agreeable pitch of distorted excitement when
the mind does not know what is real, and what fancy. It was a regular
April day; one of sunshine and storm; now the sun shining out bright and
clear; now, the rain pattering against the panes; and Sibylla wandered
from room to room, upstairs and down, as stormy as the weather.
_Had_ her dreams been types of fact? Upon glancing from the window,
during a sharper shower than any they had yet had, she saw her husband
coming in at the large gates, Lucy Tempest on his arm, over whom he was
holding an umbrella. They were walking slowly; conversing, as it seemed,
confidentially. It was quite enough for Mrs. Verner.
But it was a very innocent, accidental meeting, and the confidential
conversation was only about the state of poor old Matthew Frost. Lionel
had taken Clay Lane on his road home for the purpose of inquiring after
old Matthew. There, standing in the kitchen, he found Lucy. Decima was
with the old man, and it was uncertain how long she would stay with him;
and Lucy, who had no umbrella, was waiting for the shower to be over to
get back to Deerham Court. Lionel offered her the shelter of his. As
they advanced through the courtyard, Lucy saw Sibylla at the small
drawing-room window--the ante-room, as it was called--and nodded a
smiling greeting to her. She did not return it, and Lionel saw that his
wife looked black as night.
They came in, Lucy untying her bonnet-strings, and addressing Sibylla in
a pleasant tone--
"What a sharp storm!" she said. "And I think it means to last, for there
seems no sign of its clearing up. I don't know how I should have come,
but for Mr. Verner's umbrella."
No reply from Mrs. Verner.
"Decima is with old Matthew Frost," continued Lucy, passing into the
drawing-room; "she desired that we would not wait dinner for her."
Then began Sibylla. She turned upon Lionel in a state of perfect fury,
her temper, like a torrent, bearing down all before it--all decency, all
consideration.
"Where have you been? You and she?"
"Do you allude to Lucy?" he asked, pausing before he replied, and
looking at her with surprise. "We have been nowhere. I saw her at old
Frost's as I came by, and brought her home."
"It is a falsehood!" raved Sibylla. "You are carrying on a secret
intimacy with each other. I have been blind long enough, but--"
Lionel caught her arm, pointing in stern silence to the drawing-room
door, which was not closed, his white face betraying his inward
agitation.
"She is there!" he whispered. "She can hear you."
But Sibylla's passion was terrible--not to be controlled. All the
courtesies of life were lost sight of--its social usages were as
nothing. She flung Lionel's hand away from her.
"I hope she can hear me!" broke like a torrent from her trembling lips.
"It is time she heard, and others also! I have been blind, I say, long
enough. But for papa, I might have gone on in my blindness to the end."
How was he to stop it? That Lucy must hear every word as plainly as he
did, he knew; words that fell upon his ear, and blistered them. There
was no egress for her--no other door--she was there in a cage, as may be
said. He did what was the best to be done under the circumstances; he
walked into the presence of Lucy, leaving Sibylla to herself.
At least it might have been the best in some cases. It was not in this.
Sibylla, lost in that moment to all sense of the respect due to herself,
to her husband, to Lucy, allowed her wild fancies, her passion, to
over-master everything; and she followed him in. Her eyes blazing, her
cheeks aflame, she planted herself in front of Lucy.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself, Lucy Tempest, to wile my husband from
me?"
Lucy looked perfectly aghast. That she thought Mrs. Verner had suddenly
gone mad, may be excused to her. A movement of fear escaped her, and
she drew involuntary nearer to Lionel, as if for protection.
"No! you shan't go to him! There has been enough of it. You shall not
side with him against me! He is my husband! How dare you forget it! You
are killing me amongst you."
"I--don't--know--what--you--mean, Mrs. Verner," gasped Lucy, the words
coming in jerks from her bloodless lips.
"Can you deny that he cares for you more than he does for me? That you
care for him in return? Can not you--"!
"Be silent, Sibylla!" burst forth Lionel. "Do you know that you are
speaking to Miss Tempest?"
"I won't be silent!" she reiterated, her voice rising to a scream. "Who
is Lucy Tempest that you should care for her? You know you do! and you
know that you meant to marry her once! Is it--"
Pushing his wife on a chair, though gently, with one arm, Lionel caught
the hand of Lucy, and placed it within the other, his chest heaving with
emotion. He led her out of the room and through the ante-room, in
silence to the door, halting there. She was shaking all over, and the
tears were coursing down her cheeks. He took both her hands in his, his
action one of deprecating entreaty, his words falling in the tenderest
accents from between his bloodless lips.
"Will you _bear_ for my sake, Lucy? She is my wife. Heaven knows, upon
any other I would retort the insult."
How Lucy's heart was wrung!--wrung for him. The insult to herself she
could afford to ignore; being innocent, it fell with very slender force;
but she felt keenly for his broken peace. Had it been to save her life,
she could not help returning the pressure of his hand as she looked up
to him her affirmative answer; and she saw no wrong or harm in the
pressure. Lionel closed the door upon her, and returned to his wife.
A change had come over Sibylla. She had thrown herself at full length on
a sofa, and was beginning to sob. He went up to her, and spoke gravely,
not unkindly, his arms folded before him.
"Sibylla, when is this line of conduct to cease? I am nearly wearied
out--nearly," he repeated, putting his hand to his brow, "wearied out.
If I could bear the exposure for myself, I cannot bear it for my wife."
She rose up and sat down on the sofa facing him. The hectic of her
cheeks had turned to scarlet.
"You do love her! You care for her more than you care for me. Can you
deny it?"
"What part of my conduct has ever told you so?"
"I don't care for conduct," she fractiously retorted, "I remember what
papa said, and that's enough. He said he saw how it was in the old
days--that you loved her. What business had you to love her?"
"Stay, Sibylla! Carry your reflections back, and answer yourself. In
those old days, when both of you were before me to choose--at any rate,
to _ask_--I chose _you_, leaving her. Is it not a sufficient answer?"
Sibylla threw back her head on the sofa-frame, and began to cry.
"From the hour that I made you my wife, I have striven to do my duty by
you, tenderly as husband can do it. Why do you force me to reiterate
this declaration, which I have made before?" he added, his face working
with emotion. "Neither by word nor action have I been false to you. I
have never, for the briefest moment, been guilty behind your back of
that which I would not be guilty of in your presence. No! my allegiance
of duty has never swerved from you. So help me Heaven!"
"You can't swear to me that you don't love her?" was Sibylla's retort.
It appeared that he did not intend to swear it. He went and stood
against the mantel-piece, in his old favourite attitude, leaning his
elbow on it and his face upon his hand--a face that betrayed his inward
pain. Sibylla began again: to tantalise him seemed a necessity of her
life.
"I might have expected trouble when I consented to marry you. Rachel
Frost's fate might have taught me the lesson."
"Stay," said Lionel, lifting his head. "It is not the first hint of the
sort that you have given me. Tell me honestly what it is you mean."
"You need not ask; you know already. Rachel owed her disgrace to you."
Lionel paused a moment before he rejoined. When he did, it was in a
quiet tone.
"Do you speak from your own opinion?"
"No, I don't. The secret was intrusted to me."
"By whom? You must tell me, Sibylla."
"I don't know why I should not," she slowly said, as if in deliberation.
"My husband trusted me with it."
"Do you allude to Frederick Massingbird?" asked Lionel, in a tone whose
coldness he could not help.
"Yes, I do. He _was_ my husband," she resentfully added. "One day, on
the voyage to Australia, he dropped a word that made me think he knew
something about that business of Rachel's, and I teased him to tell me
who it was who had played the rogue. He said it was Lionel Verner."
A pause. But for Lionel's admirable disposition, how terribly he might
have retorted upon her, knowing what he had learned that day.
"Did he tell you I had completed the roguery by pushing her into the
pond?" he inquired.
"I don't know. I don't remember. Perhaps he did."
"And--doubting it--you could marry me!" quietly remarked Lionel.
She made no answer.
"Let me set you right on that point once for all, then," he continued.
"I was innocent as you. I had nothing to do with it. Rachel and her
father were held in too great respect by my uncle--nay, by me, I may
add--for me to offer _her_ anything but respect. You were misinformed,
Sibylla."
She laughed scornfully. "It is easy to say so."
"As it was for Frederick Massingbird to say to you what he did."
"If it came to the choice," she retorted, "I'd rather believe him than
you."
Bitter aggravation lay in her tone, bitter aggravation in her gesture.
Was Lionel tempted to forget himself?--to set her right? If so, he beat
the temptation down. All men would not have been so forbearing.
"Sibylla, I have told you truth," he simply said.
"Which is as much as to say that Fred told----" she was vehemently
beginning when the words were stopped by the entrance of John
Massingbird. John, caught in the shower near Deerham Court, made no
scruple of running to it for shelter, and was in time to witness
Sibylla's angry tones and inflamed face.
What precisely happened Lionel could never afterwards recall. He
remembered John's free and easy salutation, "What's the row?"--he
remembered Sibylla's torrent of words in answer. As little given to
reticence or delicacy in the presence of her cousin, as she had been in
that of Lucy Tempest, she renewed her accusation of her husband with
regard to Rachel: she called on him--John--to bear testimony that Fred
was truthful. And Lionel remembered little more until he saw Sibylla
lying back gasping, the blood pouring from her mouth.
John Massingbird--perhaps in his eagerness to contradict her as much as
in his regard to make known the truth--had answered her all too
effectually before Lionel could stop him. Words that burned into the
brain of Sibylla Verner, and turned the current of her life's pulses.
It was her husband of that voyage, Frederick Massingbird, who had
brought the evil upon Rachel, who had been with her by the pond that
night.
As the words left John Massingbird's lips, she rose up, and stood
staring at him. Presently she essayed to speak, but not a sound issued
from her drawn lips. Whether passion impeded her utterance, or startled
dismay, or whether it may have been any physical impediment, it was
evident that she could not get the words out.
Fighting her hands on the empty air, fighting for breath or for speech,
so she remained for a passing space; and then the blood began to trickle
from her mouth. The excitement had caused her to burst a blood-vessel.
Lionel crossed over to her: her best support. He held her in his arms,
tenderly and considerately, as though she had never given him an
unwifely word. Stretching out his other hand to the bell, he rang it
loudly. And then he looked at Mr. Massingbird.
"Run for your life," he whispered. "Get Jan here."