nce. 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? I