“I heard that he did,” replied Lionel.

“And I suppose that frightened him.  Everything was in the desk—­money and letters of credit.  He had a few bank-notes, only, left in his pocket-book.  It never was recovered.  I owe my passage-money home, and I believe Captain Cannonby supplied him with some funds—­which of course ought to be repaid.  He took to drinking brandy,” she continued.

“I am much surprised to hear it.”

“Some fever came on.  I don’t know whether he caught it, or whether it came to him naturally.  It was a sort of intermittent fever.  At times he was very low with it, and then it was that he would drink the brandy.  Only fancy what my position was!” she added, her face and voice alike full of pain.  “He, not always himself; and I, out there in that wretched place, alone.  I went down on my knees to him one day, and begged him to send me back to England.”

“Sibylla!”

He was unconscious that he called her by the familiar name.  He was wishing he could have shielded her from all this.  Painful as the retrospect might be to her, the recital was far more painful to him.

“After that, we met Captain Cannonby.  I did not much like him, but he was kind to us.  He got us to change to an hotel—­made them find room for us—­and then introduced me to the Eyres.  Afterwards, he and Fred started from Melbourne, and I went to stay at the Eyres.”

Lionel did not interrupt her.  She had made a pause, her eyes fixed on the fire.

“A day or two, and Captain Cannonby came back, and said that my husband was dead.  I was not very much surprised.  I thought he would not live when he left me:  he had death written in his face.  And so I am alone in the world.”

She raised her large blue eyes, swimming in tears, to Lionel.  It completely disarmed him.  He forgot all his prudence, all his caution; he forgot things that it was incumbent upon him to remember; and, as many another has done before him, older and wiser than Lionel Verner, he suffered a moment’s impassioned impulse to fix the destiny of a life.

“Not alone from henceforth, Sibylla,” he murmured, bending towards her in agitation, his lips apart, his breath coming fast and loud, his cheeks scarlet.  “Let me be your protector.  I love you more fondly than I have ever done.”

She was entirely unprepared for the avowal.  It may be that she did not know what to make of it—­how to understand it.  She stepped back, her eyes strained on him inquiringly, her face turning to pallor.  Lionel threw his arms around her, drew her to him, and sheltered her on his breast, as if he would ward off ill from her for ever.

“Be my wife,” he fondly cried, his voice trembling with its own tenderness.  “My darling, let this home be yours!  Nothing shall part us more.”

She burst into tears, raised herself, and looked at him.  “You cannot mean it!  After behaving to you as I did, can you love me still?”