“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.