“You are a youthful image of her, Sybil.”
“Go on please, tell me more; tell me why this is so stained and worn;
you know all, and surely I am old enough now to hear any history of pain
and loss.”
Something caused my uncle to knit his brows, but his bland voice never
varied a tone as he placed the picture in my hand and gave me this brief
explanation:—
“Just before your birth your father was obliged to cross the Channel, to
receive the last wishes of a dying friend; there was an accident; the
vessel foundered, and many lives were lost. He escaped, but by some
mistake his name appeared in the list of missing passengers; your mother
saw it, the shock destroyed her, and when your father returned he found
only a motherless little daughter to welcome him. This miniature, which
he always carried with him, was saved with his papers at the last
moment; but though the sea-water ruined it he would never have it copied
or retouched, and gave it to me when he died in memory of the woman I
had loved for his sake. It is yours now, my child; keep it, and never
feel that you are fatherless or motherless while I remain.”
Kind as was both act and speech, neither touched me, for something
seemed wanting. I felt, yet could not define it, for then I believed in
the sincerity of all I met.
“Where was she buried, uncle? It may be foolish, but I should like to
see my mother’s grave.”
“You shall some day, Sybil,” and a curious change came over my uncle’s
face as he averted it.
“I have made him melancholy, talking of Guy’s mother and my own; now
I’ll make him gay again if possible, and pique that negligent boy,” I
thought, and drew my uncle to a lounging-chair, established myself on
the arm thereof, and kept him laughing with my merriest gossip, both of
us apparently unconscious of the long dark figure stretched just
opposite, feigning sleep, but watching us through half-closed lids, and
never stirring except to bow silently to my careless “Good-night.”
As I reached the stairhead, I remembered that my letter to madame, full
of the frankest criticisms upon people and things, was lying unsealed on
the table in the little room my uncle had set apart for my boudoir;
fearing servants’ eyes and tongues, I slipped down again to get it. The
room adjoined the parlors, and just then was lit only by a ray from the
hall lamp. I had secured the letter, and was turning to retreat, when I
heard Guy say petulantly, as if thwarted yet submissive,—
“I _am_ civil when you leave me alone; I _do_ agree to marry her, but I
won’t be hurried or go a-wooing except in my own way. You know I never
liked the bargain, for it’s nothing else; yet I can reconcile myself to
being sold, if it relieves you and gives us both a home. But, father,
mind this, if you tie me to that girl’s sash too tightly I shall break
away entirely, and then where are we?”
“I should be in prison and you a houseless vagabond. Trust me, my boy,
and take the good fortune which I secured for you in your cradle. Look
in pretty Sybil’s face, and resignation will grow easy; but remember
time presses, that this is our forlorn hope, and for God’s sake be
cautious, for she is a headstrong creature, and may refuse to fulfil her
part if she learns that the contract is not binding against her will.”
“I think she’ll not refuse, sir; she likes me already. I see it in her
eyes; she has never had a lover, she says, and according to your account
a girl’s first sweetheart is apt to fare the best. Besides, she likes
the place, for I told her it was hers, as you bade me, and she said she
could be very happy here, if my father was always kind.”
“She said that, did she? little hypocrite! For your father, read
yourself, and tell me what else she babbled about in that early
_tête-à-tête_ of yours.”
“You are as curious as a woman, sir, and always make me tell you all I
do and say, yet never tell me any thing in return, except this business,
which I hate, because my liberty is the price, and my poor little cousin
is kept in the dark. I’ll tell her all, before I marry her, father.”
“As you please, hot-head. I am waiting for an account of the first love
passage, so leave blushing to Sybil and begin.”
I knew what was coming and stayed no longer, but caught one glimpse of
the pair, Guy in his favorite place, erect upon the rug, half-laughing,
half-frowning as he delayed to speak, my uncle serenely smoking on the
couch; then I sped away to my own room, thinking, as I sat down in a
towering passion,—
“So he does know of the baby betrothal and hates it, yet submits to
please his father, who covets my fortune,—mercenary creatures! I can
annul the contract, can I? I’m glad to know that, for it makes me
mistress of them both. I like you already, do I? and you see it in my
eyes. Coxcomb! I’ll be the thornier for that. Yet I do like him; I do
wish he cared for me, I’m so lonely in the world, and he can be so
kind.”
So I cried a little, brushed my hair a good deal, and went to bed,
resolving to learn all I could when, where, and how I pleased, to render
myself as charming and valuable as possible, to make Guy love me in
spite of himself, and then say yes or no, as my heart prompted me.
That day was a sample of those that followed, for my cousin was by turns
attracted or repelled by the capricious moods that ruled me. Though
conscious of a secret distrust of my uncle, I could not resist the
fascination of his manner when he chose to exert its influence over me;
this made my little plot easier of execution, for jealousy seemed the
most effectual means to bring my wayward cousin to subjection. Full of
this fancy, I seemed to tire of his society, grew thorny as a briar rose
to him, affectionate as a daughter to my uncle, who surveyed us both
with that inscrutable glance of his, and slowly yielded to my dominion
as if he had divined my purpose and desired to aid it. Guy turned cold
and gloomy, yet still lingered near me as if ready for a relenting look
or word. I liked that, and took a wanton pleasure in prolonging the
humiliation of the warm heart I had learned to love, yet not to value as
I ought, until it was too late.
One dull November evening as I went wandering up and down the hall,
pretending to enjoy the flowers, yet in reality waiting for Guy, who had
left me alone all day, my uncle came from his room, where he had sat for
many hours with the harassed and anxious look he always wore when
certain foreign letters came.
“Sybil, I have something to show and tell you,” he said, as I garnished
his button-hole with a spray of heliotrope, meant for the laggard, who
would understand its significance, I hoped. Leading me to the
drawing-room, my uncle put a paper into my hands, with the request,—
“This is a copy of your father’s will; oblige me by reading it.”
He stood watching my face as I read, no doubt wondering at my composure
while I waded through the dry details of the will, curbing my impatience
to reach the one important passage. There it was, but no word concerning
my power to dissolve the engagement if I pleased; and, as I realized the
fact, a sudden bewilderment and sense of helplessness came over me, for
the strange law terms seemed to make inexorable the paternal decree
which I had not seen before. I forgot my studied calmness, and asked
several questions eagerly.
“Uncle, did my father really command that I should marry Guy, whether we
loved each other or not?”
“You see what he there set down as his desire; and I have taken measures
that you _should_ love one another, knowing that few cousins, young,
comely, and congenial, could live three months together without finding
themselves ready to mate for their own sakes, if not for the sake of the
dead and living fathers to whom they owe obedience.”
“You said I need not, if I didn’t choose; why is it not here?”
“I said that? Never, Sybil!” and I met a look of such entire surprise
and incredulity it staggered my belief in my own senses, yet also roused
my spirit, and, careless of consequences, I spoke out at once,—
“I heard you say it myself the night after I came, when you told Guy to
be cautious, because I could refuse to fulfil the engagement, if I knew
that it was not binding against my will.”
This discovery evidently destroyed some plan, and for a moment threw him
off his guard; for, crumpling the paper in his hand, he sternly
demanded,—
“You turned eavesdropper early; how often since?”
“Never, uncle; I did not mean it then, but, going for a letter in the
dark, I heard your voices, and listened for an instant. It was
dishonorable, but irresistible; and, if you force Guy’s confidence, why
should not I steal yours? All is fair in war, sir, and I forgive as I
hope to be forgiven.”
“You have a quick wit and a reticence I did not expect to find under
that frank manner. So you have known your future destiny all these
months, then, and have a purpose in your treatment of your cousin and
myself?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“May I ask what?”
I was ashamed to tell; and, in the little pause before my answer came,
my pique at Guy’s desertion was augmented by anger at my uncle’s denial
of his own words the ungenerous hopes he cherished, and a strong desire
to perplex and thwart him took possession of me, for I saw his anxiety
concerning the success of this interview, though he endeavored to
repress and conceal it. Assuming my coldest mien, I said,—
“No, sir, I think not; only I can assure you that my little plot has
succeeded better than your own.”
“But you intend to obey your father’s wish, I hope, and fulfil your part
of the compact, Sybil?”
“Why should I? It is not binding, you know, and I’m too young to lose my
liberty just yet; besides, such compacts are unjust, unwise. What right
had my father to mate me in my cradle? how did he know what I should
become, or Guy? how could he tell that I should not love some one else
better? No! I’ll not be bargained away like a piece of merchandise, but
love and marry when I please!”
At this declaration of independence my uncle’s face darkened ominously,
some new suspicion lurked in his eye, some new anxiety beset him; but
his manner was calm, his voice blander than ever as he asked,—
“Is there then, some one whom you love? Confide in me, my girl.”
“And if there were, what then?”
“All would be changed at once, Sybil. But who is it? Some young lover
left behind at madame’s?”
“No, sir.”
“Who, then? You have led a recluse life here. Guy has no friends who
visit him, and mine are all old, yet you say you love.”
“With all my heart, uncle.”
“Is this affection returned, Sybil?”
“I think so.”
“And it is not Guy?”
I was wicked enough to enjoy the bitter disappointment he could not
conceal at my decided words, for I thought he deserved that momentary
pang; but I could not as decidedly answer that last question, for I
would not lie, neither would I confess just yet; so, with a little
gesture of impatience, I silently turned away, lest he should see the
tell-tale color in my cheeks. My uncle stood an instant in deep thought,
a slow smile crept to his lips, content returned to his mien, and
something like a flash of triumph glittered for a moment in his eye,
then vanished, leaving his countenance earnestly expectant. Much as this
change surprised me, his words did more, for, taking both my hands in
his, he gravely said,—
“Do you know that I am your uncle by adoption and not blood, Sybil?”
“Yes, sir; I heard so, but forgot about it,” and I looked up at him, my
anger quite lost in astonishment.
“Let me tell you, then. Your grandfather was childless for many years,
my mother was an early friend, and when her death left me an orphan, he
took me for his son and heir. But two years from that time your father
was born. I was too young to realize the entire change this might make
in my life. The old man was too just and generous to let me feel it, and
the two lads grew up together like brothers. Both married young, and
when you were born a few years later than my son, your father said to
me, ‘Your boy shall have my girl, and the fortune I have innocently
robbed you of shall make us happy in our children.’ Then the family
league was made, renewed at his death, and now destroyed by his
daughter, unless—Sybil, I am forty-five, you not eighteen, yet you once
said you could be very happy with me, if I were always kind to you. I
can promise that I will be, for I love you. My darling, you reject the
son, will you accept the father?”
If he had struck me, it would scarcely have dismayed me more. I started
up, and snatching away my hands hid my face in them, for after the first
tingle of surprise an almost irresistible desire to laugh came over me,
but I dared not, and gravely, gently he went on,—
“I am a bold man to say this, yet I mean it most sincerely. I never
meant to betray the affection I believed you never could return, and
would only laugh at as a weakness; but your past acts, your present
words, give me courage to confess that I desire to keep my ward mine for
ever. Shall it be so?”
He evidently mistook my surprise for maidenly emotion, and the
suddenness of this unforeseen catastrophe seemed to deprive me of words.
All thought of merriment or ridicule was forgotten in a sense of guilt,
for if he feigned the love he offered it was well done, and I believed
it then. I saw at once the natural impression conveyed by my conduct; my
half confession and the folly of it all oppressed me with a regret and
shame I could not master. My mind was in dire confusion, yet a decided
“No” was rapidly emerging from the chaos, but was not uttered; for just
at this crisis, as I stood with my uncle’s arm about me, my hand again
in his, and his head bent down to catch my answer, Guy swung himself
gayly into the room. A glance seemed to explain all, and in an instant
his face assumed that expression of pale wrath so much more terrible to
witness than the fiercest outbreak; his eye grew fiery, his voice
bitterly sarcastic, as he said,—
“Ah, I see; the play goes on, but the actors change parts. I
congratulate you, sir, on your success, and Sybil on her choice.
Henceforth I am _de trop_, but before I go allow me to offer my wedding
gift. You have taken the bride, let me supply the ring.”
He threw a jewel-box upon the table, adding, in that unnaturally calm
tone that made my heart stand still:
“A little candor would have spared me much pain, Sybil; yet I hope you
will enjoy your bonds as heartily as I shall my escape from them. A
little confidence would have made me your ally, not your rival, father.
I have not your address; therefore I lose, you win. Let it be so. I had
rather be the vagabond this makes me than sell myself, that you may
gamble away that girl’s fortune as you have your own and mine. You need
not ask me to the wedding, I will not come. Oh, Sybil, I so loved, so
trusted you!”
And with that broken exclamation he was gone.
The stormy scene had passed so rapidly, been so strange and sudden,
Guy’s anger so scornful and abrupt, I could not understand it, and felt
like a puppet in the grasp of some power I could not resist; but as my
lover left the room I broke out of the bewilderment that held me,
imploring him to stay and hear me.
It was too late, he was gone, and Sultan’s tramp was already tearing
down the avenue. I listened till the sound died, then my hot temper rose
past control, and womanlike asserted itself in vehement and voluble
speech: I was angry with my uncle, my cousin, and myself, and for
several minutes poured forth a torrent of explanations, reproaches, and
regrets, such as only a passionate girl could utter.
My uncle stood where I had left him when I flew to the door with my vain
cry; he now looked baffled, yet sternly resolved, and as I paused for
breath his only answer was,—
“Sybil, you ask me to bring back that headstrong boy; I cannot; he will
never come. This marriage was distasteful to him, yet he submitted for
my sake, because I have been unfortunate, and we are poor. Let him go,
forget the past, and be to me what I desire, for I loved your father and
will be a faithful guardian to his daughter all my life. Child, it must
be,—come, I implore, I command you.”
He beckoned imperiously as if to awe me, and held up the glittering
betrothal ring as if to tempt me. The tone, the act, the look put me
quite beside myself. I did go to him, did take the ring, but said as
resolutely as himself,—
“Guy rejects me, and I have done with love. Uncle, you would have
deceived me, used me as a means to your own selfish ends. I will accept
neither yourself nor your gifts, for now I despise both you and your
commands;” and, as the most energetic emphasis I could give to my
defiance, I flung the ring, case and all, across the room; it struck the
great mirror, shivered it just in the middle, and sent several loosened
fragments crashing to the floor.
“Great heavens! is the young lady mad?” exclaimed a voice behind us.
Both turned and saw Dr. Karnac, a stealthy, sallow-faced Spaniard, for
whom I had an invincible aversion. He was my uncle’s physician, had been
visiting a sick servant in the upper regions, and my adverse fate sent
him to the door just at that moment with that unfortunate exclamation on
his lips.
“What do you say?”
My uncle wheeled about and eyed the new-comer intently as he repeated
his words. I have no doubt I looked like one demented, for I was
desperately angry, pale and trembling with excitement, and as they
fronted me with a curious expression of alarm on their faces, a sudden
sense of the absurdity of the spectacle came over me; I laughed
hysterically a moment, then broke into a passion of regretful tears,
remembering that Guy was gone. As I sobbed behind my hands, I knew the
gentlemen were whispering together and of me, but I never heeded them,
for as I wept myself calmer a comforting thought occurred to me; Guy
could not have gone far, for Sultan had been out all day, and though
reckless of himself he was not of his horse, which he loved like a human
being; therefore he was doubtless at the house of an humble friend near
by. If I could slip away unseen, I might undo my miserable work, or at
least see him again before he went away into the world, perhaps never to
return. This hope gave me courage for any thing, and dashing away my
tears I took a covert survey. Dr. Karnac and my uncle still stood before
the fire, deep in their low-toned conversation; their backs were toward
me, and, hushing the rustle of my dress, I stole away with noiseless
steps into the hall, seized Guy’s plaid, and, opening the great door
unseen, darted down the avenue.
Not far, however; the wind buffeted me to and fro, the rain blinded me,
the mud clogged my feet and soon robbed me of a slipper; groping for it
in despair, I saw a light flash into the outer darkness; heard voices
calling, and soon the swift tramp of steps behind me. Feeling like a
hunted doe, I ran on, but before I had gained a dozen yards my shoeless
foot struck a sharp stone, and I fell half-stunned upon the wet grass of
the wayside bank. Dr. Karnac reached me first, took me up as if I were a
naughty child, and carried me back through a group of staring servants
to the drawing-room, my uncle following with breathless entreaties that
I would be calm, and a most uncharacteristic display of bustle.
I was horribly ashamed; my head ached with the shock of the fall, my
foot bled, my heart fluttered, and when the doctor put me down the
crisis came, for as my uncle bent over me with the strange question, “My
poor girl, do you know me?” an irresistible impulse impelled me to push
him from me, crying passionately,—
“Yes, I know and hate you; let me go! let me go, or it will be too
late!” then, quite spent with the varying emotions of the last hour, for
the first time in my life I swooned away.
Coming to myself, I found I was in my own room, with my uncle, the
doctor, Janet, and Mrs. Best, the housekeeper, gathered about me, the
latter saying, as she bathed my temples,—
“She’s a sad sight, poor thing, so young, so bonny, and so unfortunate.
Did you ever see her so before, Janet?”
“Bless you, no, ma’am; there was no signs of such a tantrum when I
dressed her for dinner.”
“What do they mean? did they never see any one angry before?” I dimly
wondered, and presently, through the fast disappearing stupor that had
held me, Dr. Karnac’s deep voice came distinctly, saying,—
“If it continues, you are perfectly justified in doing so.”
“Doing what?” I demanded sharply, for the sound both roused and
irritated me, I disliked the man so intensely.
“Nothing, my dear, nothing,” purred Mrs. Best, supporting me as I sat
up, feeling weak and dazed, yet resolved to know what was going on. I
was “a sad sight” indeed; my drenched hair hung about my shoulders, my
dress was streaked with mud, one shoeless foot was red with blood, the
other splashed and stained, and a white, wild-eyed face completed the
ruinous image the opposite mirror showed me. Every thing looked blurred
and strange, and a feverish unrest possessed me, for I was not one to
subside easily after such a mental storm. Leaning on my arm, I scanned
the room and its occupants with all the composure I could collect. The
two women eyed me curiously yet pitifully; Dr. Karnac stood glancing at
me furtively as he listened to my uncle, who spoke rapidly in Spanish as
he showed the little scar upon his hand. That sight did more to restore
me than the cordial just administered, and I rose erect, saying
abruptly,—
“Please, everybody, go away; my head aches, and I want to be alone.”
“Let Janet stay and help you, dear; you are not fit,” began Mrs. Best;
but I peremptorily stopped her.
“No, go yourself, and take her with you; I’m tired of so much stir about
such foolish things as a broken glass and a girl in a pet.”
“You will be good enough to take this quieting draught before I go, Miss
Sybil.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort, for I need only solitude and sleep to
be perfectly well,” and I emptied the glass the doctor offered into the
fire. He shrugged his shoulders with a disagreeable smile, and quietly
began to prepare another draught, saying,—
“You are mistaken, my dear young lady; you need much care, and should
obey, that your uncle may be spared further apprehension and anxiety.”
My patience gave out at this assumption of authority; and I determined
to carry matters with a high hand, for they all stood watching me in a
way which seemed the height of impertinent curiosity.
“He is not my uncle! never has been, and deserves neither respect nor
obedience from me! I am the best judge of my own health, and you are not
bettering it by contradiction and unnecessary fuss. This is my house,
and you will oblige me by leaving it, Dr. Karnac; this is my room, and I
insist on being left in peace immediately.”
I pointed to the door as I spoke; the women hurried out with scared
faces; the doctor bowed and followed, but paused on the threshold, while
my uncle approached me, asking in a tone inaudible to those still
hovering round the door,—
“Do you still persist in your refusal, Sybil?”
“How dare you ask me that again? I tell you I had rather die than marry
you!”
“The Lord be merciful to us! just hear how she’s going on now about
marrying master. Ain’t it awful, Jane?” ejaculated Mrs. Best, bobbing
her head in for a last look.
“Hold your tongue, you impertinent creature!” I called out; and the fat
old soul bundled away in such comical haste I laughed, in spite of
languor and vexation.