HIGHCLIFF.
Of course that last quarrel between Laurence and Margaret was put
aside after a time, as so many previous difficulties had been; but it
left a more hurtful impression upon the minds of both than any former
disagreement had ever been able to produce.
A party of guests, invited several months before, were staying at the
house for a week, and in the general gayety, both Laurence and Margaret
almost forgot their troubles. There was nothing approaching confidence
between them; they were civil and polite, but avoided explanations. In
the haughty sensitiveness of young hearts, neither party was in a mood
for taking the first step toward a reconciliation.
Parties and expeditions of all sorts were planned and carried out,
into which Margaret entered with a feverish excitement which increased
her lover's anger; he could not understand that her gayety was a vexed
foam, rising and frothing over the deep wretchedness within.
Ralph Hinchley was still at the house, and his quick perceptions made
him understand, more clearly than any one else, the state of feeling
between the unhappy pair.
He was an honorable, high principled man, and not for the world would
he have been guilty of an act which could produce new discord with
those already divided hearts. But he pitied Laurence, and his sympathy
for Margaret made him unusually kind and gentle. But Miss Chase watched
every movement or word with her lynx-eyes, and turned each into the
shape that best suited her purpose.
Laurence made Sybil his confidant now with the most perfect freedom; he
told her all his suspicions, his unhappiness and fears; she gave him
back the most touching sympathy, and such advice as proved satisfactory
to his feelings in every respect.
Margaret was too much preoccupied to observe any thing of this.
Miss Chase was so wary and prudent, that she would have averted the
suspicions of a much more jealous person than her young hostess.
Edward Laurence, even in his anger and wretchedness, would have shrunk
from any deliberate wrong to Margaret; but, day by day, Sybil's
influence over him increased--day by day her wiles produced their
effect, and placed him more completely in her dangerous power.
They were conversing one morning in the breakfast-room before any
one else was down--for Miss Chase persevered in her habit of early
rising, and many long talks and rambles were taken with an unexpressed
understanding of which no one in the house had the slightest idea.
They were talking of Margaret; she was often the subject of their
conversations, while she lay in her darkened chamber, trying to forget
her ills in broken slumber, which the dreary watches of the night had
refused to give.
"How much Miss Waring enjoys society," Sybil said; "I am glad that
these people happened to come just now--she was miserable before."
"Then you pity her for the misfortunes she has brought upon herself?"
"I pity her all the more on that account."
"I am not so charitable."
"At all events, she is gay and happy now," pursued Sybil.
"Yes; she can be pleasant to all the world except me," cried Laurence,
bitterly.
"I will not permit you to be unjust," returned Miss Chase.
"You can not deny that she is heartless and capricious; you admitted as
much the other day."
"Did I? Then it was very wrong in me."
"Ah, you have no sympathy with my misery."
"Do not reproach me in this way; you know it is unjust."
"But did you not own you considered her cold and hard?"
"No; I admitted that she was capricious."
"But not heartless?"
"Not at all; I believe her capable of strong, even intense feeling."
"I have never witnessed any exhibition of it."
"I hope she will always remain in ignorance of it herself."
"Why?"
"Because it would place her in a very unhappy position. I pity any
woman who is liable to make the discovery of such feelings when it
is too late--when she can but sit down in passive submission to her
destiny."
"Margaret is too impetuous for that."
"Nay, you can not believe that she would fail to resist such feelings,
when marriage made them a sin."
"I have never thought. I do not choose to contemplate the possibility
of a thing like that."
"It is much wiser not."
The words grated unpleasantly on Laurence's ear; he could not tell why,
but a vague suspicion in regard to Margaret woke in his mind--once
roused, no power could thrust it aside.
"We go to Highcliff to-day, I believe," Sybil said, after a pause, too
wise ever to push a conversation one step too far.
"Yes; that was decided last night," he answered, moodily. "I wish these
people were gone; I am tired of bustle and confusion. My own stay in
the country should terminate at once, only the old gentleman won't hear
of it."
Miss Chase expressed her entire participation in his weariness, and
noticing that the hands of the clock had crept round to the hour at
which people might be expected to make their appearance, she went out
of the room and did not appear again until several of the party were
gathered in the breakfast-room.
Soon after noon they started upon the expedition to Highcliff, a lofty
mountain that towered over a river which flowed through the valley in
which Mr. Waring's property lay, and was accessible to the summit by
persons on horseback.
It was a large, merry party; Margaret was recklessly gay, conscious
that her lover was watching her, and growing more excited and
determined to appear careless and unconcerned on that account.
When they reached the top of the mountain, the horses were left in
care of the servants, and the people wandered about at their pleasure,
dividing into little groups and enjoying themselves as best suited
their peculiar idiosyncracies.
Late in the afternoon, Sybil Chase, who had been talking first with one
group then with another, looked about and missed Margaret and Hinchley;
it seemed proper to her, in her wisdom, that their movements should be
watched, and she flitted hither and yon among the trees in search of
them.
Margaret had gone with Hinchley and a young girl, who had her own
object in seeking that part of the woods, in search of a spring that
broke out from the hollow of a charming little dell near by, filling
the woods with its crystalline music. The hollow was celebrated not
only for its spring of fresh water, but for the bird-songs that rung
through it from morning to night, making the place, in more senses than
one, a paradise.
The friends walked on, enjoying the shadows and sunshine that played
through the branches. Margaret had, really, no thought of avoiding any
of her party; but after Laurence left her side, she had little care
about time or place.
As they came near the dell, Margaret's young friend changed her mind,
as girls of sixteen sometimes will, very unaccountably. She had seen
a certain young gentleman flitting through the distant shadows, and
as his supposed presence there had brought her toward the spring,
a glimpse of his movements in another direction checked her desire
for a drink of cold water on the instant. But she was seized with an
overpowering hunger for young wintergreen, and that always grew best on
slopes which the sunshine visited occasionally--never in hollows.
She mentioned this craving wish with some hesitation, but Margaret only
smiled and said:
"Nonsense, nonsense; time enough for that when we have seen the spring."
They moved a few paces and came in sight of the dell, a beautiful
hollow shaded with hemlocks, dogwood and wild honeysuckles.
Fragments of rock lay in the bed of the hollow, through which a crystal
brooklet, born at the spring, crept and murmured caressingly, sending
up its tiny spray, and clothing its friends, the rocks, with the
brightest moss. Water-cresses shone up through the waves, and speckled
trout slept under the fern-leaves.
It was a delightful place, cool and heavenly; but the young lady of
sixteen saw that figure moving away through the distance, and grew
frantic from fear of snakes. Copperheads and red-adders, she protested,
were always found in just such places--she saw one then, creeping
around the foot of that hemlock. So with pretty expostulations and
divers shrieks loud enough to arrest the young man in his covert, she
darted off toward the open glades, where that shadowy figure was soon
busy on his knees gathering young wintergreens for her benefit.
"Shall we go on?" Margaret asked, when the young lady had retreated.
"If you are not tired," Hinchley answered. "I should like to go down
very much. The dell is the prettiest spot I ever saw, and the water
delicious."
"Oh yes, it is a lovely spot," Margaret said. "Some day I intend to
make a sketch of it. Let us select the best view."
They went down the descent and stood by the spring, which rushed out
from among the rocks with a pleasant, bell-like murmur, and cast its
tiny shower of spray-bubbles over the violets that fringed it.
"How still it is," Margaret observed.
"Yes; it is refreshing to escape from all that chatter. How constantly
people do talk."
"Yet if one is silent, it is to be considered stupid."
"But stupidity would be a relief sometimes."
Margaret did not answer; she was busy with her own thoughts. When
Hinchley spoke again it was of other things. He had been shocked at
finding so much changed at the homestead, for the old gentleman now saw
no visitors and seldom left his room, and Ralph felt that he ought to
make Margaret understand how little hope there was that she could much
longer have her uncle's house as a place of protection.
Margaret wept bitterly; but when he attempted to speak of Laurence, or
allude to her marriage, she only turned passionately away, with bitter,
haughty words that made Ralph fear both for her and his friend.
While they stood talking by the spring, Sybil Chase moved softly
through the underbrush and looked down at them. After a moment's silent
watch, she went back toward the place where she had left Laurence
conversing with a group of persons who had become tired of wandering
among the trees.
She remained a little way off from the party, and very soon he took
occasion to join her. They began to converse, and gradually walked down
the hill. Sybil did not appear to be leading him to any particular
spot, but was walking as absently along as himself. She paused on
a rise of ground which commanded a view of the dell. Sybil watched
Laurence, but stood with her face turned from the spring. He caught
sight of the pair standing in the dell--gave a quick start, while the
color shot up to his forehead.
"Are you ill?" Sybil asked, gently.
"Look down there," he replied, pointing to Margaret and Hinchley, who
were absorbed in conversation, Ralph holding his cousin's hand, while
she wept unrestrainedly.
"It is Margaret," said Sybil.
"And Hinchley."
"They have come to see the spring."
"I perceive, Miss Chase;" he spoke bitterly.
"Nonsense, Mr. Laurence--you are not jealous? He is her cousin."
"No--I am displeased."
"It means nothing at all."
"But it does not look well. I can see you think so.
"It may be a little imprudent, but you know Margaret is very impulsive.
Shall we go down?"
"We will not disturb them."
"Don't look so stern, Mr. Laurence; you really frighten me."
"There is no cause for alarm. The moment Margaret convinces me that she
is a flirt, I shall feel only contempt for her."
"I am sure she is not in fault," returned Sybil. "I never saw her
encourage the slightest attention from any gentleman before."
"True--I had not thought of that."
He frowned, black and angry, bit his lip and reflected.
"You meant something then which I did not comprehend," said Miss Chase.
"I was reflecting. I never saw Margaret on such friendly terms with any
man before. It makes me think the more seriously of this."
"Great heavens, Mr. Laurence, you can not suspect her! Hinchley is her
cousin. They have been dear friends from childhood."
"She is my betrothed wife. She has no right to make herself a subject
of comment."
"Come away!" she exclaimed, quickly; "come away!"
She took his hand and drew him back into the path.
"It is nothing," she repeated several times. "I am convinced that you
are angry without cause."
"I believe so," replied Laurence--"I must believe it! But Margaret had
better take care. I have borne a great deal. She shall not, by her
folly or her vanity, make me ridiculous, nor will I be made a dupe."
"Such words, Mr. Laurence!"
"I mean them! As for Hinchley, if he make trouble between Margaret and
me, I shall hold him guilty as if she were my wife."
Sybil sighed heavily.
"Of what are you thinking?" asked Laurence.
"I hardly know--I can not tell."
"I see that you are troubled," he said, violently. "Sybil, you have
called yourself my friend; answer me: do you believe that Hinchley
loves Margaret?"
Sybil hesitated; her head was averted, as if she could not bear to meet
his earnest gaze.
"I have ceased to believe that she cares greatly for me. Tell me if you
think Hinchley is more to her than a cousin and friend."
"Do not ask me; mine are only vague suspicions. I can not be the one to
destroy your last hope of happiness."
"I am answered," he said, gloomily.
"No, no; I will not--I can not answer! Look for yourself, Mr. Laurence.
I may be wrong. I have very strict and, what people might think,
singular ideas. Oh! don't mind what I have said."
"I will see for myself," he answered, recklessly. "Let me once be
convinced, and I shall leave her forever. Oh, Sybil! you are my
friend--the only one to whom I can turn for sympathy."
Sybil buried her face in her hands and burst into tears; but when he
attempted to question her, she broke from him.
"Let me go!" she exclaimed. "I blush for my own weakness. Let me go,
Edward Laurence!"
She hurried away, leaving him bewildered and troubled. For the first
time he felt dimly that Sybil loved him, and the consciousness
brought a host of inexplicable feelings to his heart. She looked so
lovely in her distress--her gentleness, in contrast with Margaret's
violence and ill-temper, was so touching, that her image lingered in
his imagination--the only ray of light in all the blackness which
surrounded him.
As Hinchley and his cousin passed up the hill, they saw Sybil Chase
conversing with a little group of friends.
"I have a horror of that woman," said Ralph.
"Yet she seems a quiet, sensible person," replied Margaret. "I have
allowed myself to become prejudiced against her; but when I am in her
society I forget it all."
Hinchley did not answer. The remembrance of that terrible night in
California came back, as was always the case, when Sybil Chase came in
sight. Her figure started up instead of the woman he had but half seen,
and he turned from the thought with self-abhorrence--it was wicked to
indulge it even for an instant.
While they stood together, Laurence approached, pale and agitated, like
a man under the excitement of wine.
"Edward!" Hinchley called out, cheerfully. "Laurence, is it not almost
time to go home?"
"I suppose you are at liberty to choose your own time," replied
Laurence, insolently.
Margaret colored scarlet; an insult to her cousin seemed given to
herself.
"What is the matter?" asked Ralph, in surprise.
"Oh, pay no attention," interposed Margaret, before Laurence could
reply. "It is only a slight specimen of Mr. Laurence's civility. He is
not satisfied with being rude to me, but must extend his bad manners to
my relatives."
"You are at liberty to put any construction you please upon my words or
manner," returned Laurence. "I shall not account to either of you."
"To me it is a matter of perfect indifference," said Margaret,
haughtily.
Ralph looked from one to the other in pain and astonishment, at a loss
what to say or do.
"Now don't quarrel like children," he exclaimed, trying to laugh.
"Come, shake hands and be friends."
"Miss Waring's conduct proves how sincerely she desires to be friends,"
answered Laurence, with a harsh laugh.
"I do not wish it," she exclaimed, greatly irritated by his manner.
"Margaret! Margaret!" pleaded Ralph.
"Oh, don't check her," sneered Laurence.
"He can not," returned Margaret. "I am weary of this rudeness--weary of
you."
"Say and do what you please; I will leave you in more agreeable
society," said Laurence, hurrying away.
Hinchley tried to expostulate with her, but words were thrown away.
During the ride home, and the whole evening, Margaret and Laurence did
not speak. Ralph kept near her, anxious to soothe her anger, while
Laurence and Sybil Chase watched every movement and look.
Thus, with her proud spirit up in arms, and her heart aching with
wounded tenderness, the poor girl rushed into the snare so insidiously
laid beneath her feet.