THE DOCTRINE OF CHANCES.
And what of Audley, the lover, all this time?
He had written from Rhoscadzhel to Constance, imploring her
permission in moving terms to see Sybil once again, and have some
farewell explanation with her, ere he departed to India, too probably
for years; for, with the usual inconsistency of the human heart, no
sooner did he find himself repelled, than he felt the attraction
towards her redoubled. This letter had been addressed to Constance
as "Mrs. Devereaux;" and, without reflecting that he could not bestow
upon her a title already borne by his own mother, she felt fresh
anger at the circumstance. Without showing the missive to Sybil, who
conceived it might be on some legal business, she cast it in the
fire, and replied by an emphatic refusal, adding that if he came near
the villa, which they were soon about to leave, her servant, Winny
Braddon (she had but one domestic now) had received orders not to
admit him.
Undeterred, he next wrote to Sybil, but this effort proved equally
unavailing. Resolved not to add to her mother's distress by any
disobedience or duplicity on her part, she showed her the letter
unopened; and it was at once re-addressed to Rhoscadzhel, with the
envelope unbroken, and Audley flushed to the temples when it was
placed in his hand.
He felt himself to be still solemnly engaged to Sybil, yet hopelessly
separated from her, through no fault of his own--separated without
even a lovers' quarrel. He wondered now at the selfish thoughts
which more than once had occurred to him, particularly on that day
when he quitted the library, and even the house, in such haste to
avoid her, and times there were when he blushed at the memory of it.
Relations they were unquestionably by blood, whether there had been a
marriage or no marriage; and this made Audley reflect all the more
deeply and tenderly on the subject of his severed ties with Sybil.
He wished to restore the ring to her in person, to replace it on her
finger as a memento of himself; for the repossession of it made him
restless and uneasy, as the crazed Halfheller with his bottle-imp;
and if he was to do this, there was no time to be lost, as he had but
one day to spend in Cornwall now.
The wild longing or craving to see her once again, to have an
explanation of some kind--he knew not what--but beyond anything a
letter could contain (even were she permitted to receive it), still
inspired him, though prudence might have suggested the utter
inexpediency of further interviews between them, circumstanced as
they were. Audley, however, was not of an age, neither was he of the
temperament, of one to play the part of casuist.
"Why may I not baffle them all--this strange mother, who can be so
winning and yet is so repellant, my cold and calculating father
too--and carry off the dear girl in defiance of all and everything?
This very night I might do it," he pondered: "the train in an hour or
so would set me down close by her; and if we make allowance for human
frailty and the 'doctrine of chances,' why the deuce should I not
succeed, for I know that she loves me?"
He started from a deep and easy library-chair, in which he had been
seated, enjoying a pipe of cavendish, as this idea, or chain of
ideas, occurred to him; but then calmer reflection suggested a view
of the future--his father's rage, his proud mother's disgust, his
allowance cut off, and no home for his bride in India, but barrack
accommodation or a subaltern's bungalow.
"No--no--by Jove, _that_ would never do!" he muttered, and reseated
himself. Yet he was resolved to see her, if he could. Perhaps old
Winny Braddon might not have a heart so flinty as her mistress; and
even if she had, it might not be inaccessible to temptation; so that
night, when dusk was closing over land and sea, saw Audley Trevelyan
speeding along the Cornwall Railway, with no very defined idea, save
a desire to see, to speak with Sybil, and to hold once again her
little hand in his, ere he left the country, it might be for ever.
The train had been unaccountably delayed; so the hour was late,
almost close on ten, when he passed down the avenue, and found
himself near the villa. To hope to see Sybil at that unwonted hour
was absurd; but, after having come so far, he could not deny himself
the pleasure of hovering near the place which, from its association
with her presence, had for him so great a charm.
Thus it was with much of tender interest he surveyed the façade of
the little villa, the walls and rose-bound portico of which glimmered
white in the light of the stars; for, as yet, the moon had not risen,
but he could not fail to observe with genuine concern that the
stables, as he passed them, and the coach-house too, seemed empty and
deserted; for the little phaeton and its pretty ponies, so long the
pets of Sybil, had been sold, with many other things, to furnish fees
for the grasping Mr. Sharkley: moreover, the villa was ticketed to
let.
There might be company, guests, or visitors at the villa; if so, even
at that hour, he might perhaps see at least her figure. But no; as
he drew nearer, all seemed dark and silent,--on the entrance floor at
least; and now the barking of a watch-dog from its kennel near the
house made him pause and consider how strange it was that he should
be prowling thus, like a housebreaker in the night, when he might,
under happier auspices, have been an honoured and welcome guest.
Constance and her daughter had evidently retired for the night,
lights being visible in their bedrooms only. That of Sybil, he had
chanced to know, was in the north wing of the house, and faced the
garden, through the iron gate of which he could see a ray of light
from her window falling on the trees, parterres, and shrubbery.
The iron gate was locked; could he but reach her window, he might
leave a message for her pencilled on a calling-card,--for to write by
post was hopeless; yet he should like her to know in the morning that
he had been lingering so near her. Through the iron bars he looked
most wistfully at the lighted window, where once or twice the candles
cast a flitting shadow on the blind. Could he but attract her
attention, make her aware of his presence, and exchange a word or
two; perhaps he might have an interview with her, though that would
be unseemly, and what she would not probably consent to; and yet,
after relinquishing the handful of gravel he was about to toss
against the window, he suddenly resorted to a plan, which, if
discovered, would prove more awkward still.
The locked gate barred all entrance to the garden; but he perceived
that a great espalier had its branches trained over all the wall,
forming a solid and veritable ladder from the ground to its summit.
The place was sequestered; the hour lonely, and every moment of delay
might be perilous, for if she had begun to disrobe, he would be
compelled to retire, so Audley proceeded at once to scale the
barrier, that he might descend on the other side.
This proceeding was bold, rash, and rude, perhaps; but he had no
other resource if he would see her ere he left Cornwall, which he
must certainly do, by an early train on the morrow. With the speed
of lightning, his thoughts reverted to their brief but pleasant past,
and to every passage of their acquaintance; their first meeting
beside the moorland tarn; her rescue from the Pixies' Hole; their
solitary walks, and that one delightful hour in yonder conservatory,
and he felt assured that she, at least, would forgive his present
temerity.
Other ideas flashed through his mind, as he clambered from branch to
branch, feeling them yielding the while under his feet as he tore or
wrenched them from the masonry. He felt that his real object might
be doubted; that his position was anomalous and improper, and might
compromise the girl he loved. What would the mess of the Hussar
regiment he had left, or that of the Light Infantry corps he was
about to join, think if they saw him now? What would his
cold-hearted, legal "papa"--his proud, aristocratic, and
unimpressible mamma have thought of such an adventure; and in fancy
he saw the stern grimace of the former, and the latter using her
vinaigrette and fan with unwonted vigour, at the idea of her son
visiting any lady thus--more than all, the daughter of "Mrs.
Devereaux!"
Then fears occurred to him that some change might have taken place in
the internal arrangements at the villa, and that the window before
which he found himself, after dropping noiselessly into the garden,
might open to the room, not of Sybil, but her mother, or old Winny
Braddon!
Trusting to his doctrine of chances, he hoped this might prove a
lucky one.
The blind of the window (which opened in the French fashion down to a
flight of steps) was not completely closed; thus he could see the
whole interior of a spacious and handsome bedroom, nearly in the
centre of which stood a dressing-table and mirror festooned
gracefully with white lace, and before it was seated Sybil in her
dark mourning dress, with her chin resting in the hollow of one hand,
the elbow being placed upon the table. Her other arm hung by her
side, and she seemed lost in thought, for her eyes instead of gazing
into the large oval mirror, wherein, by the light of two tall wax
candles in ormolu holders, her own loveliness was reflected, were
bent upon vacancy, or the floor.
Sybil's usually pale and always pure complexion, was paler now; thus
her eyes, their brows and lashes, and the masses of her hair seemed
by contrast to be very dark indeed; and the latter in rich profusion
fell over her shoulders and back below her waist. In the background
of this pretty picture, stood forth the white and elegant draperies
of her bed, the festooned muslin of which hung in vapour-like folds,
over curtains of rose-coloured silk, looped up by white cords and
tassels of the same material.
A glance enabled Audley to take in all these details, and his
breathing became a series of sighs as he regarded Sybil, who sat
quite motionless and sunk in reverie. He flattered himself that she
was thinking of him; but it was not so; she had just concluded a
sorrowful letter to Denzil, her only brother, and her thoughts were
far away with him, or with her mamma and all their coming troubles;
for all those luxuries by which the wealth and taste, and more than
all, the love of her dead father had surrounded them, were about to
be relinquished now, and ere long grim poverty would be staring them
gauntly in the face.
At times her nether lip quivered; the tears began to roll over her
cheeks, and as a sigh escaped her, the heaving movement of her neck
and shoulders made more apparent their graceful character and
undulating curve. Then suddenly, as with her quick white fingers she
was proceeding to coil up the tresses of her hair for the night, a
sound seemed to startle her, she paused, and her eyes flashed and
dilated with surprise.
"There it is again--good heavens--what can it be?" she exclaimed half
aloud, and rising from her seat, as Audley tapped very audibly on the
window panes for a second time.
"The deuce!" thought he, "I hope she won't scream--for that would
spoil all."
With a candle in her hand, she paused midway between the window and
her dressing-table, when he said distinctly,--
"It is I, dearest Sybil--Audley Trevelyan--open the window, and speak
with me--but for a moment."
"Audley--you--you--here at this hour!" replied Sybil, with intense
astonishment, bordering on fear.
She replaced the candle on the table, clasped her hands, and shrunk
back irresolutely, for though she fully recognised the voice that
thrilled her heart's core, it was somewhat bewildering to hear it
there and at such a time; but summoning courage she drew up the
blind, and beheld Audley's whole figure on the upper step, which
formed the sill of her window.
"Oh, Audley--Audley--what has happened--what brings you here again?"
she asked imploringly.
"The love I bear you," said he, humbly.
"You cannot think of entering here!"
"Far from it, dearest Sybil--I have no such thought; but pardon me
for alarming you--pardon me for intruding on you thus."
"I do pardon you, but require you to explain--"
"The object of such a visit at such a time," said he, lowering his
voice lest he should be overheard in the stillness of the night.
"Most certainly," said she, weeping.
"Have you indeed discarded me--withdrawn your heart from me, and for
ever, Sybil?"
"What would you have me to do, Audley?"
"There is an arbour in the garden--throw a shawl over you, and grant
me but a minute to say a few farewell words."
"The moment you first asked for has become a minute--so would the
minute soon become an hour."
"In pity to me, Sybil," urged Audley, with clasped hands.
After a little indecision, seeming to listen and perceive that all
was still, she threw a shawl over her head, unbolted the French sash,
and stepped forth into the garden, where now the light of an uprisen
moon fell in a bright flood upon the grass plots, the shining
evergreens, and tipped all the leafless trees with liquid silver.
There seemed a divine peace over all the earth and sky; but the
hearts of these two young people were sad and aching, while Audley
pressed a long and silent kiss upon her upturned face, as he led her
towards the bower in question.
"I leave this to-morrow, Sybil," said he, as he seated himself by her
side, and took her hands caressingly in his own, "and I could not
resist the craving, the desire to see you once again, and explain
much that my returned letters were meant to elucidate to you and your
mamma--that I have no share in the spirit of
animosity--hostility--how shall I term it?--cherished by my family
against you and yours. With this family quarrel, for so shall I
style it, I have nothing to do, and you, dear Sybil, have nothing to
do. The employment of a legal wretch like Sharkley was, of course, a
fatal mistake, making much public that need never have been so, and
tending greatly to complicate and embitter our affairs."
"My poor mamma had none to advise her," urged Sybil, not heeding a
slight tone of reprehension in what Audley said.
"How fortunate has been the chance that led me to you to-night!" he
whispered in her ear.
"But to what end or purpose do we meet at all?"
"Fettered as I am--most true!"
Audley could only sigh deeply and press her to his breast.
"Then you--you love me still?" said Sybil, as her slender fingers
strayed among his hair, the action in itself a mute caress.
"My darling--I have never ceased to love you!" he exclaimed, gazing
tenderly on the pure pale face whose features he could see
distinctly, even amid the obscurity of the bower. Her head drooped
on his shoulder, and they sat for some minutes quite silent, and full
of thoughts that were beyond utterance; yet Audley's delight was not
without alloy. He felt that he loved her dearly, and yet, with all
the joy of the time, there mingled a selfish regret that he had won
her so completely, as their love could never be a successful one.
"And you leave this to-morrow?"
"To-morrow."
Her voice was broken and tremulous. Audley became deeply moved as he
heard her weep; and he began to think, as better impulses inspired
him, was it possible that he could relinquish or sacrifice a girl so
soft and tender, so loving and true, for "Mrs. Grundy and Society?"
and had he actually at one time--young-officer-like--felt a little
glow of satisfaction when she returned the eye of Vishnu, and he felt
himself once more _free_!
In his vacillation there was every prospect of the proposal to elope
being made, but prudence made him pause, and an observation of
Sybil's changed the current of his ideas.
"Your father has acted most cruelly to poor mamma," said Sybil; "and
most unjustly to his own brother's memory."
"My father is a--"
"Oh hush, Audley," said Sybil.
What epithet or adjective he was about to use in irritation at the
chances of his allowance being cut off, we are unable to record, for
Sybil's quick little hand intercepted it on his lips.
"And now we must separate--you will find the key inside the garden
gate, so no more escalading; oh, leave me," she urged, "for if you
were discovered--"
"One kiss more--one promise to remember me when I am gone."
"Oh, Audley, could I ever forget you?"
They were lingering now midway between the bower and the house, and
the full splendour of the moonlight fell around them.
"And you will take back your ring," he whispered; and once more the
eye of Vishnu glittered on the hand of Sybil. "Keep it as the
memento of a poor fellow who loves you well--and you must do
something more for me."
"In what way, Audley?" asked Sybil, pausing on the upper step, and
near the still open window of her room.
"Keep poor Rajah for me; my lady mother won't abide the dog, and I
can't take him back all the way to India, as I am perhaps going
overland by the desert; and now my beloved girl--dear, dear Sybil--I
must leave you, perhaps never to see you again."
A desperate calm seemed to come over Sybil, as she replied,--
"Situated as we are; related as we are, and enemies as my mamma and
your parents must ever be, it is indeed better that we should meet no
more--yet part as friends."
"As friends--oh, Sybil--as friends!" murmured Audley, becoming more
excited as she grew calm.
"Yes--this meeting and parting will form a pleasant memory to look
back upon, in years to come, when we are far apart."
Often in after times did these words come back to the heart of Audley
Trevelyan.
"And you will always wear my ring?"
"For life--dear cousin Audley--farewell."
She was about to close the casement, her hands trembling and her
cheeks ghastly pale, when he urged,--
"I must write to you--under cover to some one--permit me--oh, permit
me?"
"I cannot--I cannot," she replied, with a torrent of tears.
"I must--pardon my importunity, darling."
"Go--go, I entreat you--good-bye--farewell."
She was about to shut the French sash, when a voice startled her, by
exclaiming,--
"Oh, my God--what is this I see?" and as Sybil started back, Audley
found himself confronted by Constance, in her dressing-gown, for she
had entered the room, candle in hand, having been roused by the sound
of their voices at the open window.
This _dénouement_, so unexpected, was very awkward, and liable to the
most serious misconstruction; so Audley's doctrine of chances proved
a failure here.