DIAMONDS.
Constance followed her friend up to the room where they had so often
passed long hours together, wondering idly at Sybil's composure and
seeming resignation, and shudderingly recalling the blank devouring
stare of the man who was her husband.
It was the first time since Sybil's return that they had been alone
together, and Constance half dreaded the interview, as well as wondered
not a little that the opportunity was of Sybil's own making; hitherto
she seemed anxious to avoid a _tête-à-tête_.
Sybil moved straight on in advance of her friend, and never turned her
head nor spoke, until the door of her _boudoir_ had shut them in; then
she turned and faced her companion, uttering as she did so a low
mirthless laugh.
"Well!" she asked abruptly, "how do you like him?"
Constance bent a searching gaze upon her friend, and read her state of
mind with a woman's keen intuition. The tensely strung nerves, the dread
of this interview, the determination to have it over, and to bear her
part bravely; a proud and stubborn nature, battling with despair, and
unspeakable heartache. She understood it all, and her own heart bled
for her friend. But, being a wise little woman, she held her pity in
reserve, and replied, as if the question concerned a new dancing master:
"I don't like him at all, child; let's talk about something more
interesting," and she threw herself down upon a _fauteuil_, and tossed
off her hat; just as she had tossed it aside a hundred times, in that
same pretty room. The simple action, brought a thrill of tenderness, and
sad recollection, to the heart of Sybil. She seated herself beside her
friend, and her face lost a shade of its bitterness.
"It's like a shadow of the old days, Con.," she said sadly, "and the
substance I can never have any more. But, you must let me talk, I feel
as if I must talk, and you will let me say what I will, and ask me
nothing. Con., you saw that--that creature down stairs? You saw him, but
you did not _hear_ him."
She shuddered, and paused for an instant; but Constance did not speak,
and so she continued:
"I had made up my mind never to speak of him to you, but the very thing
I had dreaded has happened; you have met, and, in the generosity of your
soul, for my sake, you have extended to him your hand; have openly
accepted his acquaintance. Oh, Con.! I could have struck him dead before
he touched your hand. _He!_ Ah, there is a limit to my forbearance; he
has forced himself into my life to blight it; he has forced himself into
my family to be an added curse. But he shall not force himself upon my
friends. Con., treat him with the disdain he deserves, else, he will
force his way into your very drawing room. Never, never, never, extend
to him the courtesies due to an equal. He is not an equal, he is not a
man at all; he is a fat, sleek, leering, ruminating animal, at his best;
he is a wolf, a vampire, a devil, at other times; ignorant, vain,
avaricious, gross. Rather than see him force himself upon you, as he has
forced himself upon us here, I will myself sever our friendship, I will
never see, never speak with you again. John Burrill shall find a limit,
which even his brute force cannot pass." She was growing more and more
excited and a bright spot burned on each cheek.
Constance was startled, but fully understanding the necessity for
perfect coolness, now that Sybil's composure had almost given way, she
never attempted to interrupt the words that were but the overflow of
long pent up feelings; but sat quietly stroking one of Sybil's slender
hands, and becoming more amazed and mystified as she listened.
"Sometimes I find myself wondering at the tenacity of my life," went on
Sybil, more hurriedly and with increasing excitement. "Sometimes I feel
my strength leaving me, and think the battle is almost over; but somehow
it is renewed, and I find myself growing strong instead of weak. For
months I lived with my inevitable fate constantly before my eyes. I knew
that there was no escape; that what has transpired, must happen. I have
suffered tortures, passed nights without sleep, and days without food. I
have grown a little paler, a little thinner, and a great deal wickeder,
and that is all. I am strong, as strong as in the beginning, and yet,
what am I but a galvanized corpse? I am dead to all that is worth living
for. My one wish is to be free, and yet, Con., do you know I have never
once been tempted to self-destruction."
[Illustration: "I have never once been tempted to self-destruction."]
Constance Wardour sprang impetuously to her feet, and paced the length
of the _boudoir_ again and again in perfect silence. The terrible weight
of torment that was crushing Sybil's heart, and maddening her brain,
seemed to rest, too, upon her, and weigh down her spirits; she was
tortured with the sight of Sybil's misery, and the thought of her own
helplessness. Could nothing be done? Struggling for an appearance of
composure, she paced to and fro, and at last, having mastered her
feelings, and arranged her thoughts, she resumed her seat beside Sybil,
whose eyes had followed her movements with curiosity.
"Sybil, listen;" she began with that clear, concise energy of manner
that, in itself, inspired confidence. "If you do not wish me to make any
overtures of friendship, rest assured I shall make none. I at least am
not under the spell which this man seems to have thrown about you all.
There, don't draw back, child, I have no more to say on this part of the
subject. I may ask a few questions, however, without treading on
forbidden ground. You say John Burrill is avaricious; can he not be
bought off?"
Sybil shook her head.
"Not with the Wardour estate," she replied, sadly. "Not with all our
fortunes united?"
"Cannot he be frightened then?"
"Frightened! You don't know what you are saying."
"Then, I can think of one other way. He is a bad man; he must have led a
wicked life; can we not find something in his past, which will place him
in our power? Can he not be driven into banishment, through fear of
justice?"
Sybil turned her eyes full upon her friend; eyes dark with the shadow of
despair, but unwavering in their sad firmness.
"If that could be done," she said, slowly. "The very day that witnessed
his downfall, would bring about the catastrophe I have sacrificed myself
to avert. Constance, say no more; we can do none of these things; there
is no help for me on this side of the grave."
Constance looked once more at her friend; looked long and earnestly
then.
"Sybil," she cried, with swift resolution. "Do you know what you are
bringing upon yourself? Do you want to go mad, and so be at the mercy of
John Burrill? It is what will come upon you if you don't throw off this
torpor. Your eyes are as dry as if tears were not meant to relieve the
overburdened heart. Let your tears flow; shake off this lethargy; battle
royally for your life; it is worth more than his; do not let him put
your reason to flight, and so conquer. Sybil! Sybil!"
The words ended in a sobbing cry, but Sybil only gazed dumbly, and then
looked helplessly about her.
"There, there, Conny," she said at last, as if soothing a hurt child;
"don't mind me. It's true my life is worth more than his, but--I can't
cry, I don't _feel_ like crying."
"Then laugh," cried Constance desperately; "laugh and defy your
tormentor; harden your heart if you must, but don't let it break."
"I won't," said Sybil, with quiet emphasis. "Now come and see my
diamonds, Con."
She crossed the room as she spoke, bent over a dressing case, and came
back with a tray of sparkling newly set jewels.
"Bah!" she said, as she dropped the glittering things one by one into
her friend's lap. "How I loved their glitter once, and how I envied you
your treasure of jewels; now you have lost your treasure, and I have no
more love for mine."
Constance laughed oddly, as she bent to recover her hat from the floor,
where it had lain during their interview.
"Secret for secret, Sybil," she said, with forced gaiety. "I have one
little secret of mine own, and I am inclined to tell it you, because I
know you can appreciate it, and can keep it; and I choose to have it
kept. Bend down your head, dear, walls may have ears. Listen."
Sybil bent her dark head, and Constance whispered a few short sentences
that caused her to spring up erect and excited.
"Constance! you are not jesting?"
"Honestly no. I have told you the truth, plain and unvarnished."
Sybil stood as if transfixed with surprise, or some sudden inspiration.
"Why, how amazed you look, dear; after all it's an old, old trick, and
easily played. Come, don't stare at me any longer; put away your
diamonds and come below with me, my ponies must be dying with
impatience, and I am anxious to avoid our mutual foe, for I make common
cause with you, dear, and I have told you my secret, that we may be in
very truth, fellow conspirators. Make my adieus to the family, and be
sure and come to me just as you used; if your ogre insists upon coming,
trust me to freeze him into an earnest desire to be in a warmer and more
congenial place. Courage, _mon ami_, somehow we must win the battle."
Sybil took the diamonds from her hands and put them away, with far more
care than she had displayed in bringing them forth; then she followed
her friend from the room, closing and carefully locking the door behind
her.
Constance observed the unusual caution, but made no comment. Only when
many days after she remembered that day she wondered how she could have
been so stupidly blind.
She effected her departure without being seen by Frank or Burrill, and
drove homeward, revolving in her mind various plots for the confusion of
the latter, and plans for awakening Sybil from the dangerous melancholy
that would surely unseat her reason.
"If I could only move her to tears," she murmured, "only break that
frozen calm once. How can I touch, move, melt her? It must be done." And
pondering this difficult task, she drove slowly on.
"I wonder if I blundered in telling her my secret," she mused. "I know
she will keep it; and yet, somehow, I fear I was too hasty. One would
think it had grown too big for me to keep. But, pshaw! it's not a life
and death matter, and I wanted to give a new impulse to that poor
child's thoughts. But I must try and cure myself of this impulsiveness,
just as if it were not 'bred in the bone,' for it was an impulse that
made me whisper my secret to Sybil; and once, it has got me into serious
trouble." And her brow darkened, as she thought of the feud thus raised
between herself and Doctor Heath.
While she was thus pondering, Sybil Burrill had hurried back to her own
room, locked herself in, and with hands clasped and working nervously,
was pacing restlessly up and down, as Constance had done a little
earlier.
"It's the only way," she muttered between shut teeth, "the only possible
way." And then she unlocked the dressing case, took out her jewels once
more, handling them with greatest care. She spread them out before her,
and resting her elbows on the dressing table, and her chin in the palm
of one slender hand, gazed and thought with darkening brow and
compressed lips; and with now and then a shudder, and a startled glance
behind and about her.
"It's the only way," she repeated. "They have left me but one weapon,
and it's _for my life_;" and the lips set themselves in hard lines, and
the dark eyes looked steely and resolute. What wild purpose was taking
shape in the tortured brain of Sybil Burrill? planted there by the
impulsive revelation of Constance Wardour.
While the lurid light yet shone from her eyes, there came a tap upon the
door, and then Mrs. Lamotte's voice called:
"Sybil, are you there?"
"Yes, mamma."
Sybil gathered up the jewels once more, hastily and putting them under
lock and key, admitted her mother. Mrs. Lamotte was never a
demonstrative parent. She glanced anxiously at her daughter, and the
look upon the pale face did not escape her eye; but she made no comment,
only saying:
"I heard Constance drive away, and thought I should find you alone. Do
you feel equal to a drive, Sybil?"
Sybil hesitated, and then answered: "I think so mamma, if you wish to go
out."
"I have some shopping to do, and--it's best for us to go out a little.
Don't you think so?"
"It's best that we keep up appearances, certainly mamma; for what else
do we exist? Shall we take the honorable Mr. Burrill?"
Mrs. Lamotte shrugged her shoulders. "By no means," she replied. "Mr.
Burrill, if his feelings are too much hurt, shall drive with me
to-morrow. It's an honor he has been thirsting for."
"He has indeed, mamma; the creature is insatiable."
Mrs. Lamotte arose with one of her cold smiles.
"For the present let us ignore him, Sybil," she said. "Make an elaborate
driving toilet, we want the admiration of W----, not its pity." And
having thus uttered one article of her creed, Mrs. Lamotte swept away to
prepare for the ordeal, for such that drive would be to those two proud
women.
No one could have guessed it, however, when an hour later, the elegant
barouche, drawn by two superb grays, rolled through the streets of
W----. Two richly dressed, handsome, high-bred, smiling women; that is
what W---- saw, and all it saw; and light-hearted poverty looked, and
envied; little knowing the sorrow hidden underneath the silk and lace,
and the misery that was masked in smiles.
Meantime John Burrill, left to his own devices, found time drag heavily.
Frank had abandoned him, as soon as it became known that Constance was
gone; and had abandoned himself to a fit of rage, when he became aware
that his black mare was also gone. Mr. Lamotte had driven to town with
his own light buggy; Sybil was gone, Evan was gone; even his stately
mother-in-law was beyond the reach of his obnoxious pleasantries.
He ordered up a bottle of wine, and drank it in the spirit of an ill
used man. Always, in his perfectly sober moments, John Burrill felt
oppressed with a sense of the difference existing between himself and
the people among whom he had chosen to cast his lot.
Not that he recognized, or admitted, his inferiority; had he not
demonstrated to the world, that he, John Burrill, sometime mill worker,
and overseer, was a man of parts, a self-made man.
When he had quaffed a bottle of wine, he began to feel oppressed in a
different way. He was overburdened with a sense of his own genius, and
in a very amiable frame of mind, altogether. In this mood, he joined the
family at dinner; after which meal, a few glasses of brandy added fire
to the smouldering element within him, and straightway he blazed forth:
a gallant, a coxcomb. In this frame of mind, he always admired himself
excessively, took stock of his burly legs and brawny shoulders, and
smiled sentimentally before the mirror, at his reflected face.
There were people who called John Burrill a handsome man; and if one had
a fancy for a round head, with depressions where bumps are desirable,
and _vice versa_, and an animal sort of attractiveness of feature,
consisting of a low, flat forehead, straight nose, large, full red
lipped mouth, fair florid complexion, set off by a pair of dark blue
eyes, that were devoid of any kindly expression, and hair, full beard,
and moustache, of a reddish brown hue, coarse in quality, but plentiful
in quantity, and curling closely; then we will admit that John Burrill
was handsome. Why not? We can see handsome bovines at any fat cattle
show.
After this elation, came the fourth stage; a mixture of liquors as the
evening advanced, and then John Burrill became jealous of his rights,
careful of his dignity, crafty, quarrelsome, and difficult to manage.
Next he became uproarious, then maudlin; then blind, beastly drunk, and
utterly regardless where he laid him down, or fell down, to finish the
night, for his last stage usually dragged itself far into the small
hours.
Gluttonous and meditative in the morning; beginning to swell with a
growing sense of importance about midday; amorous, obtrusive, and
consequential later; hilarious after dinner; quarrelsome before tea; and
down in the ditch before dawn. This was Burrill's notion of enjoying
life in leisurely, gentlemanly fashion. And this was his daily routine,
with variations to suit the occasion.
But sober or drunk, morning, noon, or night, he never ceased to remind
the Lamottes that he was one of them, their equal; never forgot his
purpose, or allowed them to forget it, or him. He was their old man of
the sea, their blight, their curse, and, they could never hope to shake
him off.