IN OPEN MUTINY.
Sybil sat alone in her boudoir. It was yet early in the evening, but,
feeling little inclined to remain in the society of her family, who
assembled, with all due formality, in the drawing room on "at home"
evenings, and most of their evenings were spent at home now, she had
withdrawn, pleading fatigue after their drive.
The night outside was balmy enough, but Sybil had ordered a light fire
in the grate, and she sat before it with all the rays from a fully
illuminated chandelier falling directly over her.
She still wore the rich dress she had put on for her drive; and
excitement, exercise, _something_, had lent an unusual glow to her
cheeks, and caused her dusky eyes to shine clear and steady, almost too
clear, too steadfast, was their gaze as it was fixed upon the glowing
coals; she had not looked so thoughtful, so self forgetful, yet self
absorbed, since she came back to Mapleton, John Burrill's wife.
Sitting thus, she heard a shambling step in the hall, and the heavy
voice of her husband, trolling out a snatch of song, caught up most
likely in some bar-room.
He was approaching her door, and quick as thought, she sprang from her
chair, and noiselessly examined the fastenings, to assure herself
against him. Then, while her hand still rested on the door, his hand
struck a huge blow upon the outside, and he called out gruffly:
"Sybil."
No answer; she dared not move, lest the rustle of her silks should
betray her. "S-Sybil, I say, lemme in." Still no reply, and John Burrill
shook the door violently, and ground out an oath.
Just then came the sound of another door further up the hall, her
mother's door. It opened easily, and closed softly, and then quick,
cat-like steps approached, and the voice of Jasper Lamotte, low and
serene as usual, arrested the noise of the baffled applicant for
admittance.
"Less noise, Burrill." Sybil had not heard her father address him in
that tone of familiar command. "Sybil's not there."
"Jes zif I didn't know better."
"Nonsense, man; your wife is below with her mother at this moment. Now
stop that fuss, and shake yourself out. I've some private words for your
ear."
"Oh;" the man's voice dropped a tone lower; "quite a time since we've
'ad many private words. 'Bout Sybil?"
"No, sir." The tone was lower than before, and so stern that it caused
the listener to start. "It's about _your_ business and _mine_."
"Oh! maybe you want to settle up and discharge me. Maybe you don't need
me any more."
"Curse you for a fool! You know your own value too well. Bully as you
please, where the rest are concerned, but drop your airs with me. Settle
with Sybil later, if you must; I want you now."
Could it be Jasper Lamotte that uttered these words; rather, hissed
them? Sybil almost betrayed herself in her surprise; but the gasp that
she could not quite stifle, was drowned by the voice of Burrill, saying:
"All right. I'll settle with Sybil later."
And then she heard them enter her mother's room, and close the door
softly.
For a full moment, Sybil Burrill stood transfixed; then the silken folds
that she had instinctively gathered about her at the first, slowly
slipped from her hand; gradually the color that had fled from her cheeks
came back, and burned brighter than before. She seemed to control
herself by a strong effort, and stood thinking--thinking.
Only for a few moments; then she lifted her head with a gesture of
defiance. Swiftly and noiselessly she moved under the chandelier, drew
it down, and extinguished every light. Then softly, cautiously, she
opened her door and looked out, listened thus a moment, and then stepped
boldly out, and, gliding to the head of the stairs, leaned down and
listened.
From the drawing room there came to her ear the sound of the piano,
lightly touched, and Frank's tenor humming over the bars of a Neapolitan
boat song.
Then she understood her father's mistake. Some unwonted impulse had
caused her mother to seat herself at the piano, and accompany Frank, who
did not reckon piano playing among his accomplishments; and the thing
was so unusual, that Sybil was not surprised at her parent's mistake.
Evan being absent, Jasper Lamotte naturally supposed that floor
deserted, and therefore had not observed too much caution.
Only a moment did Sybil listen, and then, gathering up the silken train,
and crushing it into a soft mass under her hand, she crept noiselessly
as a cat to the door of her mother's room, bent down her head and
listened there.
[Illustration: Only a moment did Sybil listen.]
Five minutes, ten, and still they talked, and still Sybil stood,
moveless and intent. Then, drawing back suddenly, she ran hurriedly down
the hall, and had gained the foot of the stairs before the sound of the
opening door admonished her that she had escaped none too soon.
In a moment she had entered the drawing room, and, with more of her
olden gayety than they had seen in her manner for many long days,
approached the loiterers at the piano.
"Mother! mother! your hand is out of time!" and, in a moment, she had
drawn her astonished mother from the stool, and seated herself in the
vacant place.
"Sing, Frank," she commanded, striking the keys with a crash that died
away in discord. "We have been dull too long."
When Jasper Lamotte and his model son-in-law entered the drawing room,
they found Frank singing, Sybil accompanying him with dextrous fingers,
and Mrs. Lamotte half resting near them, with veiled eyes, and her
serenest cast of countenance.
Casting one keen glance toward Burrill, which, being interpreted, meant,
"I told you so, you fool," Mr. Lamotte seated himself beside his wife.
John Burrill, during his interview with his father-in-law, had become a
shade more reasonable, and less inclined to think that, in order to
vindicate his wounded sensibilities, he must "have it out with Sybil."
But his face still wore a surly look, and Frank, who was not over
delicate in such matters, looked askance at him, and then whispered to
Sybil, under cover of a softly played interlude that he "scented battle
afar off."
Sybil's only answer was a low, meaning laugh, and when he had finished
his song, she played on and on and on. _Sonata, bravura, fantasia,
rondo_; a crash and whirl--rapid, swift, sweet, brilliant, cold; no
feeling, no pathos. A fanciful person might have traced something of
exultation and defiance, in those dashing, rippling waves of music.
Presently she stopped and turned to Frank.
"What shall you do in the morning?" she asked, abruptly.
Frank ran his fingers through his hair, after a fashion he much
affected, and replied, slowly:
"Well, really! Nothing important. Going to ride to the office--meaning
Heath's office, not the mills. Can I do anything for you, sis?"
"I was thinking," began Sybil, as unconcernedly as if she did not know
that she was about to astonish, more than she had already done, every
one of her listeners, "that it would be a fine morning for a canter;
that is, if to-morrow should be a counterpart of to-day; and I am hungry
to be in the saddle."
Frank roused himself from his lazy position, and looked interested. He
took a secret delight in annoying Burrill, when he could do it without
too much openness or display of _malice prepense_; and here was one of
his opportunities.
"Well, Sybil, you shan't be hungering in vain," he replied, gallantly.
"Name your hour, and your steed, and I will even sacrifice my last best
morning nap, if need be."
Sybil laughed lightly.
"We will have a moderately seasonable breakfast, Frank, not to make your
sacrifice too great; and I will ride Gretchen. Poor thing! she will have
almost forgotten me now."
"Then that is settled," replied Frank, tranquilly, and glancing
furtively toward Burrill, who was beginning to wriggle uneasily in his
chair. "Do you want to go anywhere in particular, sis?"
"No, unless you leave me for awhile at Wardour Place; I want to see some
of Con.'s new dresses. You can ride into town and call for me later."
"Ah! very nice arrangement; then _I_ can't call with you?"
"Decidedly not, sir. Who wants a man always about? They are
conveniences, not blessings."
"Oh, well, I'm extinguished. I promise to vanish from your gaze as soon
as you are within the gates of the Princess of Wardour, and now I think,
after so much vocal effort, and so much self-humiliation, I will go and
smoke. Adieu, sister mine; adieu mamma. Will you smoke, Burrill?"
"No, sir, thank you;" replied Burrill, with brief courtesy, and Frank,
who knew beforehand what his answer would be, went toward his own room,
smiling contentedly.
"I wonder what's up with Sybil?" he said to himself. "She has waked up
decidedly; but she has let herself in for a rumpus with Burrill."
When he had gone Sybil arose, and seating herself near her mother, said:
"Mamma, you were saying something about going to the city yesterday;
have you decided about it?"
Mrs. Lamotte, who had had no thought of going to the city, and who was
fully conscious that she had made no remarks on the subject, looked up
without a ruffle upon her placid countenance and replied, like a wise
and good mother.
"No, my child, I have not decided."
"Then, when you decide to go, inform me beforehand, mamma. I think I
should like to accompany you and do some shopping for myself."
Here Burrill showed such marked symptoms of outbreak that Mr. Lamotte
who, throughout the hour they had passed in the drawing room, had been a
quiet but close observer, thought it wise to interpose, and artfully
attempted to avert the impending storm by saying:
"Now that sounds natural. I'm glad that you feel like shopping, Sybil,
and like getting out more. Very glad, aren't you, Burrill?"
But Mr. Burrill had no notion of being thus appeased; instead of spiking
a gun Jasper Lamotte had opened a battery.
"I'm delighted to hear that Mrs. Burrill has stopped moping," he said
gruffly; "but I'll be hanged if I'm glad to hear myself left out of all
the programmes, and I'll be cussed if I'm going to put up with it,
either," and Mr. Burrill, being full in more senses than one, arose and
paced the room with more fierceness than regularity.
Mr. Lamotte forgot himself so far as to utter an angry imprecation
between his shut teeth, and to wrinkle his forehead into a dark frown.
Mrs. Lamotte allowed a shade of contempt to creep about her lips as she
turned her eyes upon her daughter, but Sybil looked not one whit
disconcerted.
"I've got something to say about my wife," went on Mr. Burrill, "and I'm
blessed if I don't say it."
What had come over Sybil? Heretofore she would in any way, in every way,
have avoided an encounter with him; she would have quitted the field or
have remained deaf as a post; but now, "Say it, then, Mr. Burrill, say
it, by all means, here and now," she retorted in the coolest voice
imaginable.
And Mr. Burrill did say it.
"I've had enough of being made a fool of, Mrs. Sybil Burrill; I've had
enough of being a carpet under your feet, and nothing better. I'm your
equal, and anybody's equal, that's what _I_ am, and I'm going to have
_my_ rights. It's very well for you to announce that you're going here
and going there, Mrs. Burrill; but let me tell you that you go _nowhere_
except John Burrill goes with you, that's settled."
Sybil laughed scornfully.
"Not quite so fast, Mr. Burrill, just stand still one moment, if you
_can_ stand still, which I doubt. You say you will accompany me wherever
I go; I say you may accompany me wherever people will tolerate you,
nowhere else. You are not the man to force into a gentleman's parlor;
you would disgrace his kitchen, his stable. The streets are free to all,
you can accompany me in my drives; the churches are open to the vilest,
you can go with me there; but into the houses of my friends you _shall
not_ go; I will not so abuse friendship. You have counted upon me to
gain you _entrée_ to Wardour and to a dozen houses, the thresholds of
which you will never cross. If you are not satisfied with this, then you
must be suited with less. I will not be seen with you at all."
Again Jasper Lamotte, vexed and alarmed for the _denouement_,
interposed; knowing she was striking at Burrill's chief weakness:
"But Sybil, Miss Wardour, here in her meetings with Burrill, tacitly
recognized his right to call."
She turned upon him swiftly.
"You know why she did it, sir; it is useless to discuss the question.
You may calm Mr. Burrill in any way you please, or can. You know the
terms on which he became my husband. He will continue my husband on my
own terms. He shall not cross the threshold of Wardour, protected by my
presence, and without it the door would close in his face. If Mr.
Burrill does not like my terms, let him say so. _It is not in his power
or yours to alter my decision._" And Sybil once more gathered together
her silken skirts, lest in passing they should brush the now collapsed
Mr. Burrill, and swept from the room.
[Illustration: "It is not in his power or yours to alter my decision."]
Mr. Lamotte turned to his wife.
"You must talk with that girl," he said, savagely, "what the devil ails
you all?"
Mrs. Lamotte arose and faced him.
"I should be wasting my breath," she replied, looking him straight in
the eye. "You have tried that girl a little too far, Mr. Lamotte," and
she followed after her daughter.
A roar, not unlike the bellow of a bull, recalled Mr. Lamotte to the
business of the moment. John Burrill, having recovered from his
momentary stupor of astonishment, was dancing an improvised, and
unsteady _can can_, among the chairs and tables, beating the air with
his huge fists, and howling with rage.
Seeing this, Mr. Lamotte did first, a very natural thing; he uttered a
string of oaths, "not loud, but deep," and next, a very sensible thing;
he rang for brandy and hot water.
And now the battle is in Mr. Lamotte's hands, why need we linger. Brandy
hot will always conquer a John Burrill.