"If I told you _my_ ancestor was a Pilgrim Father, you wouldn't believe
me I expect!" she said, the corners of her mouth dimpling.
"I should believe anything from _your_ lips!" I declared gallantly.
"Well, believe that, then! Swallow it down if you can! I can't! He was a
Pilgrim Father in the _Mayflower_, and he fell on his knees and thanked
God as soon as he touched dry land in the true Pilgrim-Father way. But
he couldn't hold a candle to the piked man at Bosworth."
Here we were interrupted by the entrance of a footman.
"The carriage is waiting, Miss."
"Thanks,--all right. Good-night Mr Tempest,--you'd better send word to
Sibyl you are here; Lord Elton is dining out, but Sibyl will be at home
all the evening."
I offered her my arm, and escorted her to the carriage, feeling a little
sorry for her as she drove off in solitary state to the festive 'crush'
of the successful varnisher. She was a good girl, a bright girl, a true
girl,--vulgar and flippant at times, yet on the whole sincere in her
better qualities of character and sentiment,--and it was this very
sincerity which, being quite unconventional and not at all _la mode_,
was misunderstood, and would always be misunderstood by the higher and
therefore more hypocritically polished circles of English society.
I returned to the drawing-room slowly and meditatively, telling one of
the servants on my way to ask Lady Sibyl if she could see me for a few
moments. I was not kept waiting long; I had only paced the room twice up
and down when she entered, looking so strangely wild and beautiful that
I could scarcely forbear uttering an exclamation of wonder. She wore
white as was always her custom in the evenings,--her hair was less
elaborately dressed than usual, and clustered over her brow in loose
wavy masses,--her face was exceedingly pale, and her eyes appeared
larger and darker by comparison--her smile was vague and fleeting like
that of a sleep-walker. She gave me her hand; it was dry and burning.
"My father is out--" she began.
"I know. But I came to see _you_. May I stay a little?"
She murmured assent, and sinking listlessly into a chair, began to play
with some roses in a vase on the table beside her.
"You look tired Lady Sibyl,"--I said gently--"Are you not well?"
"I am quite well--" she answered--"But you are right in saying I am
tired. I am dreadfully tired!"
"You have been doing too much perhaps?--your attendance on your mother
tries you----"
She laughed bitterly.
"Attendance on my mother!--pray do not credit me with so much devotion.
I never attend on my mother. I cannot do it; I am too much of a coward.
Her face terrifies me; and whenever I do venture to go near her, she
tries to speak, with such dreadful, such ghastly efforts, as make her
more hideous to look at than anyone can imagine. I should die of fright
if I saw her often. As it is, when I do see her I can scarcely
stand--and twice I have fainted with the horror of it. To think of
it!--that that living corpse with the fearful fixed eyes and distorted
mouth should actually be _my mother_!"
She shuddered violently, and her very lips paled as she spoke. I was
seriously concerned, and told her so.
"This must be very bad for your health,"--I said, drawing my chair
closer to hers--"Can you not get away for a change?"
She looked at me in silence. The expression of her eyes thrilled me
strangely,--it was not tender or wistful, but fierce, passionate and
commanding.
"I saw Miss Chesney for a few moments just now"--I resumed,--"She seemed
very unhappy."
"She has nothing to be unhappy about--" said Sibyl coldly--"except the
time my mother takes in dying. But she is young; she can afford to wait
a little for the Elton coronet."
"Is not----may not this be a mistaken surmise of yours?" I ventured
gently--"Whatever her faults, I think the girl admires and loves you."
She smiled scornfully.
"I want neither her love nor her admiration,"--she said--"I have few
women-friends and those few are all hypocrites whom I mistrust. When
Diana Chesney is my step-mother, we shall still be strangers."
I felt I was on delicate ground, and that I could not continue the
conversation without the risk of giving offence.
"Where is _your_ friend?" asked Sibyl suddenly, apparently to change the
subject--"Why does he so seldom come here now?"
"Rimânez? Well, he is a very queer fellow, and at times takes an
abhorrence for all society. He frequently meets your father at the club,
and I suppose his reason for not coming here is that he hates women."
"All women?" she queried with a little smile.
"Without exception!"
"Then he hates me?"
"I did not say that--" I answered quickly--"No one could hate you, Lady
Sibyl,--but truly, as far as Prince Rimânez is concerned, I expect he
does not abate his aversion to womankind (which is his chronic malady)
even for you."
"So he will never marry?" she said musingly.