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 SYBIL'S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 X. 
 
 BY 
 
 JULIA KAVANAGH, 
 
 % 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "BEATRICE," "NATHALIE," "ADELE," "QUEEN MAR," 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 THREE VOLUMES IN OX1C. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 54 9 k 55 1 BROADWAY. 
 1872.
 
 
 S0^ 
 
 SYBIL'S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 CHAPTER I . 
 
 "This is a very dreary old house, Denise," said Sybil, with 
 a sign, " and I am sick of it." 
 
 Denise was kneeling by the hearth tending the fire. She 
 looked up, and seemed to ponder over the words just uttered 
 by her young mistress. 
 
 The kitchen to which Sybil Kennedy. had come down to 
 make this declaration was any thing but a dreary place in the 
 estimation of Denise. It was a low, large, and quiet room. 
 Oak-beams, dark with age, crossed the ceiling. The tall oaken 
 press and dresser shone again, so polished with wax were their. 
 carved doors. Three windows, with octagon panes of a greenish 
 glass, and one of which had a screen of vine-leaves, let in a sub- 
 dued light that stole along the red tiles of the floor, and vanish- 
 ed in the dark yawning abyss of the fire-place. This was \ 
 gloomy, and deep. It was of rough stone, on which lilies and 
 shells were rudely carved. Tall andirons, a deep valance, black 
 with smoke, and on the mantel-shelf a row of Binning caudle- 
 sticks and saints' images, iu Mark frames, were its only orna- 
 ments, lu all Saint Yincenl there was nol such another kitchen 
 chimney as this, and both kitchen and chimney were the de- 
 light of Denises heart. 
 
 "In seventeen hundred and ninety-three," Bhe said, with 
 greal deliberation, f * my great-grandfather, who was a mason, 
 was called in l>y Monsieur de Renneville, and told to plaster op 

 
 Sybil's second love. 
 
 tliis chimney, on account of the royal lilies that were carved 
 upon it, and that was how they saved it," 
 
 Syhil yawned, and looked with profound indifference at the 
 chimney. She knew it was admired, and so was that old abbey, 
 with its cross and its cloister, and its grounds, that overlooked 
 the sullen, roaring channel ; but to be transferred from a lively 
 boarding-school in Brompton to an old nunnery, converted into 
 a dwelling-house, on the French coast, is not the fate most ac- 
 ceptable to seventeen. Besides, Mr. Kennedy had forgotten to 
 leave her the key of the library, and he had been gone since 
 the morning, and it was five o'clock in the afternoon, and her 
 annt, Miss Glyn, who had been coming this week, had not ar- 
 rived. No wonder that Sybil was " sick of it." 
 
 Denise, a buxom French maiden, of some twenty-five years 
 of age, seemed puzzled by the weariness of spirit which op- 
 pressed her young mistress. 
 
 " The last abbess," she said, slowly, " liked Saint Vincent. 
 She did not think it a dreary old house." 
 
 " To be sure not. Had she not ten nuns with her?" saucily 
 replied Sybil. " Ah ! if I had ten young nuns with me," she 
 added, with much seriousness, "I should like Saint Vincent 
 amazingly." 
 
 But it is time that we should describe Sybil Kennedy. 
 She was a slight, dark-eyed and dark-haired girl, very fair, and 
 though not beautiful, very pretty. Indeed, she was as fresh 
 and bright as any wild field-flower on a summer morning. 
 She had such a gay young face, though she was sick of Saint 
 Vincent, that it was a joy to look at her. Good-humor and 
 goodness were both written on her clear open forehead. Her 
 rosy lips seemed made for saucy speech and sunny smiles. 
 Archness, mirth, and ready wit were written in her whole as- 
 pect. There was but one contrast to the pleasant story of this 
 fair book — this young girl's dark eyes were large, deep, and im- 
 passioned. They were wonderful eyes for one so gay and young, 
 and bore a meauing which might as yet be unknown to their 
 owner. For they told of fitful and vehement emotions, of brief 
 and ardent joys, and maybe, too, of long sorrows, since to feel 
 keenly is surely to suffer much. Nothing more tragic than 
 ennui, however, ailed her now, and it was with an impatient 
 little yawn that she said : 
 
 " I used to think that one was sure to have adventures in 
 these old houses ; ghosts, or legends, or something or other,
 
 SYBILS SECOND LOVE. 5 
 
 but I now see they are just as stupid as brick ones; and, 
 indeed — " 
 
 The sound of the opening door interrupted Sybil. She 
 looked round and saw her father's gardener, Narcisse. 
 
 Truth compels us to declare, that the heathen youth, to 
 whom his own beauty proved so fatal, was no prototype of Mr. 
 Kennedy's servant. Indeed, this modern Narcissus could shave 
 his beard and brush his hair opposite the oval glass in his attic 
 without incurring the least peril thereby. He was a little dark 
 man of fifty, with a long lean face, and very broad shoulders — 
 in short, no beauty. Ilolding the door in his hand, Narci 
 looked into the kitchen, and nodded at his young mistress. 
 
 " Now, Narcisse, I will not be bored with questions," said 
 Sybil ; "I know nothing — I can say nothing — there ! " 
 
 ".I told him so," placidly said Narcisse, rubbing one of his 
 legs against the other, perhaps to scratch. 
 
 Now, reader, if you think that the personal pronoun "him " 
 refers to any particular individual, you arc mistaken. It is part 
 of the Narcisse phraseologv, which has its peculiarities. 
 
 "Who is it?" impatiently asked Sybil. 
 
 " An oyster." 
 
 This simile — for, of course, Narcisse is speaking figurative- 
 ly — is another portion of the Narcisse phraseology. It implies 
 hatred, scorn, or merely contempt. 
 
 " Tell him papa is not within." 
 
 "I told him so, but he will not go — a regular oyster." 
 
 Oysters not being celebrated for their powers of locomotion, 
 Narcisse probably thought the simile applicable tothisobsti 
 Granger. Sybil began to feel a little flurried. What was the 
 stranger like? — Middle-aged, tall, and a tine man, was Narci 
 reply. Still Sybil looked perplexed. This oyster might b 
 the finest kind and flavor, but what was Bhe to do with it 1 
 
 "lie is in the garden, waiting," -aid Narcisse. 
 
 "Show him in," said Sybil. 
 
 "And he has got his carpet-bag." 
 
 The carpet-bag made Sybil change her mind. It was plain 
 tlie \i-itor came to take possession, and she prudently thought 
 that, as her father would soon come home, the stranger might 
 as well stay in the garden, and wait there. In the mean while, 
 Sybil also thought that she might go up-stairs, and recounoitro 
 the enemy through one of the first-floor windows. She accord- 
 ingly lefl the kitchen by a door opposite to that by which Nar-
 
 6 sybil's second love. 
 
 cisse was still standing. Saint Vincent had been an abbey, and a 
 low gloomy passage took Sybil from the kitchen to the cloister. 
 It was small, Gothic, and veiy beautiful. The bright sunshine 
 threw on the walls which enclosed it the sharp shadows of the 
 arched gallery. In the centre of the quadrangle rose a carved 
 stone cross of fine proportions, but grass grew between the dis- 
 jointed flagstones of this quiet court, and on its walls Sybil 
 could still read the half-effaced inscriptions that had once greet- 
 ed the eyes of her pious predecessors. " Blessed are they who 
 weep, for they shall be comforted," said one. " Come to me, 
 ye who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest," said an- 
 other ; and a third seemed to reply in tender and loving lan- 
 guage : " As the hart panteth after the fountains of waters, so 
 my soul panteth after thee, God." 
 
 Sybil paused in the act of passing through the cloister. She 
 had faith and imagination, and this silent language appealed to 
 both, and sent a sort of remorse through her heart. How 
 could she murmur at her lot, so calm and fair, when others had 
 found happiness and content within these narrow walls ? 
 
 " I wish I were better," thought Sybil, looking up at the 
 roof of blue sky which spread above her — " I wish I were 
 great, or heroic, or, at least, good, instead of being the silly, 
 frivolous little thing I am. I know I am little — little in person, 
 little in mind, little in temper — it is quite disheartening. What 
 business had I to go down to the kitchen to Denise, and what 
 business have I to go and look at this stranger ? Arria would 
 not have done it." 
 
 Now Arria, the wife of Poetus, was one of Sybil's favorite 
 heroines ; for this young lady's mind was rather full of the 
 classics just then. But logic, pitiless logic, whispered that 
 though Arria died nobly, she might have lived simply. 
 
 " Suppose some stranger came to her father's house," 
 thought Sybil ; " why, she would have felt it her duty to look 
 at him from a distance, and see if he was to be trusted in the 
 atrium. Why, then, should not I ? " 
 
 This settled the question. Sybil passed through that por- 
 tion of the cloister which had once been allotted to the novices, 
 ran up an old staircase, and entered a room which commanded 
 a good view of the lower garden. 
 
 There were two gardens in Saint Vincent. One, on a level 
 with the house, was enclosed by high walls ; the other, to which 
 a flight of stone steps gave access, was a broad terrace, exten-
 
 Sybil's second love. 
 
 sively laid out with tall trees, that nodded to the sea-breeze. 
 A steep cliff that overlooked the sea was its only limit toward 
 the west ; a small wood, and the stream on the banks of which 
 stood Mr. Kennedy's mill, divided it from the neighboring 
 country. This portion of Mr. Kennedy's possessions had 
 flowers and gravelled walks, and therefore could be called a 
 garden, though it soon lost these attributes and became wild 
 and uncultivated ; but the real garden was that which now lay 
 within Sybil's view. This was narrow, quiet, and sunny. Old 
 mossy walls enclosed it, and flowers grew in their shelter. In 
 the centre of a large grass-plot stood an ancient sun-dial, and 
 over this the stranger now pored, in an attitude which displayed 
 the extraordinary length of his figure. He was any thing but a 
 fine man in Sybil's opinion. He was long and lean, and most 
 melancholy-looking; he had a sallow face, and heavy black 
 eyes, and lank black hair, and he looked so dismal withal, that 
 Sybil felt his was no pleasant countenance to gaze on. His 
 clothes were shabby, too ; and his carpet-bag, which lay on the 
 grass by him, was but a small one. Sybil wondered what had 
 brought him, who he was, and what series of troubles had given 
 him that woe-begone aspect? After various surmises, she came 
 to the conclusion that he was either a childless widower (a 
 broken-hearted one, of course), or a shipwrecked traveller. She 
 leaned toward the latter hypothesis; and, indeed, it was the 
 right one. The stranger you now gaze at, Sybil, never had 
 either wife or child, and the sorrow you read in his face springs 
 not from their loss. But he has travelled along some of life's 
 most rugged paths, and he is footsore and weary. He has been 
 wrecked on one of life's darkest and most barren shores, and he 
 has saved nothing from that fair ship which sailed the other 
 morning full of promise, hope, and all good things. Pity him, 
 you happy child of fortune, pity him, and pray that the goal 
 of his sad journey may not be sadder still than the road which 
 has led him to it thus far.
 
 sybil's second love. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 _ -Poor man !» thought Sybil, still looking at him from the 
 window, how tired he lofeis ! His clothes are dusty, too He 
 
 after an 6 " 61 " ^^ ° U f °°' t ' I mUSt teU Narcisse to show nim » 
 But even as Sybil came to this humane resolution, she saw 
 her lather coming down the flight of steps that led from the 
 upper into the lower garden. Mr. Kennedy was a very hand- 
 some man; he was fifty, but he looked full ten years younger 
 Ihere was not a silver thread in his dark curls; his blue eye's 
 were as bright as at twenty; his pleasant, genial smile lit his 
 lace like sunshine, and showed teeth of perfect whiteness. His 
 look, indeed, was not without subtlety; and if his smile was 
 pleasant, every one could not read its meaning. Prosperity 
 content, and cheerfulness were written in his handsome counte- 
 nance and erect bearing; and Sybil, who was very proud of her 
 lather s good looks and fine person, looked at him with secret 
 admiration, and contrasted him with that lean, sallow traveller 
 very much to the disadvantage of the latter. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy came down whistling carelessly, but suddenlv 
 grew silent and stood still— he had seen his visitor. A change 
 rapid and deep, passed over his countenance. At once it 
 expressed surprise, annoyance, and Sybil thought, dislike. Her 
 pity for the tired stranger was gone in a moment He hid 
 come to annoy and trouble her father, and from that hour she 
 detested him. 
 
 But Mr. Kennedy was a man of the world, accustomed to 
 control and to conceal his feelings, and by the time the stranger 
 turned round, the master of Saint Vincent was calm, cheerful 
 and smiling, and came forward with open brow and extended 
 hand. 
 
 '" How do you do, Smith ? " he said, cordially. " How kind 
 ot you to come and look at me down here ! Every thins 1 is 
 going on beautifully— beautifully." & 
 
 " So much the better for you," replied Mr. Smith, since 
 such was his name ; " but look at me." 
 
 "Why, yes," said Mr. Kennedy, slapping him on the 
 shoulder, " any one can see what you have been about." 
 
 "Yes, a fool and his money are soon parted," replied Mr 
 Smith, with a moody look in his heavy black eyes.
 
 Sybil's second love. 
 
 " Nonsense," said Mr. Kennedy, cheerfully. " I dare say il 
 is something glorious. You shall tell me all ahout it after 
 dinner, or to-morrow, when a good night's sleep will have 
 cleared your ideas; and now come ip " 
 
 They entered the house toget -T, and disappeared from 
 Sybil's view. Soon afterward she' was called down by Mr. 
 Kennedy, formally introduced to Mr. Smith, and requested to 
 see that a room was prepared for him, and that the dinner was 
 hurried. Both orders were obeyed, and Mr. Kennedy, his 
 daughter, and Mr. Smith, soon sat down to a very good dinner 
 in the low, quiet dining-room of Saint Vincent. 
 
 The light of the declining sun poured in through the open 
 windows on the polished oak floor, and up the wainscoted 
 walls. From where she sat Sybil could see the trees of the 
 garden stirring in the breeze, and the sweet scent of the wall- 
 flowers came in with every breath of air; birds fluttered 
 and twittered past the windows — every thing was bright, gay, 
 and cheerful; but Sybil looked at Mr. Smith, and she felt 
 depressed. How is it that some people have this power of 
 darkening whatever comes within their reach or ken? There 
 was no poetic melancholy about Mr. Smith, not a trace of it, 
 and yet many people would have felt as Sybil felt — that he was 
 depressing. This man, a vulgar one by his manners, and his 
 free use of the letter H, who ate rather too greedily, and had a 
 selfish eye to the daintiest morsels ; who squared his elbows on 
 the table, and talked of, and evidently thought of nothing, save 
 some incomprehensible lawsuit with a Mr. Dermot, had, with all 
 that, a look of sullen power and tenacity which made most men 
 and women feel that it was pleasanter to be out of than in his 
 company. 
 
 "He is like an ugly black sky when the storm is coming 
 on," thought Sybil; and she wondered that her father did not 
 seem to feel it, and that he could talk, and laugh, and jest so 
 freely with that horrid Mr. Smith. 
 
 But most of all she wondered that he was acquainted with 
 him. Indeed, Mr. Kennedy's friendliness and courtesy to Mr. 
 Smith were something remarkable. Mr. Kennedy was a self- 
 made man, and, like most self-made men, rather proud. He 
 had a natural refinement, cultivated by a tardy though good 
 education, which made him fastidious — sometimes to ex 
 Yet here he was, hand-and-glove with that low Mr. Smith, list- 
 ening civilly to his poor jokes, laughing at them even, helping 
 1*
 
 10 Sybil's second love. 
 
 him to the best, humoring him, and actually seeming to enjoy his 
 dreary company. Youth is quick, and cannot be all deceived. 
 Sybil felt sure a good deal of her father's friendliness was 
 assumed. She would not have acknowledged it, even to her- 
 self, but she knew it, and with the logic of the heart — not 
 always the wisest or the best — she infused a double amount of 
 severity into her disapprobation of' Mr. Smith. 
 
 And Mr. Smith did his best to justify Miss Kennedy's 
 dislike. He ignored her completely, barely nodded his thanks 
 when she helped him, and, as dinner progressed, he aspirated 
 the letter H more and more, or less and less, as the case might 
 be, and became even more dogmatic and tiresome than at the 
 commencement of the meal. This Sybil attributed to his 
 having drunk a good deal, and the fact did not heighten her 
 opinion of the poor gentleman. 
 
 Unconscious of her displeasure, Mr. Smith only warmed as 
 he spoke of his lawsuit with Mr. Dermot, whose name he 
 brought up with ever-increasing bitterness. 
 
 " I know you stand by him," he said, nodding at Mr. 
 Kennedy ; " but it won't do. If there's law in Ireland, I'll have 
 him fast ! — I'll clinch him ! " 
 
 And he struck his fist on the table till it rang again. 
 
 " Suppose there is no law in Ireland ? " coolly said Mr. Ken- 
 nedy. 
 
 Mr. Smith's dull black eyes got a sudden flash. 
 
 " I'll make law ! " he said under his breath. 
 
 Sybil felt uneasy and frightened; but her father only 
 laughed, and replied gayly, 
 
 " More easily said than done." 
 
 " Where there's a will there's a way," said Mr. Smith. 
 
 But there was a tipsy drawl in his tone, and Sybil began to 
 feel more disgusted than depressed. Her father thought, how- 
 ever, she had enough of this, for he looked at her, and said 
 significantly, 
 
 " Dull work for you, Pussy." 
 
 " Yes, and I have been dull all day," replied Sybil, reproach- 
 fully. " You took away the key of the library." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy belonged to the modern generation of obedient 
 papas ; but though he looked contrite on hearing his daughter's 
 remonstrance, he did not give her the key, for which she held 
 out her hand. 
 
 " Pussy," he said, " I do not like to let a little girl like
 
 sybil's second love. 11 
 
 you run wild in that library. I know nothing of all these 
 books." 
 
 " Oh ! there are no novels amongst them," impatiently said 
 Sybil. " They are all such old books." 
 
 " None the better for that," put in Mr. Smith, for the first 
 time uttering a remark directed to Sybil. 
 
 He looked at her across the table, bending his heavy black 
 eyes upon her with a moody gaze which annoyed and offended 
 the young girl. 
 
 " Old books are often old sinners," pursued Mr. Smith, star- 
 ing at Sybil ; " and what has a slip of a girl like you, miss, to 
 do with such ? " 
 
 " I like them," dryly replied Sybil. 
 
 "And what has liking to do with it ? " insisted Mr. Smith, 
 in a drawling tone. "I don't like to be 'ere, not I, and yet I 
 am 'ere. Your father does not like me to be 'ere, and vet he 
 has me 'ere. "We all do what we don't like, miss." 
 
 " Non sense," said Mr. Kennedy, gaj ly. "What put that 
 into your head, Mr. Smith ? " 
 
 " Why, it stands to reason. I have come down on business 
 that you don't like — just as that Dermot don't like — " 
 
 "No such thing," curtly interrupted Mr. Kennedy. "lam 
 delighted to see you here. And now, Pussy," he added, turning 
 to his daughter, " what were you reading ? " 
 
 " The Greek Fathers. Not in Greek, you know." 
 " The Greek Fathers ? " said Mr. Kennedy, smiling, and pinch- 
 ing her cheek. " Well, I suppose I may trust you with the 
 Greek Fathers. There, take the key, and do not forget teatime, 
 as you did last night." 
 
 Sybil nodded, and, glad to escape from Mr. Smith and his 
 sullen black eyes, she lightly ran away, dangling the key on her 
 little finger. 
 
 " I wonder what that horrid Mr. Smith came for ? " she 
 thought as she entered the library. " lie looks like a cheat, 
 every bit of him. I wish I had told him I was all for Mr. Der- 
 mot. How he would have stared with his big black eyes ! " 
 
 The vision of Mr. Smith's amazement tickled Sybil's fancy, 
 but only for a moment. She stood in the library, and with a 
 sigh of relief forgot all else. 
 
 What reader has not felt the charm of those quiet room- 
 devoted to study and knowledge, where the silent wisdom of 
 ages patiently waits the student's hand? Stillness and pi
 
 12 sybil's second love. 
 
 are in the very air we breathe. On the threshold cease the toils 
 and pleasures and varieties of daily life. A sense of rest steals 
 over the heart with the sight of those volumes that appeal to 
 the mind alone, and let the passions sleep. Fever, excitement, 
 agitation, our lot abroad, are succeeded here by a luxurious intel- 
 lectual repose, soothing as that of the fabled lotus, but neither 
 torpid nor enfeebling. 
 
 And Sybil was a reader, such a reader as seventeen alone 
 can yield — eager, unwearied, and impassioned. Whenever she 
 entered that long, low room, with windows that opened on the 
 cloister aud shelves full of ancient books, Sybil no longer felt 
 that Saint Vincent was a dreary old house, but confessed it in 
 Ler heart to be a sunny Eden. 
 
 The Abbey of Saint Vincent had belonged to the Renne- 
 ville family, from whom Mr. Kennedy had purchased it, ready 
 furnished, boohs and all ; and an old abbe had stocked the 
 library with volumes, grave, austere, and ponderous, and never 
 meant for seventeen and girlhood. But young and gay though 
 she was, Sybil also was of a mind and temper to relish the most 
 vigorous intellectual food. Of course she wonld have liked a 
 poem or a story better than the fathers, Greek or Latin ; but 
 tailing these, she could enjoy and feel the majesty of an Atka- 
 nasius, the sweetness of a Basil, and the subtle beauty of an 
 Augustine. 
 
 She now took down Saint Epkrem the Syrian, and sitting in 
 the deep embrasure of one of the windows, she read his account 
 of the last great day. At first Sybil felt calm enough, but as the 
 Eastern imagery of this impressive writer rose before her, as, at 
 his call, she saw and heard those dead or yet unborn multitudes 
 of all times and all nations appearing before the Eternal Judge, 
 a sense of awe stole over her, and, half closing the book, she 
 looked out into the darkening cloister. Strange fancies came 
 to her. She was herself an actor in that great scene, and a 
 spectator, too. The nuns of the abbey were there in their 
 black veils, and so was her aunt, Miss Glyn ; and she saw her 
 dearest friend, Blanche Cains, with her fair hair flowing around 
 her, and her father, stern and downcast, and Mr. Smith rising in 
 his grave-clothes, with a scared look in his heavy black eyes. 
 
 Beyond this Sybil could not go. She rose nervously, for 
 the library was almost dark, and she had a childish fear of dark- 
 ness. The dim and ghostly outlines of every thing around her 
 made the simplest object appalling. There was terror lurking
 
 Sybil's second love. 13 
 
 m the dark shelves and in the darker books upon them. Mr. 
 Smith had called them old sinners — suppose they came down 
 from these shelves with spectre life in them ? But no — " I will 
 not be a coward," rebelliously thought Sybil, " I will not." 
 
 She looked steadily at the pale space of the window, at the 
 dark lines of the cloister beyond it, and beyond these again at 
 a little twinkling star that shone in a black patch of sky, and 
 with her eye fixed upon it, Sybil resolutely walked to the door, 
 let herself out, and did not quicken her step till she reached the 
 door that led to the garden. Into this she flew, and breathed 
 freely on recognizing Denise and Narcisse, who were watering 
 the flowers. 
 
 The night was balmy and serene. True heavenly calmness 
 filled those fields of blue sky, where brilliant stars had been 
 sown by an Almighty hand. There was a perfume of flowers 
 on the night air, and afar off you heard the faint roaring of 
 the sea. 
 
 " What a coward I w T as," thought Sybil remorsefully ; " and 
 I w r as afraid of those poor old books, too ! I wonder who read 
 these fathers before me ? " 
 
 She applied to Denise for information, but all Denise knew 
 was that the abbe had been a great reader. 
 
 " As to that, so was the young Count de Renneville, and he 
 had taken away a good many books with him to the Manor of 
 Raymond." 
 
 " Raymond ! — who was Raymond ? " 
 
 Denise w T as amazed at her young mistress's ignorance. She 
 thought that the whole world had heard of Raymond, the great 
 seaman, who made war on kings, and whose ships covered the 
 seas. But then he lived a long time ago, a thousand years at 
 least. 
 
 "And the Rennevillcs have gone to live in his manor — how 
 is that, Denise ? " 
 
 " Madame de Renneville is one of his descendants, and 
 they have no other house left now, either mother or son — ah ! 
 what a good son he is ! there never was one like him, but they 
 are so poor. They could not keep Saint Vincent, so they sold 
 it to pay the debts." 
 
 " And where is the Manor of Raymond ? " 
 
 "Off there on the hill, where you see a light burning. Tt is 
 the old gray stone house with turrets, you know." 
 
 Sybil knew it well. She saw these turrets daily from her
 
 14: sybil's second loye. 
 
 room window. She saw the light now, and looked at it half 
 sadly. Ah ! what a wheel was life ! Her father, a child oi 
 fortune, sprung from naught, enriched by a few lucky venturer., 
 had succeeded the impoverished nobles, as they had succeeded 
 the quiet nans. Truly that old gray Saint Vincent was but an 
 inn, where the guests followed fast. 
 
 " I wonder who will be in it after us," thought Sybil—" who 
 will have my room, and walk in the garden, and read those 
 books I am reading now ? The old Abbe de Renneville little 
 thought a girl would come to take up his classics and his 
 fathers of the Church. He, too, read that Saint Ephrem's vis- 
 ion of Judgment, for I found his notes on the margin. I won- 
 der if he, too, saw his Mends and acquaintances in the great 
 multitude, as I saw mine." 
 
 " I'd 'ave that cross down, and the cloister too, said Mr. 
 
 Smith's dogmatic voice. ,■,-,■, xi 
 
 Sybil started. In her abstraction she had walked up to the 
 open "dining-room window, and from that apartment it was that 
 Mr. Smith's voice now proceeded. She saw him, too— for the 
 room was lit— sullen, tenacious, half-insolent ; and she saw her 
 father, calm, smiling, courteous. Why, who was that vulgar, 
 ill-bred man, who spoke of having both cross and cloister down ? 
 At once Sybil built a little castle" in the air, as it was rather her 
 way to do ; but this castle was neither pleasant nor sunlit. It 
 showed her a dreary story of falsehood and ruin, in which Mr. 
 Kennedy f>ured as" a victim, and that ended by rewarding vil- 
 lainy in" the person of Mr. Smith, with the possession of Saint 
 Vincent. Mr. Kennedy and his daughter had just entered the 
 carriage that was to take them away, and Mr. Smith was nod- 
 ding and grinning at them from a window, when Mr. Kennedy s 
 cheerful voice called out, 
 
 "Pussy, Pussy, come and make the tea." 
 Sybil obeyed "the summons, and felt ashamed of herself as 
 she looked at Mr. Smith. He might be low, ill-bred, and de- 
 pressing but surely he was honest— there was no cunning, no 
 subtle wickedness in this man's countenance or bearing. _ Again 
 Sybil relented toward him, and felt that pity for him which had 
 been her first feeling as she looked at him from the window. 
 But some people cannot be their own friends. Mr. Sm.th, who 
 had been a bore at dinner, was insufferable at tea-time. He 
 was more than depressing now,* he was thoroughly disagreeable. 
 Sybil looked at him indignantly, and thought him once more
 
 sybil's second love. 15 
 
 capable of every iniquity ; indeed, she Lad no comfort till tea 
 was over, and she went up to the drawing-room. But to this 
 comfort there was a drawback — Sybil spent the evening alone. 
 Instead of playing to her father, as was her wont, she played to 
 herself in the drawing-room, which seemed very large and lonclv. 
 Tbe wax lights wbich burned in the dark bronze candlesticks 
 on the mantel-shelf only showed Sybil how vacant was that wide 
 apartment, when her father's handsome person and cheerful 
 countenance were absent from it. She played languidly, with- 
 out spirit or pleasure ; then she pla}~ed not at all. She threw 
 herself into one of the deep, old-fashioned, red velvet chairs, 
 and brooded over her wrongs. Why was she sacrificed to that 
 abominable Mr. Smith ? Whv did not her father get rid of 
 him ? If she could only have Saint Vincent back again without 
 him, Sybil w r ould never more think it dreary — never. Surely 
 part of the happiness of the nuns of the old abbey must have 
 lain in being rid forever of such beings as Mr. Smith. For of 
 course no such intruders came upon them with their carpet- 
 bags, and absorbed their fathers. Of course not ; and yet sup- 
 pose she should go and ask Denise ? 
 
 The wish, we may be sure, was father to this thought, for 
 with considerable alacrity Sybil rose and went straight to the 
 room near her own, where Denise sat mending linen every 
 evening. Nothing could exceed Denise's surprise on hearing 
 her young mistress gravely ask her if any feminine prototypes 
 of Mr. Smith had ever troubled the nuns of Saint Vincent. 
 
 " Why, from the moment they entered it, till they died, no 
 stranger ever saw them," replied Denise. " It was the beautiful 
 abbess who laid down that rule." 
 
 " The beautiful abbess ! — who was she ? — and how did peo- 
 ple know she was beautiful, if no one ever saw these good 
 ladies ? " 
 
 " Why, you see the abbey had been burnt down, and had to 
 be rebuilt, and a new abbess and ten nuns came to take posses- 
 sion. It was a grand sight, with banners and crosses, and a 
 procession and a great crowd; and when the nuns reached the 
 gates, they passed by the abbess as they entered. When tin' 
 last was within, the abbess turned to the people and said, 
 4 Farewell, friends.' Every one answered, 'Farewell, holy 
 mother;' and a young man, bolder than the rest, cried out, 
 ' Holy mother, let us see you before you leave us ? ' Now, you 
 Bee, this good lady, a young widow, whom the death of her
 
 16 sybil's second love. 
 
 husband had caused to forsake the world, took the request in 
 holy charity, and not perhaps as it was meant. So she raised 
 her veil, and all saw her, and hers was the most beautiful face 
 any one there had ever seen. It shone like an angel's, and 
 dazzled them all, till the abbess dropped her veil, entered the 
 abbey, and barred the gates. And they do say that the young 
 man died of love ; but JSTarcisse will have it that if so, he was 
 an oyster. At all events the beautiful abbess heard of it, and 
 laid down the rule that none of her ladies was to be seen by a 
 stranger from that day forward." 
 
 Sybil thought this a hard case, and it rather reconciled her 
 to Mr. Smith's presence. Indeed, she was beginning to feel 
 quite lenient toward that gentleman, when unluckily she heard 
 her father escorting him to his room. This act of hospitable 
 condescension roused her wrath anew. What business had he 
 to be in Saint Vincent at all ? It was dreadful — of course it 
 was. She immediately felt a violent headache, and informing 
 Denise of the fact, forthwith retired to her room, locked herself 
 up, and went to bed. 
 
 Spite her headache and her wrongs, Sybil w r as asleep in five 
 minutes. But the troubles of the day were renewed in her 
 dreams. She saw the abbey not as it was, a ruin repaired and 
 converted into a dwelling-house, but as it had been — a fair 
 Gothic building. She saw the beautiful abbess, too, with a fair 
 shining face, and her nuns, and she heard them singing sweetly 
 the psalm Lcstavi as they crossed the threshold of their home, . 
 and vanished behind its gates. So far her visions were pleasant, 
 but unluckily some grotesque and gloomy images mingled with 
 these mediaeval fancies. She saw Mr. Kennedy lying dead and 
 bleeding at the convent gates, and Mr. Smith bending' over him 
 with wicked joy in his black sullen eyes ; and, to crown all, 
 Mr. Smith wore her aunt Glyn's favorite pink cap. 
 
 " Oh ! that dreadful bore of a man," thought Sybil, waken- 
 ing — " I do wish he would go ! "
 
 X-\j 
 
 sybil's second love. 17 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 But Mr. Smith, did not go away, nor seem inclined to do 
 so. He remained in Saint Vincent, boring Sybil more and more, 
 but endured with perfect patience by Sybil's father. Luckily 
 the two gentlemen spent the greatest portion of their time in 
 Mr. Kennedy's mill ; for Mr. Kennedy had a mill, and one 
 which for a year had been the talk of Saint Vincent. 
 
 This little watering-place, in which there is, as there must 
 ever be in a French town, an English colony, is neither pretty 
 nor remarkable. It has a port, some shipping, and to a certain 
 degree it is wealthy. A pretty but sluggish and shallow river 
 flows through it. This stream had always been pronounced de- 
 ficient in water-power, when, to the surprise and amusement of 
 his neighbors, Mr. Kennedy, who had just purchased the abbey, 
 built a large mill on the river that passed through his grounds. 
 Their amusement ripened into scorn when they learned that 
 this foolish stranger was buying land far and near in order to 
 grow rape-seed, and, of course, to make rape-oil. This was the 
 greatest folly of all. The soil of Saint Vincent was unpropitious 
 to rape. Although Mr. Kennedy had asked none to advise 
 him, and might have been left to his fate, some kind people 
 could not bear to see him going to ruin, and went and enlight- 
 ened him concerning his double mistake. Mr. Kennedy heard, 
 and smiled, and thanked, and persisted in his obstinacy, and 
 went on building his mill, and sowing rape. 
 
 Time justified him, and proved his best answer and most 
 powerful argument. Some ingenious contrivances trebled the 
 water-power on Mr. Kennedy's property, but as he owned the 
 river till it flowed into the sea, these contrivances added noth- 
 ing to the wealth or convenience of his neighbors up the 
 stream, and yet had the great advantage of not being subject to 
 their interference. They could see and envy, and could not 
 mar. Moreover, as spring came round, Mr. Kennedy's land be- 
 came covered with yellow blossoms so luxuriant that the like 
 had never been seen. Rape throve in Saint Vincent, and tin 
 wonderfully. Day after day wagon-loads of it passed within 
 Mr. Kennedy's gates. The roads were black with the rich 
 seed ; the mill was set in motion, and made a noise thai was 
 heard ever so far off. Sinewy men, who earned untold sums, ii 
 was said, labored day and night to extract the oil ; their cot-
 
 18 Sybil's second love. 
 
 tagcs dotted Mr. Kennedy's land, and of a tame agricultural 
 district this enterprising stranger soon made as prosperous a lit- 
 tle nook as was to be found on the whole coast. 
 
 But little care youth and girlhood for commerce, enter 
 prise, and money. Sybil disliked the mill, for it was a rival, 
 and took a great deal too much of her father's time and affec- 
 tion ; if any thing, therefore, could add to her aversion for Mr. 
 Smith, it was the fact that he combined with that hateful mill 
 to absorb Mr. Kennedy. So she went on lamenting that gen- 
 tleman's presence in Saint Vincent, and declaring to herself 
 that there had never been any thing so dreadful. But she soon 
 learned to her cost that Mr. Smith could add to the sum of his 
 iniquities. 
 
 They were at breakfast on the third morning of Mr. Smith's 
 sojourn in Saint Vincent, when a great rattling of wheels was 
 heard at the gates. Sybil clapped her hands, and started up in 
 great joy. 
 
 " Aunt Glyn ! " she cried. 
 
 " I fancy there are two carriages," said Mr. Kennedy, rising 
 more slowly. " Mrs. Mush, I suppose." 
 
 Sybil paused on her way to the door, to. look with surprise 
 at her father. Mr. Kennedy was a fond and indulgent parent, 
 but he was not a communicative one. It was plain that he had 
 asked Mrs. Mush to come, and that he had thought fit to tell 
 his daughter nothing about it. Sybil was all the more puzzled 
 at this double invitation, that, though her aunt, Miss Glyn, and 
 her cousin, Mrs. Mush, were relatives and friends, they had always 
 found it impossible to live in the same house. Their friendship 
 could stand yearly and even monthly meetings, but it went down 
 at weekly, and froze at daily intercourse. The admission of 
 one was, therefore, the exclusion of the other. Mr. Kennedy 
 knew this as well as Sybil, but he wanted to be sure of one lady 
 to keep house for him, in case the other did not suit. He had 
 accordingly asked them both at the same time, feeling confident 
 of his power to keep them at peace during a fortnight, at least, 
 for he had mentally fixed this as the limit to their time of pro- 
 bation. Without heeding his daughter's amazed look, he there- 
 fore went to meet his guests, and bid them welcome. 
 
 From one carriage stepped down a tall, bony, and angular 
 lady of fifty — this was Miss Glyn. From the other carriage 
 buoyantly alighted a younger and stouter lady, with a full per- 
 son, a round, good-humored face, and a pair of twinkling gray
 
 sybil's second love. 19 
 
 eyes — this was Mrs. Mush. The two ladies had travelled from 
 opposite directions, and only recognized each other as they 
 now stood at the gates of Saint Vincent. For a moment they 
 stared at each other in mute amazement ; then Miss Glyn turned 
 crimson, and looked at her carriage, as if she felt inclined to 
 step back into it forthwith ; whilst Mrs. Mush burst out laugh- 
 ing, and shook her forefino-er at Mr. Kennedv. 
 
 Miss Glyn recovered first. Mr. Kennedy could not mean to 
 keep them both — Saint Vincent must needs be a battle-field — 
 and for Sybil's sake she would stay and expel the enemy. 
 
 "How are you, Mrs. Mush?" she inquired, with much statc- 
 liness. 
 
 " Oh ! quite well," airily replied Mrs. Mush. " We did not 
 expect this meeting, did we, Mary ? We ought to be very much 
 obliged to Mr. Kennedy ! " 
 
 " I am obliged to Mr. Kennedy," .stiffly said Miss Glyn. 
 
 Sybil looked as she felt, much confused ; but her father was 
 delightfully easy and hospitable. 
 
 " It gladdens me to see you both, ladies," he said, gayly. 
 " Poor little Pussy has been so dull alone here with me, but 
 she will cheer up now in your society." 
 
 Miss Glyn drew herself up coldly, and tried to keep Mr. 
 Kennedy at a distance; but he gently broke through these 
 gossamer trammels, and triumphantly entered the house with a 
 lady on either arm. Sybil followed, thinking : " I like Aunt 
 Glyn best, but then I shall be very sorry if Mrs. Mush goes. 
 What a pity we cannot have them both ! " 
 
 It was a pity, no doubt, for each of these ladies had good 
 points in her way. Miss Glyn was very fond of Sybil, kind, 
 and rigidly honest. Mrs. Mush was a happy, indolent, good- 
 tempered, and entertaining widow, who amused Sybil infinitely, 
 for, as she never felt dull herself, she had the happy gift of not 
 letting others feel dull in her company. But for all that, she 
 could not live in Miss Glyn's society, and Sybil only wondered 
 how long either lady would remain. Her estimation, founded on 
 past experience, varied from three days to a week. Mrs. Mush, 
 to do her justice, was all for peace and conciliation. She liked 
 the broad, comfortable look of the old abbey, and wish«d to 
 stay in it as long as she could. 
 
 " You need not mind me, my dear," she said, noticing Syb- 
 il's perplexed look, as her father devolved upon her the duty 
 of escorting the ladies to their respective apartments. " Ju*t
 
 20 sybil's second love. 
 
 show me the door of my room, and I shall soon make myself 
 comfortable with a nap — no breakfast like that." 
 
 Sybil gave her a grateful look, but Miss Glyn took the con- 
 cession as her due, and entered her room with considerable 
 stiffness of bearing. She looked around her, nodded her appro- 
 bation, and said briefly, 
 
 " I see that a month hence I shall have roses looking in at 
 my window." 
 
 " We have roses everywhere," heedlessly said Sybil ; " Mrs. 
 Mush has them, too." 
 
 " But I do not suppose Mrs. Mush means to wait for their 
 blooming," coldly replied Miss Glyn ; " indeed, I shall simply 
 consider it out of the question. This seems a very rambling 
 sort of house, Sybil." 
 
 " It is very pleasant, aunt. "Will you look over it ? " 
 
 Miss Glyn, being of a quick and warm temper, piqued 
 herself on the opposite attributes of composure and calmness. 
 With a lofty smile, she answered that there was plenty of time 
 to see the house. 
 
 " It is very comfortable, aunt," persisted Sybil, " and if that 
 horrid Mr. Smith would only go away, I should think it fault- 
 less now." 
 
 Miss Glyn paused in the act of untying her bonnet-strings 
 to ask " who Mr. Smith was." 
 
 " Oh ! such a dreadful vulgar man, who doesn't aspirate the 
 letter H, and who came here the other day with a carpet-bag." 
 
 " A carpet-bag ! " exclaimed Miss Glyn, amazed ; " why did 
 he not bring a trunk ? " 
 
 " I dare say because he has nothing to put into one, poor 
 man," replied Sybil, with a touch of pity. 
 
 Miss Glyn's amazement became indignation. She was sur- 
 prised, she confessed, that Mr. Kennedy asked such a person. 
 Sybil nodded mysteriously, and fancied that Mr. Smith had 
 come unasked. 
 
 " And Mr. Kenncdv tolerates the liberty ! " exclaimed Miss 
 Glyn ; " absurd ! " 
 
 And Miss Glyn kindly resolved to put down Mr. Smith 
 without loss of time. 
 
 Mrs. Mush might require the restorative of a nap before she 
 could show herself again, but Miss Glyn, who labored under no 
 such necessity, was soon ready to accompany her niece down- 
 Btaire, and take a freshening cup of tea.
 
 Sybil's second love. 21 
 
 " Miss Glyn, Mr. Smith," said Mr. Kennedy in a slight 
 careless tone. 
 
 Miss Glyn stared at Mr. Smith, who returned the stare with 
 interest, and war was declared forthwith. 
 
 Miss Glyn had secretly taken ohjection to Mr. Smith's car- 
 pet-hag, which she had not seen, and Mr. Smith now found 
 fault with the pink ribhons on her cap, which he saw. So, while 
 Miss Glyn drank her tea, and ignored him, he squared his el- 
 bows on the table, and stared at her with a sneer. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy, who saw toward which end matters were 
 progressing, succeeded in taking him away, by suggesting a 
 visit to the mill ; but a rolling stone only acquires new impetus 
 when it is momentarily checked in its downward course. So it 
 proved with Mr. Smith's silent wrath. 
 
 When Miss Glyn had taken her tea, she was equal to a sur- 
 vey of the house. It was slow, minute, and somewhat cen- 
 sorious. 
 
 "I don't like that goggle-eyed French maid ofyonrs," she 
 said to Sybil ; " and it is ridiculous to have a man-servant called 
 Narcissus. The house would not be amiss if it were not for the 
 staircases, which are absurd ; and I don't much like the clois- 
 ter, Sybil, but I shall improve all that." 
 
 Sybil looked as she felt, a little disturbed. She much doubt- 
 ed if her father would allow Miss Glyn to improve matters in 
 Saint Vincent. But Miss Glyn had come to rule, and no more 
 doubted her power than her vocation. Indeed, there was a 
 magnanimous security about her, which showed how calmly 
 fixed was her purpose. Thus, when Mrs. Mush came down re- 
 freshed and rosy, Miss Glyn was all courtesy and condescen- 
 sion. 
 
 " Have a cup of tea, Mrs. Mush ? " she said ; " it will do you 
 a world of good." 
 
 " Thank you, Mary, I breakfasted before coming." 
 
 "Would you like to see the house, Mrs. Mush ? It might 
 amuse you." 
 
 "Oh! I have already peeped about. I like that cloister, 
 Sybil — a drowsy-looking place." 
 
 " Perhaps you would like to go and sit there — perhaps you 
 would prefer it to the garden?" persisted Miss Glyn, obstinately 
 kind and courteous; "let us have chairs in the cloister, Sybil — 
 Mrs. Mush likes it." 
 
 Mrs. Mush yielded good-humoredly to Miss Glyn's patroni-
 
 22 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 zing ; and Sybil, pleased to see them so friendly, went and 
 fetched chairs herself; then ran up for Miss Glyn's work; then, 
 at her aunt's bidding, went for Mrs. Mnsh's ; and finally brought 
 down her own, and sat down with the two ladies in the cool 
 shady part of the cloister. 
 
 How pleasant it looked, thought Sybil, with its sharp shade 
 and sunshine, and the old gray cross, and the high slender 
 grasses that shot from every cranny, and the yellow wall-flowers 
 that grew on the edge of the roof, and danced all golden and 
 sunlit on the blue sky. Oh ! if Aunt Glyn and Mrs. Mush could 
 only agree and remain both in Saint Vincent. Mr. Kennedy, who 
 suddenly entered the cloister, also thought it was very pleasant 
 to see his daughter sitting with ladies whose society could not 
 but improve her, and engaged in some of those feminine tasks 
 which she was rather prone to neglect, for reading in the library 
 or for long rambles in- the grounds. How pretty and demure 
 she looked thus, with her basket of wools by her side, and her 
 nimble fingers scattering roses on her canvas. He could not 
 help contrasting her with Miss Glyn and Mrs. Mush : one sat 
 upright in her chair, stitching with the vigorous determination 
 of getting through her work ; the other leaned back, and wield- 
 ed her needle as if she felt its weight. Sybil alone was quick, 
 without effort, and worked as if her task could neither fatigue 
 nor Aveary her. He sat down on the lowest step of the cross, 
 and looked at her admiringly-; and Mr. Smith, who also came 
 up, sat near him, and stretched his long legs, and looked at Miss 
 Glyn's pink cap with unmitigated aversion. 
 
 " What a pretty pattern that is, Pussy," said Mr. Kennedy, 
 glancing at his daughter's work. 
 
 " It is a beautiful pattern," said Sybil. " Blanche gave it 
 to me." 
 
 " Blanche ! — who is Blanche ? " sharply asked Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Oh ! a paragon teacher, whom Pussy raves about," an- 
 swered Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 " She is a paragon," emphatically said Sybil. 
 
 " Very handsome, of course 2 " 
 
 " Handsome ! — beautiful." 
 
 " Very intellectual and accomplished ? " 
 
 Sybil's pretty lips smiled, as much as to say, " I should 
 tnink so." 
 
 " And amiable?" 
 
 " The sweetest, best, and dearest creature that ever breathed,"
 
 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 25 
 
 Now, whilst Mrs. Mush was philosophizing;, and Mr. Ken- 
 nedy was listening to that fluent lady, the war was going on be- 
 tween Miss Glyn and Mr. Smith. 
 
 Miss Glyn resumed hostilities by staring; at Mr. Smith, then 
 by ignoring him more than ever. Mr. Smith, though not a re- 
 fined man, was a sensitive one; and as his objection to Miss 
 Glyn's cap became more bitter and troublesome, he thought 
 proper to join in the conversation, and express it. He did so, 
 just as Sybil returned to the cloister with the shade of wool she 
 had made-believe to go and fetch. 
 
 "Have you ever been in Yorkshire, Miss?" said Mr. Smith, 
 addressing Sybil. 
 
 Sybil coolly denied all knowledge of Yorkshire. 
 
 " The girls are very fond of pink down in those parts," said 
 Mr. Smith. 
 
 Miss Glyn shook the streamers of her cap in defiance, and 
 went on stitching. 
 
 " But then they're young," persisted Mr. Smith. 
 
 Miss Glyn threaded her needle, and smiled in scorn. She 
 did not care a pin about her age. 
 
 " Old girls never wear pink down there," persisted Mr. 
 Smith. 
 
 Miss Glyn put down her work, and looked up in mute in 
 dignation. She had been called " an old girl " in her brother 
 in-law's house. 
 
 "Mr. Kennedy," she said, rising slowly, "the company you 
 keep is not much to my taste. Do not wonder if I decline 
 remaining in your house." 
 
 " Mr. Smith, you must apologize," peremptorily said Mr. 
 Kennedy. 
 
 "I shall do no such thing," replied Mr. Smith, sullenly. 
 " Why did she stare at me ? " 
 
 " I shall accept of no apology," calmly said Miss Glyn, fold- 
 ing up her work — " I require none ; but I object to the com- 
 pany you keep, Mr. Kennedy." 
 
 She slowly walked away, followed by Sybil, who vainly 
 endeavored to pacify her. Mr. Kennedy, who went after them 
 also, did his best in vain. Mr. Smith remained behind, biting 
 his nails, and looking at Mrs. Mush with all the might of his 
 black eyes. 
 
 "She's mad, you know," he said at length ; and having de- 
 livered this oracular speech, he too walked off. 
 2
 
 26 sybil's second love. 
 
 Nothing — no prayer, no argument — could move Miss Glyn 
 from her purpose. 
 
 "I am not angry with you, Mr. Kennedy," she magnani- 
 mously said ; " but if you cannot help having those foolish, 
 low-bred people about you, I can help being in their company. ' 
 
 " Mary, Smith shall apologize," began Mr. Kennedy ; but 
 Miss Glyn interrupted him — 
 
 " You do not suppose I am so absurd as to require the 
 creature's apology ? " she said — " no, no ; but I do wonder you 
 keep him about you. Suppose, even, you owe him money, why 
 don't you pay him, and get rid of him ? And even if you can- 
 not, you need not give him board and lodging ; and suppose 
 you choose to give him board and lodging, you can keep him at 
 a distance." 
 
 Now if Miss Glyn expected either denial or assent to these 
 remarks, she was disappointed. Mr. Kennedy coldly regretted 
 she was not to be persuaded, and left her. After this Sybil's 
 tears and entreaties proved wholly unavailing. Miss Glyn sat 
 in her room with her bonnet on, waiting for the carriage, which 
 had to be fetched two miles off, fanning herself with her pocket- 
 handkerchief, declaring she was quite cool, quite calm, and not 
 the least angry, though it was absurd to suppose she would 
 tolerate Mr. Smith's impertinence. 
 
 When the carriage came at length, and two hours elapsed 
 before Narcisse returned with it, Miss Glyn took her leave with 
 the stateliness of an ambassador going away before a declara- 
 tion of war between two rival powers, and in true courtly and 
 diplomatic language assured her brother-in-law that her affection 
 and regard for him were as strong as ever. Mr. Kennedy heard 
 her civilly, bade her a polite adieu, but did not press her to prom- 
 ise a speedy return. Sybil noticed it, and said a little anx- 
 iously, as her aunt's carriage drove away, 
 
 "Aunt has promised to come back." 
 
 "So much the better, my dear," calmly said Mr. Kennedy; 
 and thus Mr. Smith virtually expelled Miss Glyn, and Mrs. 
 Mush remained mistress of the field, without having so much as 
 struck a blow. 
 
 "I suppose that horrid man will never go away," thought 
 Sybil; but in this she was mistaken, though the manner of his 
 going took her as much by surprise as that of his arrival.
 
 Sybil's second love. 27 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 " Mas. Mush, I have found out who Mr. Smith is," eagerly 
 said Sybil. 
 
 Mrs. Mush, who was comfortably seated in the garden read- 
 ing her paper, and enjoying the beauty and the freshness of the 
 morning, turned round and said composedly — 
 
 " Indeed ! " but she put no question. 
 
 Sybil felt proyoked. These calm ways of Mrs. Mush's pro- 
 voked her; they kept her at a greater distance than all Miss 
 Glyn's sternness. You can brave or soften wrath ; you cannot 
 conquer indifference — least of all, that which is grafted on 
 prudence. It may be that at heart Mrs. Mush was just as inquis- 
 itive as Sybil concerning the enigmatic Mr. Smith ; but Mrs. 
 Mush liked Saint Vincent, and its master, and Sybil ; she liked, 
 too, the thought of having at last found a resting-place ; for Mrs. 
 Mush was poor, and for the last fifteen years had been visiting 
 her friends — so all these reasons combined kept her silent, and 
 that silence and discretion combined rendered her highly ac- 
 ceptable to Mr. Kennedy. Sybil, indeed, was any thing but 
 charmed with this reserve, but in the present instance the wish 
 of imparting her discovery proved stronger than her annoyance 
 at Mrs. Mush's want of curiosity. 
 
 "Yes," she said, triumphantly, " I know who Mr. Smith is — 
 he is the old man of the sea." 
 
 " What put that into your 'ead, Miss ? " asked a sharp voice 
 behind her. 
 
 Sybil turned round in some confusion, and saw the long 
 lanky figure of Mr. Smith emerging from behind some tall shrubs. 
 
 " I suppose young ladies think everybody old," resume' 1 Mr. 
 Smith, more erood-humoredly — he was not familiar with the 
 Arabian Nights — " but what have I to do with the sea '. " 
 
 " Oh ! nothing," hastily said Svbil. " It was my nonsense, 
 Mr. Smith." 
 
 "Just so," said Mr. Smith, walking away. "Girls live on 
 nonsense, I do believe." 
 
 Sybil remained rather abashed at this reproof, and resolved 
 to be veiy stately and dignified with Mr. Smith at dinner, and 
 keep him at a distance once for all. She was spared the 
 trouble of doing so. Mr. Smith did not appear at dinner. He 
 was looked for in his room, at the mill, in the grounds, in Saint
 
 28 SYBIL S SECOND LOYE. 
 
 Yincent even, but Mr. Smith had vanished. Mr. Kennedy 
 seemed much perturbed at his disappearance, especially when it 
 was discovered that his carpet-bag too was gone, but he said 
 nothing. The next morning, however, when Sybil came down 
 to breakfast, she learned from Mrs. Mush that Mr. Kennedy had 
 left at five o'clock, without saying where he was going or when 
 he would return. 
 
 " But he has three gentlemen coming to dinner ! " incredu- 
 lously exclaimed Sybil. 
 
 Mrs. Mush informed her that Mr. Kennedy had sent an 
 apology. 
 
 " That horrid Mr. Smith is the cause of it," indignantly cried 
 Sybil. 
 
 " I believe that is the postman," said Mrs. Mush, looking 
 out of that dining-room window which commanded a view of 
 the gate. 
 
 Sybil jumped out, and forgot Mr. Smith and her wrongs, for 
 suppose the postman should bring her a letter from Blanche 
 Cains. She flew out of the room. In a second she was at the 
 gate, and Mrs. Mush, who stood in the window watching her, 
 saw her snatch the letter from the slow postman's hand, then 
 turn round, flushed and triumphant, and hold it aloft like a 
 prize, then run away with it and vanish in the garden. 
 
 " Happy little simpleton," thought Mrs. Mush, with a smile 
 and a sigh. 
 
 And Sybil was happy ; her affections were warm and ardent, 
 and these letters were events in her young life. She could not 
 have read them with any one by, and she knew that every one, 
 Mrs. Mush as well as the rest, laughed at her passion for Blanche 
 Cains. She did not care, not she, but still it was pleasanter to 
 be alone, and to feel no unkind or skeptical glance watching 
 her. Far away from both garden and abbey, she now sought 
 in the grounds a spot both solitary and congenial : a grassy hol- 
 low sheltered from the north wind by trees which the sea-blast 
 had stunted and warped from their birth, and to the west facing 
 the broad glassy ocean, which spread for miles and miles away. 
 Here Sybil often brought her troubles and her joys, and here 
 she now flung herself breathless and panting on the dewy grass, 
 and with a beating heart read the letter of her friend. Miss 
 Cains, though the object of a romantic friendship, was not a ro- 
 mantic young lady, and never indulged herself or her friend in 
 romantic epistles. Her letter ran thus :
 
 sybil's second love. 29 
 
 "Dear Sybil, 
 " This must not be a long scribble. I am wretched, that's 
 all, and Miss Blunt worries me to death. I am sick of life at 
 times, aud at others I vow I will go through it. You writo 
 very pretty letters, but. I haven't the time to do it. I say again 
 that I am sick of life, which is more than being bored with a 
 Mr. Smith. Why don't you make Mr. Kennedy take him away 
 — I would. I find this is not to be a letter, but a note. I have 
 been interrupted seven times since I began, and must leave off. 
 I wish I had an ark like Noah's dove, but I have been cast 
 upon this horrible Blunt wilderness, and must bear my lot. 
 Good-by. God bless you, dearest, and write often. Your let- 
 ters are my only comfort. 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 " Blanche Cains." 
 
 Miss Cains wrote a large, bold hand, and these few lines 
 covered the four pages of her note paper. 
 
 "Poor dear Blanche!" thought Sybil, with a swelling 
 heart, " I must ask papa to let me have her here. He almost 
 promised it, only I cannot let her have aunt's room. I shall give 
 her the green room near mine. I shall get it ready at once, 
 and so when papa comes back, I shall write and ask her to come 
 and give up Miss Blunt. How can they be so unkind to her ! " 
 
 But, alas ! for all planning. Sybil got the green room ready, 
 but days, weeks even, went by, and Mr. Kennedy neither wrote 
 nor came back. Sybil forgot her friend's troubles, and felt 
 alarmed and wretched. She was convinced that her father was 
 either ill or in trouble, and that Mr. Smith was at the bottom 
 of it. She said so to Mrs. Mush, who laughed at her ; but Syl>- 
 il persisted — moreover, she did not think Mrs. Mush's laugh 
 either frank or real. "Something has happened, and Mrs. 
 Mush knows of it," thought Sybil. A fact, slight in itself, con- 
 firmed this suspicion. 
 
 Now and then Mrs. Mush received an Irish paper. At first 
 she lent this paper to Sybil, but suddenly she ceased doing 8< •. 
 \Yhen Sybil asked to borrow it, Mrs. Mush coolly replied, 
 
 " My dear, newspapers are not meant for young ladies." 
 
 Now this answer would have been in character if it had been 
 uttered by Miss Glyn, a pattern of decorum, but it did not sound 
 true when coming from Mrs. Mush, who, in her free and casy 
 way, was wont to declare " that propriety had been invented by
 
 30 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 the improper people," and Sybil was incredulous. Nay more, 
 she concluded that there was something in the newspaper which 
 seriously affected her father's interests or prospects, and which 
 he, out of his great love and kindness, wished to keep from her. 
 And therefore, hearing Mrs. Mush's equivocal replies, and see- 
 ing her equivocal attitude, the poor child's fears were all con- 
 firmed, and her heart beat with that nameless terror of the un- 
 known evil, which is harder to bear than the certain and clearly- 
 seen calamity. She applied to Mrs. Mush for comfort; but 
 Mrs. Mush had none to give her, for she flatly denied the reality 
 of Sybil's troubles, and preserved the most obstinate cheer- 
 fulness. 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear," she said to her one afternoon that 
 Sybil came up to her room to inform her she was wretched, and 
 that she was sure, she was, Mr. Smith had inflicted some deadly 
 wrong on her father — " nonsense ! Do you want to get your- 
 self into a low fever by the time Mr. Kennedy comes back ? " 
 
 " I cannot help it, Mrs. Mush, I cannot be like you," almost 
 austerely replied Sybil. " I do believe you are never dull," she 
 added, reproachfully. 
 
 " Dull ! " cried Mrs. Mush, with a joyous face, and a hearty, 
 cheery laugh, that scouted the very idea. " I should think 
 not ! I like life too well to quarrel with it. I like it, and I 
 enjoy it. Of all wretched impostors, suicides are the worst, in 
 my eyes. A set of scape-graces, who run away into death. I 
 never did like ' Mornings in Churchyards,' nor « Old Mortality,' 
 nor " Gray's Elegy",' not I." 
 
 " Ah ! but we must die ! " sighed Sybil, with a wise shake 
 of her young head. 
 
 *' Just so. Therefore let us live. We are sure to die — let 
 us live, I say. I think living a noble thing — a fine thing — and 
 I take particular pleasure in it. I like the waking and being 
 alive, the^ eating and drinking — there, you are shocked — young 
 ladies neither eat nor drink, and being alive, the walking and 
 being alive ; and I like the sleeping and the dreaming too. In 
 short, it is a glorious invention ! " 
 
 " Oh ! I feel so too sometimes," said Sybil, gravely ; " but 
 you know, Mrs. Mush, life is full of disappointments." " 
 
 " Wait till you are forty-five, my dear, and then you will 
 like it rather better than you do now," gayly said Mrs. Mush. 
 
 Forty-five ! Sybil's open countenance declared she could 
 form no conception of so remote a period of life.
 
 Sybil's second love. 31 
 
 " You see, my dear," kindly continued Mrs. Mush, ' happi- 
 ness is no abstract, unchanging truth. What would make you 
 happy now, might make you wretched ten years hence. Youtli 
 is made to wish and dream, and life to deny youth's dream and 
 wishes. And thank God that it is so, else what a world of un- 
 quietness and passion and restlessness would this be. You say 
 I am never dull — I will add that I am happy ; but when I was 
 seventeen, how I would have scorned my present happiness, 
 how I would have annihilated it if I could ! Truly I may bless 
 Providence that I was denied my will at that early season, and 
 compelled to follow a road I hated — no pleasant one, my dear, 
 but a path full of briers, and where many a time I stopped foot- 
 sore and bleeding." 
 
 " Oh ! do tell me all about it, Mrs. Mush," cried Sybil, who 
 had heard that Mrs. Mush had had a love-story, and been com- 
 pelled to many a man she did not like. 
 
 " No, my dear, it would do you no good. Second-hand 
 experience avails naught. Besides, I disapprove of making 
 young things sad and wise before their time. You have a ten- 
 dency that way I do not like at all. You are always poring 
 over books — I never read." 
 
 " Never, Mrs. Mush ? " 
 
 " I never read books — no, thank Heaven ! What are books ? 
 — words. Well, I can have words without books. Besides, 
 what is there to read ? — poetry, novels, ethics, history, ect. My 
 dear, I have poetry when I open my window ; a novel when I 
 watch a flirtation ; philosophy when I sit in my chair and muse ; 
 and history when I take up the newspaper. The newspaper, 
 my dear, is simply the modern epic ; there is every thing in it 
 — murder, love, revenge, treason too, and high and low life. 
 Oh ! I like it amazingly." 
 
 " The newspaper is all about murders and accidents," pet- 
 tishly said Sybil. 
 
 "Well, I do not like accidents," replied Mrs. Mush ; "there 
 is no meaning in them ; but," she added, confidentially, " I 
 dearly like a murder. Of course I do not wish for murders," 
 she continued, in the tone of resigned virtue; "but when there 
 is one, why, I like it. It is human nature. And then there is 
 a thought that haunts me — it is of the murderer, whose hand is 
 free from guilt, and has never had, and will never have, but 
 might have the red stain. Oh ! you may open your eyes till 
 they grow round again with amazement. It is all very well tor
 
 32 Sybil's second love. 
 
 you to shudder with horror because that man has committed a 
 murder. I shudder to think how many there are around me 
 who would murder if they could, or if they were tempted. 
 That unknown world which each man bears within him is a 
 terrible thing, let me tell you. To think that if this affectionate 
 papa had a little money less, he would turn wild and drown 
 his children, as we drown kittens, because they are in the way ; 
 or to imagine yon henpecked husband jealous as an Othello, 
 and as pitiless. I tell you, child, there is a terrible philosophy 
 in it." 
 
 Sybil began to feel nervous and uncomfortable at Mrs. 
 Mush's language. Moreover, that lady's fluency produced its 
 usual effect — it overpowered her. Mrs. Mush was not one of 
 those pitiless talkers who strangle their neighbor's speech in its 
 very birth ; but, as Mrs. Glyn said, " she circumvented you." 
 And so she did ; she had something to say on every topic, and 
 you could not start one, but Mrs. Mush was ready to take hold 
 of it and ride her hobby, dragging you after her through thick 
 and thin. The philosophic country she was now traversing was 
 dreary in the extreme to Sybil. She took no pleasure in pos- 
 sible murderers, and shuddered at the mere suggestion. Be- 
 sides, she wanted comfort, and this was any thing but consola- 
 tory. So with a sigh she said, 
 
 " I think I shall go and air papa's room ; perhaps he may 
 come to-night, you know." 
 
 " Ay, do, my dear." 
 
 Sybil went ; but she felt nervous and unhappy. Suppose 
 Mr. Smith were one of those possible murderers Mrs. Mush had 
 suggested, and suppose her father had been made away with by 
 that vulgar man with the sullen black eyes. Her heart so sick- 
 ened at the thought, that she could not endure to remain in 
 Mr. Kennedy's room — she left it precipitately, and went back to 
 Mrs. Mush's ; but the room was empty, aud Sybil heard Mrs. 
 Mush talking to Narcisse in the garden. Her heart beat, a 
 sudden temptation came over her. She looked round eagerly 
 — one of Mrs. Mush's Irish papers lay on the chair. Sybil did 
 not pause to think about the right or wrong of her actions ; 
 with a trembling hand, and sense of guilt and disobedience, 
 she seized the Moonagh Herald, and glanced eagerly over its 
 columns. Her heart gave a great throb as in the very midst of 
 a leader she read these words : " The evidence of Mr. James 
 Kennedy is significant, though mysterious. We feel sure, in-
 
 Sybil's second love. 33 
 
 deed, that the unfortunate Mr. Dermot — " Sybil read no more, 
 for Mrs. Mush, who now came in, took the paper out of her 
 hand. 
 
 " So you do like the newspapers after all ? " said the elder 
 lady. 
 
 Their eyes met — eager and searching on one side, cool and 
 guarded on the other. 
 
 " Mrs. Mush ! " cried Sybil, too much agitated to feel con- 
 fused at being thus detected, " what is it ? — tell me ? — what can 
 it be?" 
 
 " My dear, what can you mean ? " composedly asked Mrs. 
 Mush. 
 
 " You know," excitedly said Sybil, " there is something 
 dreadful about that Mr. Smith and my father. I am sure that 
 Mr. Smith is a thief, who has been victimizing papa and that 
 poor Mr. Dermot." 
 
 " There, there," soothingly said Mrs. Mush. 
 
 " A thief, if he is not worse," pursued Sybil ; " why did the 
 newspapers say the ' unfortunate Mr. Dermot ? ' " 
 
 " Pussy, Pussy," said a cheer}' voice in the garden below. 
 
 Sybil flew to the window, and saw her father's handsome 
 face looking up at her from below. In a moment she was out 
 of the room, down the stairs, and in his arms, hugging him 
 with all her might, and scarcely able to speak for joyT 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "Oh! why did you not write ?" she cried ; "now confess, 
 it was that horrid Mr. Smith would not let yon." 
 
 "Poor Mr. Smith," gaylysaid Mr. Kennedy; "why, his last 
 words were, ' His respects to miss.' " 
 
 "Pity there was no letter II to leave out," saucily said 
 Sybil ; " what was it he did to Mr. Dermot ? " 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy's face assumed a vacant expression. 
 
 " Dermid ! " he repeated, " what Dermid ? " 
 
 " Dermot — that Mr. Dermot he was raving about." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy laughed. 
 
 "Ask him when he comes here," he said, "I dare say ho 
 will tell you." 
 
 9*
 
 34 sybil's second love. 
 
 Sybil's face Fell. 
 
 "Then lie is coming ajrain?" slie said. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy did not answer this. 
 
 " How has she behaved, Mrs. Mush ? " he asked, addressing 
 that lady, who now joined them. 
 
 " She has fretted, Mr. Kennedy." 
 
 " Has she ? " and Mr. Kennedy looked down at Sybil with a 
 fondness which might ever be in his heart, but was not always 
 in his looks. He seemed unusually tender of his little daughter 
 this afternoon. She kept close to him, as if she feared he 
 would escape her again, and he let her lock her arms within his, 
 and hang upon him without demur. 
 
 "But how did you come home?" suddenly asked Sybil, 
 struck with the fact that her father seemed to have dropped 
 from the clouds ; " not on foot, of course ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " playfully asked Mr. Kennedy ; " in the novels 
 I read when I "was a boy, the hero was always on foot. Some- 
 times he carried a knapsack. I do not, which is an improve- 
 ment, you see." 
 
 Sybil saw that her father had come on foot on purpose, and 
 that he was not to be questioned concerning the spot where he 
 had been all the time he was away. 
 
 This might be the case, or it might not, for during dinner- 
 time Mr. Kennedy informed the ladies that he had been visiting 
 the south of France. 
 
 " With Mr. Smith ? " said Sybil. 
 
 "Pussy, you think too much of Mr. Smith. If he but knew 
 it he would grow quite vain. No, I was not with Mr. Smith, 
 who went off to England, I believe, but I shall not fail telling 
 him, when I write, how much he is in your thoughts." 
 
 Sybil pouted and tossed her head, but her father drew her 
 on his knee, and pacified her with a kiss. 
 
 Dinner was over. Mr. Kennedy was in excellent spirits. 
 This seemed the proper time for preferring a request that lay 
 at Sybil's heart. So, in her most persuasive accents she said, 
 
 " Dear Blanche is so unhappy at the school. I had a letter 
 from her the day you left. It made me so angry." 
 " What ! angry with your angelic friend ? " 
 " Oh ! " cried Sybil, amazed at the suggestion, " no, but with 
 Miss Blunt, who is so ill-natured." 
 
 " No rebellion, Pussy. The angelic Blanche does not state 
 the case fairly, IT be bound."
 
 SYBIL'S SECOND LOVE. 35 
 
 " Indeed she does — and I can ask lier to come and sec me, 
 can I not ? " added Sybil. 
 
 "No," almost sharply replied her father, and, putting her 
 down, he rose and left the room. 
 
 Sybil felt much inclined to cry. 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Mush," she cried, " I am miserable ! ' ' 
 
 " What ! with your father home safe and sound? " 
 
 " Why, yes, I ought to be happy, I know, but I do love 
 Blanche," said Sybil, with tears in her eyes ; " and every one 
 is against her, even papa, who has never seen her. I do believe 
 I shall never see her again, and I have not even her photo- 
 graph." 
 
 " Oh ! to be sure, there would be comfort in that." 
 
 " I wish I knew how to paint ! " continued Sybil with a sigh. 
 
 " And so you do, you little goose ! " 
 
 " Indeed no, Mrs. Mush." 
 
 " My dear, we are all painters, though sometimes we do not 
 know it. I tell you we paint daily, from morning till night. 
 We are landscape painters and historical painters, from Adam 
 and Eve in the garden, down to the account of the last battle. 
 Why, we cannot hear a thing mentionod, but we paint it straight. 
 Conceive, if you can, a world without images — a void awful as 
 space, still as death. Why, even that is an image — Milton's 
 chaos. Why, I could not live a human life, if I had not that 
 medium between myself and the outer world. So, I am a painter, 
 and you are a painter too." 
 
 " Well," confidentially said Sybil, " I do see her face, when 
 I shut my eyes, so. Oh ! I see it now quite plain, Mrs. Mush." 
 "Of course you do, and the dimple in her chin, and the 
 wave in her hair." 
 
 " Ah ! you are quizzing me now ; and I am so unhappy ! I 
 think I shall go and write to her." 
 
 " Do, my dear, it will be miserable, but you will like it." 
 Sybil went up to her room; but as she passed the door of 
 the room she had destined to her friend, she could not resist 
 the temptation of entering it. It was a low large room, fur- 
 nished in a heavy style, that gave it a sober and quiet look. Its 
 two deep windows, around which a vine hung outside in green 
 festoons, let in but little light, and that little was absorbed by 
 the gloomy furniture. Green damask curtains fell from the ceil- 
 ing to the floor in massive folds around the lofty bed, hence the 
 room had received its name.
 
 36 Sybil's secoxd loye. 
 
 It was a melancholy apartment enough, but it was more ro- 
 mantic than the other rooms, and Sybil had decreed that it 
 should be Blanche's. It was also a corner room, and either of 
 its two windows afforded a different prospect. 
 
 " She will like this," thought Sybil, going to one, and open- 
 ing it to lean out on the wide stone ledge ; " for she must come 
 — she must !" 
 
 Her eye wandered with admiration over the broad expanse 
 of country, ending in a cloudy horizon. It was a vast and mel- 
 ancholy landscape, but it was very fine in the glow of the set- 
 ting sun. 
 
 "Blanche will dream here," thought Sybil, " and she will 
 work here." 
 
 She opened the other window, and looked down at the small 
 old-fashioned garden, whence the scent of roses and mignonette 
 rose very sweetly on the air. 
 
 " I shall lend her Dicky," thought Sybil. " She can hang 
 his cage here ; but as she does not like the trouble of birds, I 
 shall come and feed Dicky myself every morning. Poor old 
 Dicky ! I wonder if he will like it ? " 
 
 This was a very doubtful question, and whilst Sybil was 
 turning it over, her father pushed open the door, and" entered 
 the room unheard, startling her with a " Pussy " in her ear, and 
 a hand laid upon her shoulder. 
 
 Sybil looked around with a smile, which another smile on 
 his handsome face kindly answered. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" he asked; "dreaming as 
 usual, Pussy ? " 
 
 Pussy nodded. 
 
 "Well, little housekeeper, I want you to get this room read v 
 for to-nio-ht." 
 
 " Blanche is coming ! " cried Sybil. 
 
 " Blanche ! I tell you, child, I do not want that young lady." 
 
 " But it is Blanche's room," saucily said Sybil. " I have 
 given it to her." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy laughed. 
 
 " The peerless Blanche must do without it, Pussy. I want 
 the green room for your Uncle Edward." 
 
 Sybil raised to her father's face a look of much amazement 
 Never before that day had she heard of the existence of her 
 Uncle Edward. When she had questioned her father about his 
 family, he had ever replied, half in earnest, half in jest.
 
 steil's second love. 37 
 
 " I am a mushroom, Pussy ; aud you know bow mushrooms 
 grow — anywhere aud anyhow." 
 
 Miss Glyn had not been more communicative. She had 
 spoken of the Glyns, their ancient descent and former greatness, 
 but concerning the Kennedys sbe had been mute ; and Mrs. 
 Mush, when questioned, had wandered into a philosophic flight, 
 and Sybil's inner conclusion had been that her father was a 
 foundling, and had no family at all. Great, therefore, was her 
 surprise to hear of the existence of this new brother. She 
 longed to question, but did not dare to do so. Mr. Kennedy 
 was a kind and indulgent father ; his manners, his countenance, 
 were genial and open ; he looked frank amongst men ; but for 
 all that few people knew what James Kennedy felt, thought, or 
 did. Thus, though Pussy was an indulged and tenderly-loved 
 daughter, she now hesitatingly ventured on a timid, 
 
 " And must your brother, my uncle, have this room ? " 
 
 " Yes, Pussy, he must." 
 
 "Papa," more daringly said Sybil, "what is mv Uncle 
 Edward like?" 
 
 " You will see him this evening, child," he carelessly replied. 
 
 " But you might tell me something about him ; if you stim- 
 ulate my curiosity, I shall go wild, and be obliged to ask my 
 new uncle all about himself, and that will be awkward, will it 
 not?" 
 
 Mr. Kennedy laughed, and pinched his daughter's cheek, 
 but he allowed her curiosity to remain unsatisfied, for he walked 
 out of the room without a word. Sybil felt half wild with 
 curiosity, and at once ran up to Mrs. Mush. She entered that 
 lady's room in a breathless state, and exclaimed, in her quick, 
 impulsive way, 
 
 " Mrs. Mush, what shall / do ? " 
 
 " I do not at all know, my dear," answered Mrs. Mush 
 airily ; " you may be going up in a balloon, for all I can 1011." 
 
 " Oh ! dear, Mrs. Mush, do not be quizzing me." 
 
 " My love, I am not quizzing, but you look fit for a pair of 
 wings. And a very pretty little Psyche you would make, lot me 
 tell you." 
 
 Sybil blushed, and as she dearly liked admiration, and as 
 Mrs. Mush evidently admired her just then, she gave that lady a 
 gracious and benignant look, then resumed, more sedately : 
 
 " Mrs. Mush, there is an uncle of mine coming to-night, and 
 1 never heard about him before the last ten minutes."
 
 38 Sybil's second love. 
 
 " Did you not ? " 
 
 " No — never. Did you ? " 
 
 Mrs. Mush paused before she answered. 
 
 " My love, I have a wretched memory." 
 
 "lam quite bewildered," continued Sybil ; " it seems incred 
 ible to find out new relations so. I had no suspicion of it, and 
 lo and behold, there is an uncle ! " 
 
 " Well, my dear, make much of him when you get him. 
 Relations are another beautiful invention — the result of marriage, 
 and that is a living miracle in my eyes. Who ever dreamed of 
 two people living together, unless they are man and wife, or re- 
 lated by blood ? Friendship is all very fine, but there must be 
 blood." 
 
 " But he is quite a stranger to me," argued Sybil, unable to 
 lose this view of the question. " I cannot think of him as an 
 uncle, and I did hope you would give me some account of him." 
 
 " My dear, no one knows much of your father's family. He 
 came and married my cousin, but he was like a romantic bride- 
 groom in a ballad — he came all alone, and I will add that he 
 was not fond of answering questions concerning his pedigree." 
 
 " And he is to have Blanche's room ! " indignantly said Sybil. 
 
 " Oh ! dear, that is very bad." 
 
 " But he shall not have Dicky." 
 
 " That will be a severe punishment, indeed ! " 
 
 " Mrs. Mush, I shall dislike him." 
 
 Mrs. Mush had no doubt about it; this unexpected agree- 
 ment soothed Sybil's feelings considerably, and she had the 
 green room prepared for her uncle with tolerable equanimity. 
 She was even lively and cheerful, and if the truth must be told, 
 extremely inquisitive and anxious when night came on. But 
 after being vexed at his existence, Sybil was doomed to be 
 vexed at her uncle's non-appearance. The whole family sat up 
 till twelve in vain — Mr. Kennedy's brother did not come. 
 
 " I shall sit up," said Mr. Kennedy, " but you may go to 
 bed, Pussy." 
 
 Pussy obeyed, but she slept indifferently that night. Every 
 hour she kept starting up, thinking she heard a loud knock at 
 the gate, and even a strange step firm and strong up the staircase. 
 
 " Has uncle arrived ? " cried Sybil, when she met her father 
 the next morning. 
 
 " No," he coldly replied ; and as he turned away, Sybil saw 
 that he looked harassed and worn.
 
 sybil's second love. 39 
 
 She felt amazed. She thought, she hoped that her uncle 
 would arrive in the course of the day, and relieve her father 
 from his anxiety — but he did not; nor did he come the next 
 day, nor the next either. 
 
 Sybil got vexed and annoyed. The constant expectation 
 worked her up into a fever. To her father she could not speak, 
 for he would net tolerate the subject ; and Mrs. Mush had no 
 comfort to give her. 
 
 " My dear," she said gayly, " there are beings whose exist- 
 ence is confined to our imagination. It is there they have a 
 local habitation and a name. James Keunedy may have 
 dreamed he had a brother, or he may have dreamed he spoke to 
 you about such a person. I believe there is a philosophic sys- 
 tem according to which there is no such thing as substance, but 
 every thing lies in appearance. Who knows but this invisible 
 uncle of yours may be part and parcel of that philosophy ? " 
 
 Now, there was something in this speech, or, rather, in the 
 tone and look with which it was uttered, that struck Sybil. 
 However paradoxical Mrs. Mush's flights might be, she had an 
 Irish vehemence of manner that bore with it the conviction of 
 her earnestness. She might not think five minutes later, as she 
 thought then ; but whilst she spoke, it was her real sentiments 
 that she uttered. Now it seemed to Sybil that these fantastic 
 remarks about her Uncle Edward's forming part of this unsub- 
 stantial philosophy, w r ere uttered rather to say something, than 
 because Mrs. Mush had any thing to say. 
 
 " Mrs. Mush," she said, very earnestly, " have you not been 
 struck with papa's looks these last few days ? " 
 
 " How so ? " slowly asked Mrs. Mush. 
 
 "I mean with his angry looks, Mrs. Mush. I am afraid he 
 has lost money. And I do believe that Mr. Smith is at the 
 bottom of it." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" slowly said Mrs. Mush, and she gazed 
 out of the window on the green landscape and blue sky, and 
 stood thus apparently in deep abstraction; but it seemed t>> 
 Sybil especially for the purpose that their looks should not 
 meet. 
 
 Sybil's heart began to beat. Ever since he had spoken of 
 her uncle's coming, her father had been an altered man. He 
 had been restless, anxious, and irritable. There had been a 
 change too over Mrs. Mush, and, as it seemed to Sybil, a Becret 
 quarrel between that lady and her father. Moreover, when-
 
 40 Sybil's second love. 
 
 ever Sybil attacked the absent Mr. Smith, and laid any blame to 
 him, Mrs. Mush took his part. Arid, indeed, Sybil's fancies, 
 when they took that direction, were of the strangest kind. 
 
 " Mrs. Mush," she said to her one morning, just after the 
 postman had brought in a packet of letters, which made her 
 father look very grave, " I know why my Uncle Edward docs 
 not come — he stays to watch Mr. Smith." 
 
 " To watch Mr. Smith, indeed ! " said Mrs. Mush, in rather 
 an odd tone ; " why, your uncle is coming to-night." 
 
 Sybil looked incredulous. 
 
 " Mrs. Mush," she said, " I do not believe it ; besides I am 
 tired of telling Denise to make his bed." 
 
 " My dear, Denise must make it once more. Mr. Kennedy 
 will have him in the green room, though mine would do very 
 well. Ah ! I forgot to tell you that I am going away to-day. 
 Mrs. Steele wants me." 
 
 " You are going away, and Mrs. Steele wants you ? " ex- 
 claimed Sybil, all amazed ; " and who is Mrs. Steele ?" 
 
 " My dear, you have heard me mention her again and 
 again; but I suppose you mean, what is she like? Well, my 
 dear, Mrs. Steele is like her house, and her house is like her. 
 It is large and sensible, and every thing in it is substantial, pre- 
 cise, and good. Her clocks go as well as the sun ; and Mrs. 
 Steele thinks, though she does not say so, that they go rather 
 better. Then she is such a woman for intellect and logic. The 
 last time I called I found her catechising Sarah the housemaid 
 on her most imprudent flirtation with the footman. ' Now let 
 us argue like rational beings,' she said — it was quite beautiful 
 to hear her." 
 
 " But, Mrs. Mush, what does she want you for?" 
 
 " My dear, I will tell you in strict confidence — Mrs. Steele 
 wants to improve me! Mrs. Steele has improved all her ac- 
 quaintances, and has no one left to keep her hand in. She has 
 a daughter to be sure, but who would think of improving Ade- 
 lina Steele ? She is a most admirable young woman. She is 
 so benevolent, that she belongs to the Flannel Petticoat Society, 
 and so modest that she suppresses the word petticoat. Her 
 manners have the polish of marble and the temperature of ice. 
 Then her profile is Grecian, and cannot be matched out of the 
 Vatican. In short, it is quite beautiful to sit and look at her 
 sideways." 
 
 Tears rushed to Sybil's eyes.
 
 Sybil's second love. 41 
 
 " And so," she said, " you leave me here alone with my 
 father and my new uncle, and that for people whom you laugh 
 at, Mrs. Mush." 
 
 " Child, do not hlame me," said Mrs. Mush, with a complete 
 change of manner, and speaking with some bitterness of look 
 and accent ; " your father asked me here, and gave me to un- 
 derstand that this wa3 to be a visit, not of days, or of months, 
 but of years — and now he bids me go, and go I must. I could 
 only interfere, and I must be off, and begin the old life of wan- 
 dering." 
 
 Sybil turned scarlet. 
 
 " Is it on account of my uncle that you must go ! " she ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 Mrs. Mush was silent. 
 
 " Then I shall hate him ! " cried Sybil excitedly. 
 
 " My dear, do not ; your uncle is blameless, and Mr. Ken- 
 nedy's conduct is justified by circumstances over which he has 
 no control ; but I am the victim, as the poor always are," added 
 Mrs. Mush, resuming her philosophic tone ; " and now, suppose 
 you let me pack up." 
 
 " Can I help you ? " asked Sybil, rather disconsolately. 
 
 " No, my dear, thank you. You had better go and see that 
 your uncle's room is aired properly. " 
 
 " It has been aired this fortnight," said Sybil impatiently ; 
 but she went, not, indeed, to see her uncle's room aired, but to 
 take a walk in the garden. 
 
 Past the sun-dial, up the steps went Sybil, into the wilder- 
 ness above, which Mr. Kennedy had had the good taste not to 
 improve. The morning was lovely ; the wild rose, the honey- 
 suckle blossomed on every hedge. A pleasant hum of insects 
 filled the fragrant air, the trees shivered in the sun, and the 
 faint roar of the sea was like music to the ear. But Sybil sat 
 down, and felt unhappy. Something was altered in Saint Vin- 
 cent since the foolish days when she found it such a dreary old 
 house. Nothing had been the same since Mr. Smith's coming. 
 He had spoiled all — the peace and beauty of the house, tho 
 happiness of its tenants. He had banished her aunt Miss Glyn, 
 he had -taken away her father, he had made Mrs. Mush myste- 
 rious and strange. And she was sure that he was at the bottom 
 of her present trouble. It was Mr. Smith who delayed her un- 
 cle's coming, who rendered her father irritable, and who caused 
 Mrs. Mush's sudden departure.
 
 42 sybil's second love. 
 
 " But I must say that my new uncle abets him," thought 
 Sybil resentfully, " and I know I shall hate him, too." 
 
 In this mood she bade Mrs. Mush farewell, and saw her 
 leave the abbey. As they embraced, Mrs. Mush said in a low, 
 pitying; tone, " Poor child ! " 
 
 " What did Mrs. Mush say ? " sharply asked her father. 
 
 Sybil, her tearful eyes fastened on the carriage that was rap- 
 idly driving away, told him. 
 
 " Let Mrs. Mush keep her pity," he scornfully said ; " you 
 want none, Pussy." 
 
 " I feel very miserable," candidly said Sybil, " if I had even 
 dear Blanche — " 
 
 " Nonsense," he interrupted, " your uncle is coming, and he 
 is worth Mrs. Mush and Miss Cains to boot." 
 
 Sybil reddened indignantly, and she thought, 
 
 "Mr. Smith sent away poor Aunt Glyn, and my new uncle 
 sends away Mrs. Mush — I know I shall hate hini ! " 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Resolved though she was to hate her uncle, Sybil none 
 the less did her best to make him comfortable. Once more 
 Denise was summoned to the green room, and over this slow 
 deputy Sybil now stood, whilst the room was being prepared 
 for its tenant. 
 
 Denise was never in a hurry, and as there really was little 
 or nothing to do, she every now and then rested from her la- 
 bor ; whilst her young mistress who took but little pleasure in 
 the task of looking on, vainly tried to stimulate her, with an 
 imploring — 
 
 " Now, Denise, do get on ! " 
 
 But slowness in all its forms was one of the attributes of 
 Denise. 
 
 " La ! " she would often say, " where 1 s the use of being in a 
 hurry ? One is sure to get on all the same." 
 
 Thanks to this satisfactory axiom, Denise proved to herself 
 that speed was needless, and never used it, howsoever great the 
 pressure upon her might be. 
 
 " There is plenty of time, mademoiselle," she said. " The
 
 Sybil's second love. 43 
 
 train comes in at six, and mademoiselle may be sure the gen- 
 tleman will not come to-day. People never do come on the 
 right day." 
 
 " I tell you, Denise, that whether my uncle comes or not, 
 the room must be ready." 
 
 Denise paused in the act of making the bed. 
 
 " Is he old ? " she asked. 
 
 " What about it, Denise ? " 
 
 " Because if he is old, we must put an extra pillow to prop 
 him up ; and if he is not, one pillow will do." 
 
 " Denise, you will drive me crazy ! Put the pillow. He is 
 sure to be old. Uncles always are old." 
 
 " I don't know that, mademoiselle. My brother's wife has 
 an uncle two years younger than she is." 
 
 " Denise ! " entreated Sybil. 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle." 
 
 " Make the bed," 
 
 " I am making the bed." 
 
 " No, Denise, you are standing still, staring at me." 
 
 " Mademoiselle has such white hands, and such pretty fin- 
 ders," admiringly said Denise. 
 
 A sound of voices below checked Sybil's impatient reply to 
 this complimentary remark. She looked out of the window 
 into the garden. She saw her father walking from beneath an 
 arched gallery of trellis-work, covered with a heavy vine, and 
 behind him on that background of green gloom suddenly ap- 
 peared the figure of a stranger clear and sunlit. He was a man 
 of thirty, tall and strongly built, He was handsome, too, 
 though he had heavy hair of a tawny hue, more remarkable 
 than becoming, and his broad forehead, and heavy eyebrows, 
 which shaded large, deep-set eyes, and, above all, his square 
 chin, and pale, firm lips, struck Sybil as formidable in their way. 
 She felt, as she looked, that a strong nature, mental and phys- 
 ical, stood before her ; and she felt "it as she saw it rapidly, for 
 as he walked by her father's side, the stranger suddenly looked 
 up and perceived her. He smiled at her blooming face looking 
 down at him from the vine-leaves, but had time to do no more. 
 
 When he turned to Mr. Kennedy with a questioning look, 
 Sybil withdrew quickly, and turned to Denise with flushed 
 face.- 
 
 " I am sure that is my uncle below," she said. " You need 
 put but one pillow, Denise."
 
 44 Sybil's second love. 
 
 " Then he is young ? " ejaculated Denise, going to the win- 
 dow. 
 
 " You need not look at him," said Sybil, shutting the win 
 dow deliberately. " Go on with the room, Denise." 
 
 Denise obeyed, and her young mistress waited till the task 
 was done ; then saw her out, closed the door, and for awhile 
 stood in doubt. Should she go down, or wait till she was sum- 
 moned. Her father's voice decided the question. 
 
 " Pussy, come down," he said. 
 
 Thus called, Sybil obeyed. She found them both waiting 
 for her just outside the house in the garden. She came toward 
 them half shy, half daring. 
 
 " Can't you look at your uncle, Pussy ? " gayly asked her 
 father. 
 
 Sybil looked up. Mr. Kennedy passed his arm around her 
 waist, and with the hand that was free he raised her blooming 
 face, so that it should meet the gaze of his brother's deep-set 
 but brilliant gray eyes. 
 
 " She is not amiss," he said. 
 
 An approving nod implied, " Certainly not." 
 
 " And clever and good." 
 
 " I believe it," said the polite uncle. 
 
 " And she is a rich girl, Ned." 
 
 Ned smiled. 
 
 " She can sing like a lark, and frisk like a kitten, and dance 
 like a fairy, and do every thing save talk sense." 
 
 Sybil's pretty lip pouted, but her father only pinched her 
 cheek, and said carelessly, 
 
 " Never mind, child ; Edward would have found that out 
 very soon." 
 
 " I am sure, Mr. Kennedy," began Sybil. 
 
 Her father interrupted her rather shortly. 
 
 " Uncle Edward, Pussy," he corrected, " I am Mr. Ken- 
 nedy, and we can't have two. And now, talk sense to him if 
 you can, and keep him company, for I am going oft' to Saint 
 Vincent, and will not be back till night. You must both dine 
 without me." 
 
 Sybil looked so dismayed at the duties thus laid upon her, 
 that her uncle laughed, and said gayly, 
 
 " Never mind, my dear, I shall keep you company." 
 
 His voice was rich, warm, and pleasant. A genial voice, 
 that matched with his merry bright eyes. Sybil looked at him,
 
 sybil's second love. 45 
 
 and liked him, and when Mr. Kennedy walked away saying, 
 " Don't spoil her, Ned," she glanced up rather saucily in her 
 uncle's face, as if to see how much inclination to spoil her she 
 might find there. His downward look was very kind. Indeed 
 Sybil's face was one most people liked to look at, and her new 
 uncle proved no exception to the general rule. Sybil thought 
 he was searching for a likeness Miss Glyn had often men- 
 tioned. 
 
 " I am like my mother, am I not ? " she said. 
 
 " My dear, I never saw her. I was far away when you were 
 born." 
 
 " You have travelled much, uncle ? " 
 
 " A great deal." 
 
 " But where ? " 
 
 " Everywhere." 
 
 " Did you come by the train, uncle ? " 
 
 " My dear, you saw me coming through the garden. The 
 station does not lie in that direction, does it ? " 
 
 Sybil felt she had questioned enough, and looked at him 
 doubtfully. She had relied on that good-humored, easy face 
 of his, for having it all her own way with her new uncle, but, 
 looking at him more attentively, she saw lines of will — stubborn 
 lines, she called them, which warned her not to depend too 
 much on her first impression. 
 
 She asked a little timidly if her uncle wished for an early 
 dinner ; and he having very promptly replied that it would be 
 highly acceptable, she left him to see about it. She saw about 
 herself too. She perceived that her uncle had begun by admi- 
 ring her, and as he had begun, Sybil wished him to continue. 
 When they met at dinner, his complacent looks showed her 
 that she had been successful. Every thing about him said, 
 " You are very pretty, and I like you." 
 
 Sybil, too, liked her new relative. He was handsome, ge- 
 nial, and good-humored. He had a frank, open look which, 
 though it could become dangerously keen and piercing, attract- 
 ed her irresistibly. There was strength, too, in him, strength 
 intellectual and physical, which conquered Sybil ; and then he 
 was delightful company, and did his best to please and amuse 
 her. 
 
 " He is very unlike papa," thought Sybil, " and not so hand- 
 some ; but he is a dear old uncle, and I like him amazingly." 
 
 She wanted to leave him when dinner was over, but Uncle
 
 46 syell's second love. 
 
 Edward completed his conquest by declining to sit alone over 
 his wine, and preferring the garden and her society. They 
 walked out of the dining-room, took a few turns up and down 
 one of the gravelled paths, then came hack to the house. On 
 one side of the door stood a broad stone bench. 
 
 "Let us sit down," said Uncle Edward. 
 
 So he sat down at one end of the bench, and Sybil sat at 
 the other, and looked at him demurely. 
 
 " Now, my dear," he said coolly, " I am going to remain in 
 Saint Vincent for some time, and as in acquaintance, as in every 
 thing, the beginning is all in all, I beg that you will treat me at 
 once like a real old uncle, who is determined to pet, spoil, and 
 even scold you, if need be." 
 
 "Every one scolds me," rather indignantly said Sybil — 
 " even Blanche." 
 
 " Blanche ! — have you got a sister? " 
 
 " No ; Blanche, Miss Cains, is my friend, and the best, the 
 noblest, the dearest creature — oh ! she is so good ! " she added, 
 ardently. 
 
 Her eyes sparkled as she launched on her favorite topic. 
 Uncle Edward watched her, and seemed amused. 
 
 " So good, is she ? " he ejaculated, leaniog back in his cor- 
 ner of the bench ; " then I should not like her — goodness is in- 
 sipid." 
 
 " Ah ! not goodness like hers. She has plenty of spirit." 
 
 " I do not like spirited women — they have such a temper." 
 
 " But Blanche has no temper," a little warmly said Sybil, 
 " or, rather, she has a beautiful temper — so sweet ! " 
 
 " You think so ; depend upon it that sweetness is all put on." 
 
 " Indeed it is not. Blanche has the face, and the heart, and 
 the nature of an angel." 
 
 " The heart of an angel — why, my dear, what can you know 
 about the heart of an angel?" 
 
 There was truth in the remark, and Sybil was vexed to have 
 said a foolish thing. 
 
 " I do not know why every one is against poor Blanche," she 
 said, indignantly. "It was just the same at school. Emma 
 said ber hair was not her own — now I am sure it is." 
 
 " Do not be too sure. I dare say she puts on her golden 
 curls, true angelic color, as she puts on the sweetness, etc." 
 
 Sybil knew her uncle only meant to teaze her, but affection 
 is sensitive, and she was so vexed with his remarks, that she
 
 Sybil's second love. 47 
 
 felt her growing liking for this new relative considerably chilled. 
 He saw her grave, displeased face, and smiled. 
 
 " I do believe you are a good child," he said — " a good, 
 affectionate little creature, and I am sure we shall get on beau- 
 tifully together." 
 
 Sybil did not feel so sure of that, but tried, nevertheless, to 
 look more gracious, and as she looked she soon felt. 
 
 This new uncle's manner, both direct and genial, acted as a 
 kind of " sesame " with most people. Few could resist the 
 mixture of frankness and good-humor which his countenance 
 expressed, and an inexperienced girl like Sybil, unaccustomed 
 to society, had no fund of coldness or reserve to fall back upon. 
 Indeed, she did not think of it. Her uncle seemed to her a 
 most agreeable companion. He was quite as clever as Mrs. 
 Mush, and to Sybil he appeared more kind. The truth was, 
 Uncle Edward was a good deal younger than Sybil's cousin, 
 and the young dearly like the young, though, to be sure, Uncle 
 Edward was only young by comparison. Nevertheless, Sybil's 
 whole heart opened to him. She talked, she laughed, and was 
 as much at her ease as if she had known him vears. Uncle 
 
 J 
 
 Edward liked all this ; he liked the garden, too, and that mild 
 evening, that spoke of coming summer ; but something was 
 wanting to complete his happiness, so he took out a cigar. 
 
 " Ah ! you smoke," she said, reproachfully. 
 
 " My dear, I beg your pardon. I shall walk away, and 
 come back in an hour or so." 
 
 He rose, and Sybil looked blank. 
 
 " You are going to leave me," she said, dolefully — " pray 
 don't go." 
 
 It was Uncle Edward's turn to look doleful, for if Sybil wa^ 
 charming a cic^ar was delightful. 
 
 " Oh ! you may smoke all the same," she said, resignedly — 
 " I am used to it. Papa smokes." 
 
 " You little cbeat ! — I thought it made your head ache." 
 
 " Well, but it is a terribly bad habit, uncle." 
 
 " So says your charming sex, because it knows not the vir- 
 tues of tobacco. Do I feel in a bad temper, I take a cigar, and 
 smoke my ruffled temper down. Do I want a new train of 
 thought, I light my cigar, and it comes. Do I feel in need of 
 society, my cigar keeps me company. In short, tobacco 13 
 soothing, thoughtful, and sociable." 
 
 " Then why don't girls smoke ? " tartly asked Sybil.
 
 48 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 " Because it would interfere with, their eloquence. Don't 
 look at me. The remark is none of mine. It was uttered by 
 a cynical philosopher a long time ago." 
 
 " What was his name ? " indignantly asked Sybil. 
 
 " I have forgotten it ; but I dare say he lived in a tub, and 
 was quite beneath your notice. And now, what have you been 
 reading to-day ? Your father says you are a great reader." 
 
 " I have been reading Livy." 
 
 " Livy !— who is that ? " 
 
 If Sybil could have seen Uncle Edward, she might have 
 detected a merry twinkle in his gray eye ; but the evening was 
 growing dark, and she had no thought of miscbief, so secretly 
 compassionating his ignorance, she said kindly, 
 
 " Why, he was a Roman historian, uncle, and I have been 
 reading his account of Virginia's death, and it is grand." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 He seemed interested ; and Sybil, still anxious to improve 
 him, went on. 
 
 " A bad man, a Decemvir, wanted to make a slave of her, 
 and her father, Virginius, saved her by killing her." 
 
 " That was a sharp remedy." 
 
 " Not too sharp," cried Sybil, eagerly. " I mean it was 
 better to die than to be Claudius's slave. Besides, Virginius 
 was not a Christian." 
 
 " Which saves all." 
 
 "At least, it justifies him. He snatched up a knife in the 
 Forum and killed her — and he did well ! " 
 
 " You little heathen ! " 
 
 " Ah ! if I could see the Forum ! " continued Sybil, without 
 heeding him ; " if I could only see it ! " 
 
 " Will a view in the stereoscope do you, Sybil ? I have 
 brought you one." 
 
 " You have got the Forum ! " she cried, her eyes spark- 
 ling. 
 
 " Come in and sec." 
 
 They went into the dining-room. Uncle Edward rang, 
 ?.»ked Denise for a light, and for a black square box on the ta- 
 ble in his room. She presently returned with it. Uncle Ed- 
 ward adjusted the view, and having handed the instrument to 
 Sybil, he sat down, leaned back in his chair and watched her. 
 Sybil looked long and eagerly. She saw a few tall, shattered 
 columns rising on the sky. An arch stood in th6 distance, aud
 
 Sybil's second love. 49 
 
 grass-grown ruins lay in the foreground. Her heart beat, her 
 cheek flushed. This was the Forum ; but where was the De- 
 cemvir sitting in state? — where were the lictors ? — where was 
 the vast surging crowd that saw Virginia die, and rose to 
 avenge her ? 
 
 " Why, this is a desert," she said, with an impatient sigh. 
 
 " Xot quite ; but even though it were ! The desert is the 
 great master, Sybil. Where it has been once it will be again. 
 I read the other day that a shady forest grew behind Westmin- 
 ster Abbey once on a time. Well, ages hence a forest will 
 grow there again, I have no doubt. Mighty oaks will flourish 
 in Poets' Corner, and birds sing on their boughs and build 
 nests there, and the dust of heroes will nourish the roots of elm 
 and beech — and where' s the harm, Sybil ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but this is not the right Forum — not the one I ima- 
 gined." 
 
 " My dear, the names of ruins are the best part of their 
 beauty. See, this is the Via Sacra ; somewhere there beyond 
 Romulus and Eemus were found. That arch was raised by 
 Titus, after the siege of Jerusalem ; and near these columns 
 Curtius leaped into the yawning pit." 
 
 " You have seen the Forum ? " cried Sybil, looking eagerly 
 at the eyes which had beheld the most famous places of ancient 
 story. 
 
 " I have. And that Forum where Roman met Roman, I 
 found almost as silent as the glass representation on your lap. 
 I have also seen the Colosseum where the barbarian fought and 
 died, whilst Caesar and the six vestal virgins, and, indeed, all 
 Rome, looked on — it was such a dainty sight. Moreover, I 
 have seen the crumbling ruins of palaces, and the great desert 
 of the Campagna, and long lines of ancient tombs by the Via 
 Ajipia, etc., etc." 
 
 Sybil clasped her hands and envied him. But he shook his 
 heavy hair and laughed. 
 
 " So you too are a Roman," he said ; " well, so was I once. 
 But how I have learned to hate that greedy old heathen, 
 Rome, since then! Well, it is no use arguing with you — you 
 think me a rank heretic, and you arc a Roman lady. But pray 
 where is the lono; slender stole, with its broad u'irdle and its 
 hem of purple and gold? Have vou any of that ojms Phrygia- 
 num supposed to have been point lace? Do you keep your 
 hands cool with an amber ball, and your neck with a live ser- 
 3
 
 50 sybil's second love. 
 
 pent ? No, I miss the veil, and the ample jpalla too — my dear, 
 I am afraid you are no Roman after all." 
 
 " Do you think Virginia was dressed so ? " cried Sybil, all 
 eagerness. 
 
 " Well, no ; I am talking of an Imperial, not a Republican 
 lady." 
 
 " You are very learned," said Sybil ; " and I see you have 
 read Livy, and that you have been drawing me out — it is too 
 bad, uncle." 
 
 " So it is," be replied candidly ; " but you see I like it." 
 
 He stretched out his hand and smoothed ber hair. Sybil 
 shook her head impatiently. 
 
 " Ah ! but I like that too," he remonstrated. " You are 
 like a nice little kitten, you see — it is pleasant to stroke you." 
 
 Sybil drew herself up indignantly, and moved ber chair 
 away ; but Uncle Edward soon coaxed her back. 
 
 " What else have you been reading to-day ? " be asked 
 kindly. " You'll not tell me — but you must — else bow are we 
 to get on ? — People's books are to me as good as people's 
 minds." 
 
 " Well, then, what have you been reading, uncle ? " 
 
 " My dear, as I came in the railway I read one of the sad- 
 dest books that ever was written — ' Don Quixote.' " 
 
 " Sad ! — you call that sad ? " cried Sybil, shaking ber saucy 
 curls. " I never take it up but I laugh till I am tired." 
 
 " Yes — youth is pitiless. And I, too, used to laugh at Don 
 Quixote — beaten, mocked, ill-used Don Quixote. Don Quix- 
 ote, the great knight, the gallant gentleman, the brave heart, 
 and yet so gentle. But you were mad, Don Quixote — you 
 were very mad indeed. You believed in chivalric honor; in 
 ladies beautiful, virtuous, and distressed ; in knights, the flower 
 of bravery, and the pink of courtesy. You went about seeking 
 what wrongs you might redress — what weak ones you might 
 protect — what strong giants of evil you might cut down. And 
 you loved Dulcinea — fair, profaned image ! You loved her 
 purely, honorably. And as you were the finest gentleman, the 
 noblest knight earth ever bore, a great genius told your story ; 
 and who can say whether he told it in sorrow or in scorn '. " 
 
 Sybil looked puzzled, and tried to read ber uncle's face. ; 
 but it baffled her. There was something there beyond girlish 
 acumen. 
 
 " Did you read any other book, uncle ? " she asked wistfully.
 
 sybil's secoxd love. 51 
 
 He laughed a low, but hearty laugh. 
 
 " So you want to draw me out," he said gayly ; " my dear 
 little girl, you cannot do it. It is the privilege of my years 
 and experience to read you ; and it is the blessing of your 
 years and ignorance that you cannot possibly read me. I am 
 an old bird — a hawk — or I could not pass through life ; and 
 you are, as yet, a little white dove, innocent and spotless. May 
 you remain so very long, my dear — very long." 
 
 His look, his voice, were very kind. They more than 
 atoned for the freedom of his remarks ; besides, in neither could 
 Sybil read contempt for her ignorance ; and she was too quick 
 and sensitive not to detect in both the respect and tenderness 
 which a generous and manly nature ever feels for girlhood and 
 innocence. 
 
 " How old are you ? " he suddenly asked. 
 
 " Seventeen last April, uncle." 
 
 " Seventeen ! Then fourteen years ago I saw you. You 
 are rather altered, but you have kept that naughty little girl's 
 dark eyes." 
 
 Sybil longed to question. Where had he been since then ? 
 How was it that his name had never been mentioned within her 
 hearing ? Words trembled on her lips, but she was spared the 
 temptation of uttering them. The dining-room door opened, 
 and Mr. Kennedy suddenly appeared and said gayly, 
 
 " Well, Pussy, how much sense have you talked and how 
 are you getting on with Uncle Edward ? " 
 
 " Oh ! so well," replied Sybil nodding. 
 
 They both laughed. But Sybil meant what she said. 
 
 " He is very delightful," she thought, as she went up-stairs 
 that night ; and when, after a long fit of musing she went to 
 bed, and fell asleep, she dreamed that her ancle was <join^ to 
 marry Blanche Cains, and that she, Sybil, acted as bridesmaid, 
 and stood with them near the altar.
 
 52 Sybil's second love. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Sybil's dream did not seem as very likely to be fulfilled, for 
 as her uncle entered the cloister the next morning he found ber 
 walking slowly along one of the gallei"ies with an open letter in 
 her hand, and tears in her eyes. 
 
 " My dear," he said kindly, " what is the matter ? Tell 
 me ; perhaps I can assist you." 
 
 Sybil looked up in his face, and it was so kind that at once 
 she told him her trouble. 
 
 " I have got a letter from my friend, and she asks me to 
 get her a situation in a school, or in a family at Saint Vincent, 
 aud papa will not let me interfere ; he will not even let me talk 
 to Mrs. Ronald. He says I know nothing of the qualifications 
 required for a teacher. But how is dear Blanche to get on if 
 no one helps her ? Uncle, what am I to do ? " 
 
 He did not answer at once. He seemed both perplexed 
 and concerned. 
 
 " Dear uncle, " resumed Sybil, " I have got fifty francs— two 
 pounds English — don't you think I can send it to Blanche ? It 
 is mine, you know, and she will not mind it from me. She 
 knows I love her so much." 
 
 " No, Sybil ; let me lend you some money. You can say 
 you had it from a friend." 
 
 " No, no," interrupted Sybil. " It must be my money only, 
 uncle. I cannot send it myself, and I sball be so grateful to you 
 if you will do that for me." 
 
 " Well, your gratitude is worth something, Sybil, so I shall 
 do this." 
 
 " I'll £K> and fetch it at once," cried Svbil. 
 
 " You can give it to me later." 
 
 " No — no, it must be my money." 
 
 " Must it?— well, then, go." 
 
 Sybil left him at once, and soon came back out of breath. 
 Her eyes sparkled with joy as she handed him the gold pieces. 
 He chinked them gayly, and said, 
 
 "Your little fortune, Sybil — shall I give you a receipt ?" 
 
 " No, no, I'll trust you," saucily said Sybil ; " but you'll send 
 it to-day, will you not? " 
 
 "This very morning. "What a pleasant old cloister this is, 
 Sybil ; I suppose you will let me smoke here ? "
 
 sybil's second love. 53 
 
 " Yes, uncle ; but are you sure you will not forget sending 
 the money \ " 
 
 " There is not the least fear of my forgetting it. That cross 
 is very fine ; I like this old abbey." 
 
 " So should I, if Blanche were with me," sighed Sybil ; " but 
 I fear-papa will never let me ask her, he has quite a prejudice 
 against her." 
 
 - "Perhaps he is jealous, my dear. You seem crazy about 
 Miss what is her name \ " 
 
 « Cains." 
 
 " Cains ! a formidable name." 
 
 " Cains, uncle ; oh ! she is so good, how you would admire 
 her!" 
 
 Uncle Edward smiled a skeptical but not unkind smile. He 
 liked this young girl's adoration for her friend ; it was so fervent 
 and unselfish. 
 
 "And how Blanche would admire him!" thought Sybil; 
 " I am afraid they will never meet. How delightful if they were 
 to marry, and she were to become my aunt ! " 
 
 There was something so peculiar in her look as she came 
 to this conclusion, that he reddened a little, for he had still a 
 a good deal of that impulsive sensitiveness about him which 
 calls up a blush, and said quickly, 
 
 " Well, what is it ? " 
 
 It was Sybil's turn to color. 
 
 "Nothing," she stammered ; "but are you sure you will not 
 forget the letter, uncle ? " 
 
 " I dare say I must send it off at once, to please you." 
 
 "Ay, uncle — pray do." 
 
 " Well then, good-by." 
 
 He nodded to her, and reentered the house. Sybil remained 
 in the cloister, pacing it up and down. It was very quiet, very 
 pleasant with its roof of blue sky and its sumit arcades, and Syb- 
 il felt gay and happy. She forgot the doubtful future which lay 
 before poor Miss Cains. She only remembered that she had just 
 sent her fifty francs ; she was too young a housekeeper as yet to 
 know that this sum could not go very far. It seemed a large 
 one to Sybil, and she felt convinced it must assist Blanche ma- 
 terially. It would enable her to leave Miss Blunt and go on 
 looking for an engagement; and Blanche was so good and so 
 clever and so fascinating, that she must end by getting an en- 
 gagement — of course she must. In this happy mood Sybil
 
 54 sybil's second love. 
 
 •walked up and down the cloister, and indeed remained the best 
 part of the day. But just as post time had gone hy, she re- 
 membered with dismay that her uncle had not taken Miss Caine's 
 address. The two pounds were lost, and, worst of all, dear 
 Blanche would not get them. She was in the library reading 
 when the dismal conviction came to her. At once she» threw 
 down her book, and ran out to the garden where she had just 
 caught a glimpse of her uncle. He turned round on hearing 
 her quick footstep, and greeted her with a smile, but Sybil ex- 
 claimed dolefully, 
 
 " Oh ! dear, uncle, I never gave you her direction." 
 
 Uncle Edward smiled and said, 
 
 " Miss Cains lives at the Greenery, Brompton." 
 
 " Oh, how do you know ? " 
 
 "You held her letter so that I could not help seeing this much." 
 
 Sybil's face fell. Suppose he had also seen the first para- 
 graph of Blanche Cains's letter — "And so you are resolved not to 
 like your uncle ? Well, my dear, I have other troubles, and — " 
 
 " On my word," he emphatically observed, " I saw and read 
 nothing else." 
 
 Sybil blushed at Laving so readily betrayed her dismay ; hut 
 . she was glad those keen gray eyes of his, which were keen 
 though they were so kind, had not seen the words that con- 
 cerned himself. 
 
 " For I do like him," she thought as she walked by his side, 
 " I do like him, and I shall like him more, I know." 
 
 " It is gone — gone in your name, and Miss Cains will get it 
 to-morrow evening," he resumed. 
 
 Sybil looked at him earnestly. 
 
 "Uncle," she said, " how quick and clever you are to have 
 seen and remembered her direction. I wish you had been here 
 with Mr. Smith." 
 
 "He was silent awhile, then said slowlv, 
 
 " Mr. Smith— who is Mr. Smith ? " 
 
 "That is just it — who is he? I cannot make it out. He 
 seems a low vulgar man, but sometimes I think he is not. I 
 suppose he makes believe. And then he went away so strangely. 
 You would have found him out if you had been here. I do be- 
 lieve Mrs. Mush knew all about him, but then she would not 
 tell me." 
 
 And you suppose that I would. I fancy you are ac- 
 customed to be humored, Miss Sybil. I suspect that your own
 
 Sybil's second love. 55 
 
 little pleasure is the law of your little life. It seems to be rather 
 a butterfly existence that which you lead. Out early and late in 
 the garden, leaning on window-sills dreaming away through the 
 twilight, and so on — eh ? " 
 
 Sybil looked at him a little surprised. Was her new uncle 
 going to take up Miss Glyn's vacant office and find fault, and to 
 talk at her like Mrs. Mush ? 
 
 Uncle Edward laughed, and shook his tawny mane as he 
 looked in her face. 
 
 " I see you are amazed at my audacity, my dear," he said, 
 " but you will get used to it." 
 
 He spoke so composedly that Sybil was confounded. She 
 thought a great deal of her dignity, and it was plain he thought 
 nothino- of it. 
 
 " Come, now," he said good-humoredly, " confess it is a but- 
 terfly life. I do not see you study, sew, or even read steadily. 
 It is all fluttering about house, cloister, "and garden, from morn- 
 ino- till night." 
 
 "I have just left school," gravely replied Sybil, " and there- 
 fore do not want to study." 
 
 "Ah! very true." 
 
 And there was an odd twinkle in his eye which reminded 
 Sybil of Mrs. Mush. 
 
 " I hate needlework," she continued. 
 
 " That is candid." 
 
 "And for steady reading, I have no time," she said with the 
 greatest seriousness. 
 
 He laughed till he shook again, and his laugh, though not 
 loud and boisterous, nevertheless answered his large frame and 
 broad shoulders. It was clear, hearty, and free. Sybil felt very 
 indignant, and reddened with vexation. 
 
 " Come, my dear," he said, when his merriment was out, " do 
 not look so grave, if you please, for, to tell you the truth, your 
 father having asked my candid opinion of you last evening, I 
 was obliged to give it. Upon which he requested me to take 
 you in hand, which I mean to do, so do not wonder if my spare 
 time is devoted to improving you." 
 
 Sybil's gay face lengthened considerably on hearing this. 
 
 " You see," he continued not unkindlv, though with a 
 touch of sarcasm which Sybil could but ill endure, " you are, or 
 think yourself, poetry ; but I am prose from first to last — piti- 
 less, stern, ruthless prose."
 
 56 sybil's second love. 
 
 Aud prose lie did look. Strong, massive prose, logical and, 
 as lie said himself, pitiless. Some flowers of fancy grew on that 
 mighty stem, some gentle thoughts flowed from that clear firm 
 mind, but they did not predominate. Goodness, and generos- 
 ity, and nobleness you felt as you looted at or listened to him, 
 but something Sybil missed, and the want of that something 
 frightened her. lie did not, or he would not see this. He 
 made her sit down on the bench by the house ; and then he sat 
 down by her, and began catechising her concerning what she 
 knew and how she knew it. It was a severe ordeal, and through 
 that trying test they got on together as a giant and a fairy might, 
 in the days when there were such people. The poor little fairy 
 did not always get the best of it ; for though the giant could be 
 playful enough, he was playful, as giants are, in rather a danger- 
 ous way. His very kindness was careless, and, without meaning 
 it, often cruel. He laughed at Sybil, who could not bear being 
 laughed at, and he proved to Sybil, who innocently thought her- 
 self an accomplished young lady, that she knew a little of every 
 thing, and enough of nothing. At last she rebelled. 
 
 " Oh ! dear," she said, petulantly, " that is very tiresome. 
 Every one wants to improve me. I am sure I cannot have so 
 many faults as all that. As if I could not improve other peo- 
 ple, too, if I were to set about it." 
 
 " I dare say you could. Indeed, I have no doubt your wis- 
 domship would find plenty to improve in me." 
 
 Sybil was silent, but her looks said plainly, " To be sure I 
 could." 
 
 " But for all that, my dear, you must improve yourself first 
 of all. Such is your father's wish." 
 
 " But I do not want to be a blue-stocking, or a teacher, 
 uncle, or a seamstress either. I do not want to work." 
 
 " And find it pleasantcr to do nothing ! " 
 
 Tears rose to Sybil's eyes. Pride would not let them fall, 
 but pride had much ado. "I am not idle," she remonstrated. 
 " I am always doing something." 
 
 " Yes, there is a useless sort of activity about you. I have 
 noticed that, too." 
 
 Sybil reddened up in mute indignation ; but luckily at that 
 very moment Mr. Kennedy came toward them with an open 
 letter in his hand. 
 
 " News for you, Pussy," he said, gayly. " Mrs. Ronald gives 
 a party next week, and you are asked to it."
 
 Sybil's second love. 57 
 
 A flush of joy rose to Sybil's cheeks^her eyes sparkled 
 
 again 
 
 " Oh ! clear ! " she cried, clapping her hands, and dancing 
 gayly. " I have never been to a real party before." 
 
 " Well, Pussy, there is a beginning to all things." 
 
 "But what shall I wear?" asked Sybil, looking from her 
 father to her uncle in great perplexity ? 
 
 "Edward will advise you best," said Mr. Kennedy. "I 
 never go to parties, and he does." 
 
 " But you will go to this ? " 
 
 " Yes, Pussy, to take you. Tell that girl what she is to wear, 
 Ned. I am in a hurry." 
 
 He walked away, leaving Sybil rather indignant at being re- 
 ferred to her censorious uncle on a matter of dress. 
 
 Her uncle, however, seemed equal to every thing, fur he 
 looked keenly at Sybil, and said, 
 
 "You must wear pink, Sybil. Any thing light in texture, 
 with plenty of roses." 
 
 Sybil knew that pink suited her, and she was fond of roses. 
 She was beginning to think that her uncle had a great deal of 
 judgment, when she exclaimed, with sudden dismay, 
 
 " I have got no pink dress, and no money." 
 
 " Oh ! what a pity the letter is gone ! " he said. 
 
 " But it is not a pity. I have a white dress, which will do 
 very well, and I can always get roses. But how shall I wear 
 them, uncle ?" 
 
 "How? let me see." 
 
 He looked down into her face with a kind, admiring smile. 
 
 "Nature has given you your share of roses," he said; 
 " beautiful, ingenuous roses," he added, as she blushed steadily 
 beneath his gaze. "Keep them long, my dear — keep them 
 long." 
 
 Sybil laughed saucily. Of course she would keep her roses. 
 Time did nof exist for her, or was one of those vague, abstract 
 truths, of which youth takes no heed. 
 
 " Next week ! " she said. " I must see about it at once — 
 must I not, uncle ? " 
 
 " Ay ! my dear, be energetic about that ! " 
 
 But Sybil would not heed his reproachful tone. She turned 
 a deaf ear to admonition. She was going to a party, and she 
 must prepare for it with all speed. 
 
 "Good-by," uncle, she said saucily, as she lightly ran away. 
 3*
 
 58 Sybil's second love. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The week of preparation did not prove a friendly week be- 
 tween uncle and niece. Mr. Kennedy's brother continued Ms in- 
 vestigations into Sybil's mental state, and these were so unfavor- 
 able to the soundness of her intellectual culture, that his opinion, 
 freely expressed, concerned Mr. Kennedy and deeply displeased 
 his daughter. When, on the evening of the party, Sybil being 
 fully dressed, went down to the library to show herself to her 
 father, she was unpleasantly surprised to find her uncle in his 
 stead. He sat writing a letter — he was not included in Mrs. 
 Ronald's invitation — and he looked up slowly on hearing the 
 door open. He saw Sybil standing on the threshold, and with 
 a smile he said, 
 
 " Are you afraid of me, Sybil ? " 
 
 Her only reply was to come forward with a stateliness which 
 amused him much. He looked at her keenly from head to foot, 
 but said not one word. Sybil fanned herself, and said im- 
 patiently : 
 
 " Well, how am I dressed ? " 
 
 " So— so." 
 
 Now Sybil was very well dressed, and she knew it. She 
 wore a clear white muslin, trimmed with some costly laces, 
 which she had inherited from her mother, and exquisite roses 
 blushed on her bosom, and were woven in a wreath in her dark 
 hair. 
 
 « So — so," she echoed, a little indignantly; " and my mus- 
 lin is Indian, and the lace is beautiful, and my roses cost five 
 francs a-piece, says papa, and — " 
 
 " And I shall break every heart this evening," he put in. 
 
 Sybil blushed a little. 
 
 "I do not want to break any hearts," she said; "but I like 
 to be well dressed, and I am pleased to be admired." 
 
 M That is honest, Sybil." 
 
 " I know you do not admire me," she resumed, a little 
 warmly, " but others may." 
 
 " My dear, uncles do not admire their nieces — I mean, as a 
 rule." 
 
 Tears stood in Sybil's eyes. 
 
 " My father admires me," she said — " not because I deserve 
 it, but because he loves me."
 
 Sybil's second love. 59 
 
 Her uncle looked at her, as much as to say, " Well ? " 
 
 " Well," she said, " I cannot help seeing it, uncle — you do 
 not like me." 
 
 " Indeed ! " be replied. 
 
 " Ah, indeed ; and it is hard to have even one uncle who 
 does not like me." 
 
 " May I ask to know what are your grounds for such a con- 
 clusion ? " 
 
 " You are always blaming me — always censuring, always 
 finding fault," she said ; " and if you liked me, would you do 
 that?'" 
 
 " Sybil, I give you sure proof of a true friendship and true 
 liking. You have faults which spoil you, and you are too good 
 to be spoiled. Come, sit down here, and listen to me. You 
 are seventeen — that is to say, very young — you are also very 
 pretty, Sybil, very amiable, and decidedly very clever ; but — " 
 
 He. had no time to continue. His niece had thrown her 
 arms around his neck, and was hugging him with more grati- 
 tude than gentleness. 
 
 "Dear, good old Uncle Neddy," she cried, with ardor, 
 "how I have wronged you! I thought you hated me, and I 
 almost hated you. Oh ! how I have been mistaken ! " 
 
 " There, my dear, that will do," he said, gently putting her 
 away ; " you have not heard me out." 
 
 " Oh ! you are going to blame now." 
 f " Just so. I am going to tell you that, if you have these 
 charming gifts, you have some faults. You are vain, Sybil, and 
 hasty, and frivolous." 
 
 " Thank you," cried Sybil, starting from his side with sud- 
 den wrath — " I am much obliged to you, uncle," and she 
 darted out of the room, and would hear no more. 
 
 Sybil felt thoroughly vexed, and could scarcely restrain her 
 tears, but her spirits returned as she drove with her father to the 
 house of Mrs. Ronald. This was to be her first ball, and her 
 presence in it, so eventful to her, was to be momentous to Mrs. 
 Ronald. But in order to understand this, we must give some 
 account of this lady, and of the little world which Sybil was 
 going to enter. 
 
 The pleasant coasts of France have long been haunted by 
 tribes of English, in search, some of economy, others of variety, 
 and some again of a convenient refuge. To this latter class 
 none of the English residents in the little town of Saint Vincent 
 
 O
 
 60 sybil's second love. 
 
 luckily belonged. They paid their way in the new country, 
 and need not have been ashamed to hold up their heads in the 
 old. Mrs. Ronald was one of the earliest settlers in the British 
 colony of Saint Vincent. She was rich in this cheap place, and 
 as she gave good dinners and pleasant parties, she was popu- 
 lar. Now it had from the first been the ambition of this good 
 lady's life to reconcile France and England. Alas ! the entente 
 cordiale proved no easy matter even in Saint Vincent. The 
 provincial French are a jealous and exclusive race, and nowhere 
 were they more so than in this western nook. They resented 
 English intrusion, and showed that resentment by obstinate 
 coldness and reserve. They would not make these strangers 
 welcome, and even the neutral ground of the casino saw two 
 camps, not inimical, indeed, but certainly not friendly. When 
 subscription balls took place there during the bathing season, 
 France danced on one side, and England on the other. Now 
 Mrs. Eonald wanted to put an end to this, and to have a French 
 as well as an English connection. 
 
 _ Years passed, however, and brought her no nearer to her 
 object ; but at length Providence gave her an opening. 
 
 An old French lady fell in the street at Mrs. Ronald's door, 
 and was picked up, taken in, and hospitably cared for by that 
 lady. She proved quite as useful in her way as the fairy in the 
 old nursery tales, for though poor and rather silly, she was pow- 
 erfully connected, aud held Saint Vincent, so to speak, in the 
 hollow of her hand. It pleased her to be grateful to her bene- 
 factress ; perhaps it also pleased her to partake now and then 
 of Mrs. Ronald's good cheer. She certainly exerted herself in 
 that lady's favor, and compelled the most stubborn to receive 
 aud visit this stranger. Mrs. Ronald was a clever woman. 
 Give her an inch, and she Avould take an ell. She kept and 
 improved her position long after grass and daisies grew on the 
 grave of her patroness. But she found it even beyond her 
 power to make her English and her French friends coalesce. 
 She gave dinners at which the English talked English, and the 
 French talked French. She gave balls; and either there was a 
 dearth of English partners, or French ladies were wanting. Re- 
 peated failures could not dishearten Mrs. Ronald. Her aim was 
 noble aud philanthropic. She considered herself a link be- 
 tween the two nations, and she relied on the goodness of her 
 cause. Once more Providence came to her aid, and justified 
 her trust.
 
 sybil's second love. 01 
 
 The casino was burned down, and, owing to want of funds, 
 not rebuilt. Mrs. Ronald's beart beat with joy when she heard 
 the news. She had them now, she had. She lived in an old 
 chateau with ample rooms. Sbe was one of the few people who 
 could give a great ball. The dancers, who formed a powerful 
 majority on both sides, were at her mercy. She would not in- 
 dulge them at once, and only issued her invitations when she 
 knew that they would be accepted thankfully. As this shrewd 
 lady had expected, so did it come to pass. Every one she had 
 asked came ; and here ended her success. The ball was 
 crowded, indeed, but it was dull ; and this was the ball to 
 which Sybil had been asked. 
 
 It was rather late when Mr. Kennedy's carriage drove up the 
 gravelled avenue of the old brick chateau in which Mrs. Ronald 
 resided. Lights were shining in all the windows, and the calm 
 moonlight slept on the clipped yews of the old-fashioned gar- 
 den on either side. 
 
 " I am sure I shall enjoy myself," cried Sybil, gayly. " Do 
 you hear the music ? Oh ! if dear Blanche were here ! " 
 " Pussy, your husband will be jealous of Miss Cains." 
 " My husband !— who is he ? "* asked Sybil. " What is he 
 like?" 
 
 Mr. Kennedy smiled, but did not answer. Sybil felt a little 
 fluttered. Her father could not be wanting her to get married, 
 surely ! Her color rose, her dark eyes took a deep, wondering 
 look, which had not left them when they entered Mrs. Ronald's 
 ball-room, and which made her look so strangely pretty, that 
 admiring looks and a half-murmur of praise greeted her ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 " Sybil, you are the prettiest girl present," whispered her 
 father. 
 
 Sybil blushed crimson, and cast a shy look around, and felt 
 and saw that it was true. 
 
 It so happened that pretty girls, English and French, were 
 scarce in Saint Vincent, and that of all present none could com- 
 pare, for brilliancy of complexion and elegance of carriage, 
 with Sybil. None, too, had eyes like hers, deep, soft, and lus- 
 trous — eyes that would have redeemed a plain face, and that 
 gave hers something very like beauty. 
 
 Within five minutes of her entrance, Sybil was the queen 
 of the ball; and before a quarter of an hour was over many a 
 faithless knight had forsworn his allegiance, and laid it at the
 
 62 sybil's second love. 
 
 feet of this fair young conqueror. When she danced, there was 
 a crowd to look at her, when she rested there was another 
 crowd — male, of course, not feminine — eager to secure her 
 hand, or, failing this, to catch a look, a smile, or to win a stray 
 word. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy's eyes sparkled with delight. He had felt 
 sure that in the little world of Saint Vincent, where a new face 
 was an event, Sybil would have what is called a success, but he 
 had not expected any thing so complete as this. Sybil, though 
 at first rather startled at the admiration she excited, soon grew 
 reconciled to it. Her flushed cheek and bright eyes told a 
 story of gentle triumph. She did not, indeed, exult over her 
 conquered rivals, but she surrendered herself to the joy of vic- 
 tory, and in that joy she forgot the pain and tlie mortification 
 she was unconsciously inflicting. 
 
 Mrs. Ronald did not know what to think of the unexpected 
 turn Sybil's appearance had given to her party. It was no 
 longer dull, certainly, but then it was getting almost more ani- 
 mated than was either safe or pleasant ; for the ball-room was a 
 battle-field, in which two parties strove for victory. 
 
 " My dear Madame Ronald," said Madame de Lonville, in a 
 whisper, " who is she ? " 
 
 Madame de Lonville was a lady who kindly made her neigh- 
 bor's business her own, and whom her neighbor, French or Eng- 
 lish, rather dreaded. Mrs. Ronald always asked her out of 
 policy, and out of policy now gave her the required information. 
 Madame de Lonville's little round eyes shone again in her round 
 face. 
 
 "Pretty and rich," she said ; "but not much family, eh ? 
 They had a vulgar English visitor some time ago, you re- 
 member ? " 
 
 Mrs. Ronald deprecated all knowledge of Mr. Kennedy's 
 family or visitors. Madame de Lonville nodded shrewdly and 
 waddled off to Sybil, with whom she managed to enter into 
 conversation. 
 
 " Now, if she marries her to one of these men," thought 
 Mrs. Ronald, " not one of the girls will ever forgive me." 
 
 For be it said, en passant, Madame de Lonville was an in- 
 veterate match-maker. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Ronald," said Mr. Grafton Wilkes, a middle- 
 aged single man, who had retired to Saint Vincent after an ex- 
 pensive campaign in the London world, " you deserve public
 
 Sybil's second love. 63 
 
 thanks for bringing out this sweet little creature. She is not a 
 beauty, but — " 
 
 Mr. Grafton Wilkes walked away after uttering this expres- 
 sive conjunction. 
 
 " Good gracious ! my dear Mrs. Ronald, what a little flirt ! " 
 whispered Mrs. Rainie, whose three daughters sat neglected and 
 sulky ; " do look at her dancing with that .Frenchman, and that 
 is his betrothed looking on. I declare, her face makes my 
 heart ache. I suppose that low Mr. Smith was related to them. 
 She is like him." 
 
 Poor Sybil was indeed dancing with a very handsome 
 young man, smiling prettily at his flattering speeches. And a 
 pale fair girl stood watching them with misery on her face. 
 Twenty such speeches did Mrs. Ronald hear within the next 
 half-hour. She began to feel seriously alarmed — the entente cor- 
 dlale, the work of years, the consummation so devoutly ex- 
 pected, was seriously compromised, and all because Sybil was 
 pretty and carried every thing before her. She heartily wished 
 she had never asked her, and watched her triumphant progress 
 with silent vexation. One thing was clear : the men, with few 
 exceptions, were on Sybil's side, and, with exceptions as few, 
 the women were against her. Now, it is woman who rules the 
 social world; and "if women, French or English, decreed that 
 Mrs. Ronald's imprudence was to be chastised by future deser- 
 tion, why Mrs. Ronald must submit to her fate. 
 
 " I shall never get over this," thought Mrs. Ronald, with a 
 sinking heart — " never." 
 
 "Why, what a pleasant discovery you have made in the 
 world of "pretty faces," said a cheerful voice at Mrs. Ronald's 
 elbow. 
 
 It was Mrs. Brunton who spoke. Mrs. Brunton was neither 
 young nor pretty, but she had a cheerful beaming face ; and 
 Mr. Brunton, on "whose arm she leaned, was, if that might be, a 
 more cheerful-looking gentlemen than his wife was a lady. 
 They were a suitable little pair, fond of company, of young peo- 
 ple, and of pretty faces. 
 
 " I think she is quite as pretty as your first, dear," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Brunton, addressing her husband ; for she was his 
 second wife, as he was her second husband. 
 
 "Well, my dear, I think she is," replied Mr. Brunton. 
 " Poor Fred used to say, you know, that Mrs. Brunton was a 
 rosebud — "
 
 6i sybil's second loye. 
 
 " No, not a rosebud," interrupted Mrs. Brunton, whose first 
 was "poor Fred," — " a rose without any thorns." 
 
 " Ah ! to be sure, a rose without any thorns. You never 
 knew Fred, Mrs. Ronald, did you ? — poor Fred Smith, one of 
 the best, warmest, finest fellows I ever met. There never was 
 such a man, I think." 
 
 " Indeed," said Mrs. Ronald, who saw with an aching heart 
 that Sybil had carried off another prize — a wealthy bachelor, at 
 whom there had been considerable angling in the English spin- 
 ster world. 
 
 Mrs. Brunton, who was shrewd, though good-humored, saw 
 this too, and shook her head. 
 
 " Ah ! " she said, " that little Irish beauty will have made 
 many a sore and ano;ry heart before the night is over." 
 
 " I am afraid she will," replied Mrs. Ronald ; " and to tell 
 you the truth — " a gentle cough behind her interrupted what 
 she was going to add. Mrs. Ronald looked round and saw her 
 companion, Miss Spencer. 
 
 "A friend of Mr. Kennedy's," she whispered, "wants him 
 on important business, and Miss Kennedy must leave as soon as 
 the quadrille is over." 
 
 Mrs. Ronald looked interested. 
 
 " Is that Mr. Smith come back, then ?" she whispered. 
 
 " Oh ! no ; this is a very handsome and gentleman-like 
 man." 
 
 " He did not send in his card ? " 
 
 " No, he introduced himself as Mr. Kennedy's friend." 
 
 Mrs. Ronald thought this odd, and, commissioning Miss 
 Spencer to go and find out Mr. Kennedy in the card-room, she 
 went up herself to Sybil, and gave her the stranger's message. 
 
 Sybil's bright face grew clouded with disappointment and 
 discontent. 
 
 " lie does it to provoke me," she said petulantly ; " I shall 
 tell him so." 
 
 She obeyed the summons, however. Mrs. Ronald, who felt 
 inquisitive, accompanied her down-stairs. 
 
 " Now, uncle, that is too bad," she cried, as he came for- 
 ward and bowed to Mrs. Ronald, who stared in much surprise 
 on hearing the word, " uncle," for it was difficult to see two 
 men more different than were Mr. Kennedy and his brother. 
 
 " Yes, Pussy, it is," gavly said her father. 
 
 He hastilv apologized to Mrs. Ronald, hurried his daughter
 
 sybil's second love. 65 
 
 away, and, entering the carriage after her and his hrother, he 
 said in an anxious voice, which contrasted with his gay tone 
 awhile bach, 
 
 "What is it, Ned?" 
 
 " A telegram from Partes," was the brief reply ; " he has 
 written — how is it we did not get the letter ? " 
 
 Sybil felt very cross with her uncle. What did she care 
 about Partes and his letter ? Or why could not Partes wait till 
 morning ? 
 
 -♦♦*- 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The silent drive home did not soothe Sybil's temper, and 
 when they reached the house she hardly condescended to loot 
 at her uncle. She ran up the staircase, uttering a careless and 
 scarcely civil " Good-night, uncle," and though he followed her 
 closely, she never looted round. 
 
 " You may say good-by," he said as they reached the land- 
 ing together, " for I shall be gone before you waten." 
 
 Sybil turned round and held out her hand remorsefully. 
 
 "Come in here," he said pushing open the door of the 
 drawing-room, where a light was burning. 
 
 Sybil obeyed. He shut the door after her, and gave her a 
 chair, but toot none himself. 
 
 " This is your first ball," he began. 
 
 " Oh ! pray don't scold ! " interrupted Sybil in a tone of 
 alarm. 
 
 " I only mean to warn, Sybil. As I was waiting for you 
 below, some ladies came down. Their comments upon you 
 were very severe. Do you tnow how many enemies you made 
 this evening? — how much pain you inflicted ?" 
 
 " I wanted to pain no one," again interrupted Sybil. 
 
 " But you did not care to avoid it. The pleasure of the 
 hour was all in all to you, as the pain of that same hour was 
 all in all to others. I tnow you cannot help being admired, 
 but you can help rousing the world up against you. It is very 
 fictle, Sybil. May be it will smile some day when your heart 
 is breaMne. Thint of it well." 
 
 Sybil shoot her hea^l gravely.
 
 6G sybil's second love. 
 
 " All that for a dance at a ball," she said. 
 
 "Well, it is a long sermon for a brief sin," he replied with 
 a smile, " but then I am ambitious for you, Sybil. Think of 
 what you are, my dear, and of what you might be." 
 
 " Well, what am I ? " saucily asked Sybil. 
 
 " He looked at her, and smiled. 
 
 " You are a pretty girl, Sybil." 
 
 " And what else ? " 
 
 " That is just it — you are a pretty girl, and there is an end 
 of it." 
 
 Sybil reddened. She was pleased and pained. His look, as 
 it rested upon her, expressed admiration, and that was pleasant ; 
 but admiration thus qualified was worse than censure, and Sybil 
 felt it painful. 
 
 " I might say more if I had time," he resumed, looking at 
 the clock, " but I must be brief. Do not think, however, that 
 I am going to fall into the commonplace cant of the nothing- 
 ness of beauty. No, Sybil, whenever you are told that beauty 
 is nothing, do not believe it. What ! beauty the type of mind 
 and goodness, of heaven itself, nothing ' It is a heresy to say 
 it, Sybil. It is a falsehood, against which man has protested for 
 the last six thousand years. Beauty is much, and, for my part, 
 when I see a good, beautiful, and accomplished woman, I feel 
 that she is the gem of creation." 
 
 " Ah ! that is just Blancbe," cried Sybil, ardently. " She is 
 all you say — good, beautiful, and accomplished, uncle." 
 
 He looked at her and smiled. Gently and tenderly he 
 smoothed her hair, and twisted one of her long curls around 
 bis finger. 
 
 " You are a true, generous, noble little creature," be said. 
 
 " Uncle." 
 
 " Yes, cbild." 
 
 " Mrs. Ronald gives a party next week — am I to dance if 
 
 igor . 
 
 She stood before him, her eyes all innocence, a demure 
 smile on her lips. He smiled too. 
 
 " Yes, you may dance," he said, " but do not take away 
 the partners from the other girls." 
 
 He watched her without seeming to do so. He saw her 
 standing before him irresolute, and triumphant, brooding over 
 his last words, and hesitating between duty and pleasure. At 
 • length she looked up, and said, saucily, " I shall try, uncle."
 
 sybil's second love. G7 
 
 " No, Sybil, do not ; it is too bard." 
 
 He spoke so severely, tbat tears rose to Sybil's eyes. 
 
 " What's tbe matter, Pussy ? " said ber fatber, entering tbe 
 room. 
 
 " Uncle bas been scolding me," sbe said, angrily ; and, with- 
 ont giving ber uncle another look, she walked out. 
 
 As sbe closed the door she heard her father saying, " What 
 has Pussy done ? " and his brother replying, " She has been 
 dancing too much." But it was as well she did not hear what 
 followed. Mr. Kennedy anxiously inquired if Pussy bad over- 
 heated herself, and when Uncle Edward replied, " No, but sbe 
 bas taken away all tbe partners from the other girls," Mr. Ken- 
 nedy only laughed, and carelessly said, " Let her, Neddy," in a 
 tone wbich showed that he enjoyed his daughter's triumph. 
 
 Sybil entered her room in some wrath. 
 
 "I detest uncle," sbe thought; "he is cynical and disagree- 
 able, and I do not wish him to marry deaf Blanche. He is not 
 worthy of her." 
 
 Sybil was undressing as sbe thought thus. With a hasty 
 band she pulled the wreath of roses from her hair, and the 
 bunch of roses from her bosom. Denise bad fallen asleep in a 
 chair whilst waiting for her young mistress, and Sybil, though 
 she bad a warm temper, had also a warm kind heart, and did 
 not waken the poor tired girl. 
 
 " I wonder he could think of Blanche," indignantly con- 
 tinued Sybil, in her soliloquy ; " does he suppose that she would 
 get no admiration, and, getting it, would not like it ? But, good 
 gracious ! is that a letter from her ? " 
 
 A sealed letter lay on her toilet-table. Sbe seized it, tore 
 it open, read a few hues, then looked at the direction. It was 
 in a hand which bore no likeness to tbat of Blanche Cains, and 
 it was not addressed to Sybil. For a moment sbe remained 
 amazed and bewildered, then she folded up the letter with a 
 trembling band. What had she done ? — what would her father 
 say ? Sybil felt frightened, and she had some cause to feel sc. 
 That letter had been left on ber table, because she had told 
 Denise she expected one from ber friend. It was important, 
 and she had caused its delay ; it was mysterious, and she bad 
 half read it. Denise now awoke with a start, and gave her 
 young mistress a confused stare. 
 
 " Go to bed, Denise," said Sybil, gently ; " I am not un- 
 dressing yet, and you need not wait for me."
 
 68 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Oil ! but I must," said Denise. 
 
 " No, do not — I do not wish it." 
 
 She spoke so positively, that the servant-girl obeyed. — 
 Sybil listened to her heavy sleepy footstep trudging up-stairs, 
 then softly stole down to the library, guided by "the sound of 
 voices. 
 
 She knocked at the door, but they did not hear her, and 
 they spoke so loud that she could not help hearing them. They 
 spoke in English, too, and, believing her to be up-stairs, they 
 thus thought themselves safe from the servants. 
 
 " He has been my curse, and is so still," passionatelv said 
 her father. 
 
 Rather than hear more, Sybil abruptly opened the door, 
 and stood before them with the" letter in her hand. They both 
 seemed so much surprised at her sudden appearance, that Sybil 
 forgot her intended preamble, and said hurriedly : 
 
 " I am yery sorry. It was left on my table by mistake." 
 
 Her uncle was nearest to her ; he took the letter from her, 
 looked at the direction and the broken seal, then at Sybil, but 
 said not a word ; whilst Mr. Kennedy, unconscious of Sybil's 
 real offence, said angrily : 
 
 " Why did you come in without knocking ? " 
 
 " I wished to give the letter at once." 
 
 " How came you to have it ? " he asked, with sparkling eves. 
 
 "I expected one from Blanche Cains, and Denise, thinking 
 this was it, put it on my table." 
 
 " I am sick of Blanche Cains," angrily said Mr. Kennedy — 
 " what is it about, Ned?" 
 
 His brother handed it to him. Mr. Kennedy glanced over 
 it, and said briefly : 
 
 " You must go at once — I shall go and fetch you the papers." 
 
 He rose, and left the library without looking at Sybil. She 
 stood, pale and trembling, before her uncle. He stretched out 
 his arm, and drew her toward him. 
 
 " You read the direction ? " he said, with a quiet, but search- 
 ing look. 
 
 Sybil nodded. 
 
 "And what else, Sybil?" 
 
 -' The first three lines, uncle." 
 
 " Well, do not look so distressed, child. If I had a seal by 
 me," he added, with his kindest smile, "I would put it on your 
 lips, as Alexander did with Hcphaestion, I believe ; but since I
 
 sybil's second love. 69 
 
 have not, I simply enjoin silence upon you. I am not afraid of 
 you, Sybil. You have an open face, too open by far, but I 
 know well enougk-that you can keep your tongue silent, and I 
 need no more." 
 
 • Sybil looked at him. There was a question she longed to 
 put, but his eyes gave her no encouragement. 
 
 " No," he said, " for my part I should not care, but your 
 father would. Trust to him, child, trust to him." 
 
 " I do, I do ! " cried Sybil eagerly ; " but, uncle, I cannot 
 forget what I have read, and it was about the dreadful Mr. 
 Smith ! " 
 
 " Well, what about it ? " 
 
 " But, uncle, there is some danger for you — I cannot help 
 knowing that." 
 
 " Never mind, child, the danger is not great, suiely, since I 
 am going to do the very thing against which that letter warns 
 me." 
 
 " Oh ! pray, don't ! — pray don't do it ! " she entreated. 
 
 He felt her trembling, and he thought she was cold. He 
 chid her for running down iri her muslin dress, with her neck 
 and arms uncovered, and spying her father's cloak on a chair, 
 he took and wrapped it around her. 
 
 " I am not cold," said Sybil, bursting into tears ; " but T am 
 unhappy. Oh ! why will you go ? And why are you so kind, 
 when I know I have been so naughty ? " 
 
 " I go, Sybil, because I must, or justly forfeit honor ; and I 
 am kind, as you call it, because, spite all your sins, and they 
 certainly are heinous, I cannot help being fond of you. And 
 now," he added, taking his handkerchief and gently wiping her 
 tears away, " suppose you leave me — I hear your father coming 
 back, and you will only interfere with us." 
 
 Sybil turned to the door, then came back. 
 
 " You are sure you forgive me?" she said. 
 
 " My dear, I was never angry with you. I cannot forgive." 
 
 " Well, but tell me agaiu I have done no harm by that 
 letter." 
 
 " Then, indeed, if Edward tells you that, he will tell you a 
 precious story," sharply said her father, entering the library with 
 a packet of papers in his hands. " He has lost what neither you 
 nor any one else can give him back, Sybil." 
 
 Sybil heard him and remained mute. She looked from one 
 to the other in such distress, that her father said more kindly,
 
 70 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 " Never mind, Pussy, there is no great harm done — there, 
 
 go IV." 
 
 " Good-by, uncle," said Sybil, in a subdued voice. 
 
 " Good-by, my dear," he replied kindly, shaking her by the 
 hand ; " and do not trouble your little heart." 
 
 " Do leave us, child," impatiently said Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 Sybil obeyed; but she could not help feeling that if ber 
 father humored her little follies more than her uncle, he was not 
 so kind in the hour of grief as this severe censor. 
 
 And it was grief, very genuine grief, she felt, as she entered 
 her room once more. Her first evening of pleasure and triumph 
 ended sadly. For after all she liked her strict uncle, and there 
 was danger in store for him, danger all the more formidable that 
 she knew its existence and not its nature. Her heart sank as 
 her imagination, and it was a fertile one, pictured many a form 
 of peril lying in wait for her uncle. Whither was he going ? — 
 she did not even know that. But the letter she had glanced at 
 was in English, and it spoke of Mr. Smith in words of warning. 
 What had he done? — how had it happened? She sat, still 
 dressed, on the edge of her bed, perplexing her mind with these 
 questions, when she heard him entering his room. No doubt 
 he was packing. Of course he would go down soon. She re- 
 solved to wait for him, and just put one question to him before 
 he left. It was not long ere his door opened again. At once 
 Sybil stole out, and before he had reached the head of the stair- 
 case, she stood before him. 
 
 u My goodness, child ! " he said, in a tone of concern, " do 
 you want to take your death of cold, that you wander about 
 this chill house in that muslin dress ? Now, birdie, be wise, 
 and get at once into your warm bed." 
 
 " I am not cold, uncle, and I shall not delay you, only do 
 pray tell me this — will you come back ? " 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " Oh ! but, uncle, can you come back, or will there be any 
 thing to prevent you ? " 
 
 " God knows," he replied, rather gravely — " what man is 
 master of his fate ? " 
 
 Sybil looked at him with such distress, that he at once re- 
 pented having spoken so freely. 
 
 " You soft-hearted little thing," he said, " do not trouble 
 about a great, careless fellow like me — men are sure to do, 
 Sybil."
 
 sybil's second love. 71 
 
 " Oh ! Lut if I should never see you again ? " said Sybil, 
 ready to cry. 
 
 " Why, the loss would he mine, uot yours ; hut as there is 
 some danger of it, Sybil, good-by ; and if it be forever, why, 
 let it be forever, my dear little girl." 
 
 He took her iu his arms, and kissed her, then hurried down 
 the staircase. Sybil heard the door of the house close upon 
 him. He was gone — gone, spite the warning words which she 
 could not forget : " Go farther than Saint Vincent if you can ; " 
 and instead of going farther, he was returning to seek and brave 
 that unknown peril. What would happen ? — would he ever 
 come back ? — should she ever see again that kind face, which 
 had looked down so leniently into hers this evening ? She reen- 
 tered her room, undressed, and went to bed, but she could not 
 sleep. She lay awake in a burning fever, remembering every 
 word she had read, or he had spoken, and foreseeing none but 
 the moot sorrowful catastrophes. 
 
 -+•4- 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 To have walked about a chill house in her muslin dress 
 gave Sybil a three weeks' illness. Mr. Kennedy was much 
 alarmed ; then, when his fears, which were indeed groundless, 
 calmed down, he was concerned at the depressed state of Syb- 
 il's mind. Anxiety had added to the fever of her complaint. 
 When she questioned Mr. Kennedy concerning her uncle's wel- 
 fare, his impatient replies, " Your uncle is very well," or " Your 
 uncle will do," rather increased than lessened her uneasiness. 
 This she did not express, but he saw it, and feeling that it de- 
 layed her recovery, he reproved her for it. 
 
 " I tell you, child, that your uncle is very well," he assured 
 her again and again. 
 
 " Will he come back ? " plaintively asked Sybil. 
 
 "What makes you so anxious to have him ? — I never thought 
 you doted upon him, Pussy." 
 
 Sybil reddened, and tossed restlessly in her bed. She could 
 not, or, rather, she would not, tell all to her father. She would 
 not tell him that every night she had the nightmare about her 
 uncle and Mr. Smith — that she saw them engaged iu every pos-
 
 72 Sybil's second love. 
 
 sible strife and contest, and that Mr. Smith was invariably the 
 victor. 
 
 " The doctor said you could get up," urged Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 Sybil shook her head, and shut her eyes. She did not care 
 about getting up. Her father was engaged, and what should 
 she do up ? There is no reasoning with sick people, so Mr. 
 Kennedy knew, but he tried to administer a remedy. 
 
 " Perhaps your Aunt Glyn will come back now that Mr. 
 Smith is gone," he said. 
 
 Sybil looked indifferent and cold. 
 
 " Or Mrs. Mush," suggested her father. 
 
 " I don't care about Mrs. Mush," languidly replied Sybil — 
 " she only quizzes me." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy stooped and kissed her pale cheek. 
 
 " Shall it be the angelic Blanche ? " he whispered. 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Sybil, with a flush of joy, " that would be 
 glorious ! " 
 
 She hugged him, she laughed, she cried in her transport. 
 
 " Then get up and write to her," he said, tenderly. 
 
 Denise was summoned. Sybil got up and dressed, and when 
 she was ready, her father came and carried her down in his arms 
 to the library. At once she wrote her letter, and Mr. Kennedy, 
 who had business in Saint Vincent, promised to post it himself. 
 
 Sybil remained sitting where he had left her, near one of the 
 windows. She saw the sunlit cloister, the carved cross, the 
 grasses that grew between the flags, and she felt languidly hap- 
 py. The sense of recovery blended with the joy of seeing her 
 friend again. She forgot her nightmare, Mr. Smith, and her 
 uncle ; or, rather, remembering him, she once more indulged in 
 those reveries about him and Blanche Cains, which had already 
 taken so strong a hold of her. 
 
 " Dear Blanche will be here next week, perhaps," she 
 thought ; " and as to that, so may uncle. If they are both here 
 together, how can they help liking each other ? She is so hand- 
 some, so good, so accomplished ; and he is so manly, so good, 
 too, and though not so handsome as Blanche, very good-look- 
 ing. Besides, he is wonderfully clever, and Blanche will like 
 that. I can fancy how they will talk together. She will be 
 quite a match for him, which I never am, and he will fall in 
 love and be miserable, and tell me all about it, and I shall tell 
 Blanche, and quiz her a bit." 
 
 Here a tap at the window-panes made Sybil look up with a
 
 sybil's second loye. 73 
 
 little start. She uttered a cry of surprise and joy on seeing her 
 Uncle Edward looking at her from behind the glass. He stood 
 in the cloister, a great-coat on his arm, and a carpet-hag in his 
 hand — evidently he had just arrived. Sybil hastily rose and 
 opened the window, and cried out, 
 
 " Oh ! uncle, uncle, I am so glad." 
 
 "Are you, Sybil?" he replied, sparing himself the trouble 
 of going round to the door by entering at once through the open 
 window ; " but how pale you look ! " he added, in a tone of 
 concern. 
 
 " I have been ill," replied Sybil ; " but I am better now. 
 Uncle, have you come to stay ? " 
 
 "Oh! never mind the future," he carelessly replied, looking 
 rather worn and haggard ; " you see that I have come back 
 after all — and so you have been ill, birdie ? " 
 
 " Oh ! it was only a cold, bronchitis, or something of that 
 sort. I am so glad you are at home again." 
 
 She looked very glad indeed, so glad that he felt moved 
 thereby. His had been a solitary path from youth to manhood, 
 with few flowers of affection springing by the way, and such 
 stray blossoms as he got were not to be despised. He looked 
 kindly at this young girl who gave him so cordial a greeting, 
 hesitated whether to leave the room or not, then making up his 
 mind, drew a chair near hers, sat down, and said, 
 
 " I suppose your father is busy ? " 
 
 " He is at Saint Vincent." 
 
 " Oh ! then I shall wait for him here." 
 
 " Do," said Sybil ; " I have so much to say to you." 
 
 " Have you, though ? " 
 
 "Yes. I have been thinking so much about you lately. 
 Don't look at me so — I am not going to question. But since 
 you have come back, I feel as if it must be." 
 
 Uncle Edward did not heed her. He searched the pockets 
 of his great-coat with a look of alarm, then smiling, brought 
 forth a packet, which he laid on Sybil's lap. She opened it, 
 and saw bulbs of the finest kind, bulbs such as she had long 
 wished for, but could not procure in Saint Vincent. 
 
 " Oh ! how kind — how very kind you are ! " she cried, with 
 sparkling eyes. 
 
 " Am I, though ? I should have been a great deal kinder if 
 I had known there was a chance of your escaping ns, birdie. I 
 can see you have been very ill whilst I was away." 
 4
 
 74: Sybil's second love. 
 
 # 
 
 He spoke very kindly. He spoke as if he really did care 
 for her. Sybil felt that the depths of her heart were stirred. 
 
 " Uncle," she said, a little vehemently, " you may do or say 
 what you like henceforth — I shall never quarrel with it again — ■ 
 never." 
 
 " My dear, I do not mean to find fault any more — I am go- 
 ing to become one of your admirers." 
 
 " No, don't — pray don't ! " cried Sybil, alarmed ; " you 
 kn ow my dear father spoils me, and I really do want some one 
 to blame me." 
 
 " And kindly promote me to the office, so that you will 
 hate me every now and then." 
 
 " Oh ! no, not hate you." 
 
 "Every now and then there will be reconciliations and 
 quarrels, and our friendship will be like a young torrent leaping 
 over rocks and stones ; whereas I would have it a fair, placid, 
 flowing stream, both deep and still." 
 
 Sybil thought awhile, then said, 
 
 " Uncle, it is not friendship you feel for me." 
 
 " Indeed ! — pray what is it ? " 
 
 " It is liking, but not friendship. You tell me nothing — I 
 mean, nothing that concerns yourself." 
 
 He reddened a little as he answered, 
 
 " I cannot ; my secrets are not my own. If your friend 
 Miss Cains had trusted you w ith her secret, would you tell me ? " 
 
 " No — that would be treason." 
 
 " So it would, and terrible treason, therefore am I mute." 
 
 " She is coming," knowingly said' Sybil — " the letter is 
 gone." 
 
 Uncle Edward looked confounded. 
 
 " What ! Miss Cains is coming here ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " She is." 
 
 " And she is coming here, Sybil ? " 
 
 " Yes — why not ? Papa saw me so dull, that he gave in. 
 I though he never would." 
 
 Her uncle looked grave, but said nothing. 
 
 "And you shall see her now," resumed Sybil. 
 
 " Why, what a marvel is this Miss Cains ! " he asked, re- 
 covering his usual manner. 
 
 " I should think so — so beautiful, so clever, so amiable, and 
 so good." 
 
 Uncle Edward's gray eyes lit.
 
 sybil's second love. 75 
 
 " Take care, my dear," he said, " such a portrait may prove 
 delusive. What if I find her short of all this ? " 
 
 Sybil smiled securely. 
 
 " You will find her far beyond it," she replied, " for habit 
 hides much from me, which you must perceive." 
 
 " My dear, good little Sybil," kindly said Uncle Edward, 
 " happy the man who gets your 
 
 " What ! with all my faults ? " saucily said Sybil. 
 
 '"Ay, indeed — only don't throw yourself away — do uot." 
 
 Sybil nodded sagaciously. 
 
 " I shall try not to do so," she said, shrewdly. 
 
 " I do wish you would make a confidant of me when that 
 time comes," he continued, " and let me advise or warn — will 
 you?" 
 
 No — yes," replied Sybil, a little startled ; " but, uncle, she 
 added, quietly, " I wish you would marry Miss Cains." 
 
 " Sybil ! " 
 
 " Yes, I wish you would — I am sure you would make a 
 good husband." 
 
 " I am much obliged to you for your good opinion of me." 
 
 " Ah ! you think I take a liberty." 
 
 " Not I — only pray tell me ou what that favorable opinion 
 is grounded." 
 
 '* Uncle, you are just and kind, therefore a good and amiable 
 woman would be happy with you, and make you happy too." 
 
 " ' Chi lo sa, J as the Italian sayeth. Your friend is very 
 perfect, Sybil ; perhaps I require a spice of wickedness — some- 
 thing in your way, my dear." 
 
 Sybil blushed. 
 
 " I do not mean to be naughty again," she said, gravely. 
 
 " Do not be too sure of that. Who was it that was sick, 
 and a monk would be ? — " 
 
 " Never mind," interrupted Sybil, with a merry twinkle in 
 her dark eye — " we have nothing to do with him, have we? — 
 and I come back to my starting-point : I wish you would 
 marry Blanche Cains." 
 
 " There never was so inveterate a little match-maker ! 
 Why, what puts matrimony into your head this morning?" 
 
 " Selfishness. Oh ! it would be so pleasant to have you 
 both here." 
 
 " Yes, but suppose you take your wings and fly to some 
 other nest, leaving the fair Blanche and your humble servant in 
 the lurch ? "
 
 76 sybil's second love. 
 
 Sybil replied a little impatiently, there was no fear of that 
 just then, and came back to her argument. 
 
 " You see, uncle, Blanche is just the girl you must admire." 
 
 " What ! Blanche again ? " 
 
 " Yes, Blanche again, for, uncle, you are quite old enough 
 to get married, and since dear Blanche is coming, that is just 
 your opportunity. She is so good, and has such beautiful fea- 
 tures, and — " 
 
 " You imprudent girl ! " he interrupted. " I shall lose my 
 heart on your description ; and then suppose the fair Blanche 
 will have nothing to say to me, how shall I get it back ? — my 
 lost heart, of course." 
 
 Sybil laughed outright. 
 
 " You are not so susceptible as all that," she said, " and you 
 are not going to lose your heart on my description." 
 
 " How can you tell ? It was so that Colonel Hutchinson, 
 who was both a Puritan and a Roundhead, fell in love with the 
 lady whom he married, and a false report that she had wedded 
 another nearly drove him distracted before he had even seen 
 her face." 
 
 " Well, uncle, I shall say no more, of course, but I do not 
 think that Blanche would have nothing to say to you — she has 
 better sense, and better taste too." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear, I call that a nice little compliment ; 
 but, alas ! what has sense or taste to do with these matters ? 
 Miss Cains and I may just prove foolish, and take a dislike to 
 each other." 
 
 " Oh ! but that would be too bad," exclaimed Sybil. 
 
 " What would be too bad ? " asked Mr. Kennedy, unexpect- 
 edly coming in upon them. 
 
 Now, neither cared to answer this question quite sincerely. 
 Nevertheless it was Sybil who spoke. 
 
 " Uncle has taken a prejudice against poor dear Blanche. 
 But, oh ! papa, how soon you are home again. Is the letter 
 gone ? " 
 
 " Indeed it is, and on its way by this. So Edward is not 
 smitten beforehand with the fair Blanche ? What heresy ! " 
 
 " It is heresy ! " said Sybil, gravely. 
 
 They both laughed at her, and she laughed too, but she 
 saw them exchange a perplexed, troubled look, which puzzled 
 her. They soon left the room together, and as they did so, 
 Sybil heard her father answering her uncle :
 
 sybil's second love. 77 
 
 ** I could not help it." 
 
 The truth flashed across her mind in a moment. It was 
 her uncle who had caused the departure of Mrs. Mush ; it was her 
 uncle who had prevented the coming of Blanche Cains. How 
 unsociable of him ; but may be he had a reason. Then came 
 some thoughts of Mr. Smith, but they took no definite shape, 
 and floated dimly through her mind — ghosts of the fancy, such 
 as haunt us all. 
 
 -+*+-- 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Later, when she looked back over this season of her youth, 
 Sybil often thought that these w r ere perhaps its happiest days. 
 Her recovery -was rapid, and her father's tenderness, her uncle's 
 kindness, added to the buoyant sense of life within her. To 
 crown all, Blanche had written, and was coming, and hope and 
 expectation filled Sybil's heart. Many were the happy evening- 
 hours she now spent with her two companions, sometimes in the 
 library, sometimes in the garden. Her Uncle Edward had taken 
 Sybil in hand in a gentler spirit than at first. Mr. Kennedy sat 
 and read the newspaper, and wrote his letters, whilst his brother 
 read or studied w T ith Sybil. He seemed resolved to atone for all 
 previous harshness by the mildness of his present teaching. 
 Teaching, in one sense, it was not, for Sybil took no actual les- 
 sons, but conversation has its uses and its power. 
 
 Sybil's mind was by no means a weak one, though her tastes 
 were often frivolous, and it amused Uncle Edward to draw her 
 out, and especially to provoke her. Their conversations were 
 downright contests, in which he invariably took the part allotted 
 to the challenger in the ancient tourneys. He sat in his saddle, 
 lance in rest, ready to bear down whosoever entered the lists. 
 Sybil's knights might be brave and fair — heroes, poets, philoso- 
 phers — Uncle Edward cared not. His business was to tight, 
 and he fought stoutly, till he either conquered his poor little 
 enemy, or magnanimously gave her a chance, and let her escape. 
 Sybil liked this very much. Indeed, she thought that arguing 
 was decidedly one of the pleasures of life, and she lost no op- 
 portunity of securing that pleasure. Uncle Edward might bo 
 in the most pacific mood ; Sybil cared not, she liked war for
 
 78 Sybil's second love. 
 
 war's own sake, and ever found the means to rouse Mm. TJncle 
 Edward was prose — or, at least, said he was — and Sybil knew 
 how to sting him by an extra dose of poetry. 
 
 On rather a dreary evening, when the sea-wind blew dis- 
 mally, and the rain beat against the window-panes, Sybil, look- 
 ing round her with a sigh — her father was buried in the Times, 
 and Uncle Edward sat with folded arms, not heeding her — ex- 
 claimed dolefully, 
 
 " I do wish I had been born five hundred years ago ! " 
 
 " Five ! " gravely said Uncle Edward. 
 
 " I do," persisted Sybil. " I hate these matter-of-fact days 
 of ours, I do." 
 
 " Now, little lady," said Uncle Edward, looking up, " no 
 nonsense." 
 
 " It is not nonsense, uncle, but delightful sense. It is ! " 
 
 " I wonder how you would bave liked it, though." 
 
 " Amazingly, Uncle Ned." 
 
 Uncle Ned-fell into the trap, and shook his heavy hair im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " Well, I wonder how you would have liked living in the 
 days of that brave and loyal knight, Bertrand du Guesclin, 
 whose chronicle I have been reading to-day. A true knight he 
 was ; but alack the day ! those were queer times to live in, Sybil. 
 Some fighting then went on between England and France, 
 and money having been at all times the sinews of war, good 
 Bertrand gets into my lady, his mother's chamber, and carries 
 oft' her jewel-box. Madame Mere, though as pious a lady as 
 could be, resents this. Ere long, however, good Bertrand makes 
 amends. He encounters and slays a certain English knight in 
 whose baggage another jewel-box is found. Tins he dutifully 
 presents to his mother, who takes it, poor pious soul, and re- 
 joices at having so good a son." 
 
 " I do not believe that Du Guesclin was a thief," indig- 
 nantly said Sybil. 
 
 " A thief! — who said he was ? But he lived in the four- 
 teenth century, and that was an arrant thief, for it held these 
 things lawful, and admired and recorded them. For all that, 
 very pretty is the chronicle of Du Guesclin. There is a descrip- 
 tion of an army before battle, with lances gleaming, trumpets 
 sounding, and banners waving, which will charm you, Sybil, 
 only you will do as all smoothers-down of the Middle Ages do, 
 vou will leave out the black spots, the free companies for in-
 
 sybil's second love. 79 
 
 stance, whom excommunication could not keep under, and who, 
 when they went to be relieved from the Pope's ban, did so 
 plundering on their way." 
 
 " Uncle," solemnly said Sybil, " you take one-sided views. 
 To be sure, those were rough times, but then think how poetic 
 they were ! " 
 
 " I wonder who saw the poetry then, Sybil ? The minstrel-, 
 the troubadors ? I doubt it. The true poet sings of war, but 
 he is a child of peace. Besides, the finest minds did not turn to 
 poetry then. They took refuge in the cloister, and hid there 
 from the stormy world without. As to the women, I wonder 
 how they liked the poetry of an era which made them, high or 
 low, the prey of the strong. Why, a little girl like you, Sybil, 
 discussing these matters would then have been something 
 monstrous." 
 
 Now, the intellectual rights of her sex were one of Sybil's 
 weak or strong points. Uncle Edward had invariably opposed 
 her pretensions on this score, and on hearing him appeal to this 
 old ground of quarrel, she turned upon him at once. 
 
 " Ah ! " she cried triumphantly, " I have got you, uncle — I 
 have got you ! What did you say last night i " 
 
 "Some foolish thing, I dare say." 
 
 " You said that the wish to know was the modern disease 
 amongst girls." 
 
 " And so it is — a perfect depravity." 
 
 " Mediaeval — mediaeval ! " cried Sybil, clapping her hands. 
 " You want to keep woman in the ignorance of the Middle 
 Ages, and yet you invoke that ignorance of woman against them. 
 I don't know logic, uncle, but I am sure you are wrong." 
 
 " I am afraid I am," said Uncle Edward, smiling. 
 
 Svbil ran to her father. 
 
 J 
 
 " I have beaten uncle in argument," she cried, exultingly — 
 " is it not glorious ? " 
 
 " Yes, Pussy, if your victory be genuine." 
 
 A saucy " of course it is " was going to be Sybil's reply, but 
 it was checked by the opening of the door. 
 
 An opening door may seem a very slight thing in daily life, 
 but there are times when it is quite dramatic, and that even in 
 the most commonplace existence. So it proved now, for when 
 the door of Mr. Kennedy's library opened, it was to admit no 
 less a person than Miss Glyn. 
 
 She came in erect, dignified, and, as Mr. Kennedy saw at a
 
 80 sybil's second love. 
 
 glance, prepared for action. "Whatever he might feel at so un 
 expected a visit, he put on a look of joyful surprise, that sat ad' 
 mirably on his handsome, genial face. 
 
 " My dear Mary," he cried, " how very kind of you ! My 
 brother Edward — my sister-in-law, Miss Glyn." 
 
 Uncle Edward stood with his back to the fireplace. He 
 bowed and smiled ; but whether that smile was one of courtesy, 
 or was suggested by the extraordinary expression that passed 
 across Miss Glyn's face, Sybil, who looked on, could not deter- 
 mine. That some strange story was being even then enacted 
 in her presence, she saw, but its nature she could not divine. 
 Miss Glyn at length drew a deep breath, and looked at her 
 brother-in-law. 
 
 " That is your doing, Mr. Kennedy," she said, and she 
 walked out of the room crimson and indignant. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy laughed. Uncle Edward smiled. 
 
 " My presence in this house does not seem very acceptable 
 to Miss Glyn," he said carelessly. 
 
 " She will get used to it," as carelessly said his brother, and 
 they spoke at once of other things. 
 
 Sybil's perplexity was plainly expressed in her looks, yet 
 neither brother seemed to see or to heed it. She gazed at them 
 earnestly, and they no more minded her than if she were not 
 in the room. Her curiosity was strangely roused. " Perhaps 
 aunt will tell me," she thought, and she stole out of the library 
 and glided up-stairs. 
 
 Miss Glyn was in her room ; she w r as in the act of taking off 
 her bonnet, but she put it on again as Sybil entered. 
 
 " You are going away, aunt \ " cried Sybil. 
 
 " No," and the bonnet w r as taken off once more and tcssed 
 on the bed. Miss Glyn was an austere person, but she was also 
 dignified. Such little bursts of temper were unknown to Sybil 
 as connected with her aunt. She could not help saying, 
 
 " Aunt, what has happened ? " 
 
 " I think you know," was Miss Glyn's sharp reply. 
 
 " I suppose you mean tbe coming of my Uncle Edward. 
 Aunt, he is very good." 
 
 "I expressed no opinion on this subject," frigidly said Miss 
 Glyn ; " and I beg that we may drop it, Sybil. Indeed, we have 
 already said too much." 
 
 "But, aunt, we have said nothing," rather petulantly re- 
 plied Sybil ; "and I wish you would not be prejudiced against
 
 sybil's second love. 81 
 
 him — lie is not vulgar like Mr. Smith, but a perfect gentle- 
 man." 
 
 " I must really trouble you to leave me, Sybil ; and as you 
 go down, my dear, will you just ask your father to let me have 
 a five minutes' conversation with him somewhere — say in the 
 drawing-room or in the dining-room — anywhere, in short." 
 
 Sybil, much abashed at the loftiness of her aunt's tone, 
 obeyed at once. When she had reached the door, Miss Glyn 
 called her back. 
 
 " Don't send that goggle-eyed French maid of yours with 
 your father's answer," she said, tartly ; " nor yet that heathen- 
 ish fellow, Adonis." 
 
 " Narcisse," corrected Sybil; " no, aunt, I shall come mv- 
 self." 
 
 She went down troubled and depressed, but not so felt Miss 
 Glyn. She had come post-haste from London to Saint Vincent, 
 and she had come expressly to expel Mr. Kennedy's brother. 
 Mrs. Mush had apprised her of his existence, and as Miss Glyn 
 objected to him infinitely more than to Mr. Smith, she had de- 
 creed that leave he must. But it is awkward to turn even ob- 
 jectionable people out of other men's houses ; and composed 
 though she looked, Miss Glyn was a little flurried when Sybil 
 came back to tell her that Mr. Kennedy was waiting for her in 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 " Very well, child," she said, slightly agitated at the ap- 
 proaching battle ; " I am going," but she waited to go till Sybil 
 had left her again. 
 
 When Miss Glyn at length entered the drawing-room, she 
 found Mr. Kennedy waiting for her there, as bland and smiling 
 as if he did not know or guess what his sister-in-law wanted 
 him for. Miss Glyn had resolved to be very cool, very lady- 
 like, and yet very determined ; but Mr. Kennedy's smile so pro- 
 voked her, that she at once burst forth with a vehement, 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy, who is that man ? " 
 
 Mr. Kennedy was all amazement. What man did Miss Glyn 
 mean ? 
 
 " That man whom I saw below, Mr. Kennedy." 
 
 " I suppose you mean my brother Edward." 
 
 "Your brother! — you have no brother! " cried Miss Glyn ; 
 " and I know it." 
 
 "I wonder, though, how either you or any one can know 
 that," coollv said Mr. Kennedy. 
 4*
 
 82 stbil's secoxd love. 
 
 " Because not a soul ever heard of him till he came here — 
 that's all" 
 
 " My dear madam, you never heard of him ; but allow me 
 to assure you Edward has not reached his present age unseen 
 and unknown." 
 
 He spoke with an audacious calmness which confounded 
 Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy," she said at length, " when Mrs. Mush told 
 me in London that your brother was here, I confess I thought 
 she was inventing, as usual — for of course a person who talks 
 so much as she does, must invent ; but as there must be some 
 foundation even for invention, I came prepared to find a new 
 edition of that wretched Mr. Smith, but I was not prepared for 
 this, Mr. Kennedy ; and how you could or can betray your own 
 child, and have a strange man in the house under pretence of 
 his being her uncle, is more than / can understand. However, 
 Sybil is my niece, and unless you turn me out, I warn you that 
 I shall stay here and give her at least the protection of my 
 presence." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy often boasted that he was a patient man, and 
 that he could keep his temper under some trying circumstances. 
 Any one that had looked at him then, as he heard his sister-in- 
 law, must have acknowledged the truth of his boast. The 
 smile, courteous and friendly, remained fixed on his face, but 
 his eyes sparkled with anger. His words, however, matched 
 with his smile. 
 
 " My dear Mary," he said, kindly, " how can you be so un- 
 just as to suppose your presence here is not what I most wish 
 for ? Indeed, Sybil has been going rather wild in your absence, 
 and your return is a Godsend. She has been to a party, and 
 made quite a sensation since you left us. Her success was al- 
 most greater than I liked. I have been given to understand, by 
 Mrs. Ronald, that I can get her a husband when I wish, and 
 though of course, the child is too young — " 
 
 " I do not think so," dryly interrupted Miss Glyn ; " and con- 
 sidering the peculiar circumstances of the case, I think your 
 daughter cannot be married — well married of course — too soon." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Mr. Kennedy. " Well," he added, after a 
 brief pause, "you may be right in the main. We shall think 
 over it." 
 
 But even this conciliatory speech could not soften Miss Glyn
 
 sybil's second love. 83 
 
 from her purpose. She gave her brother-in-law a hard, obstinate 
 look of her brown eyes, and said, in a short, sharp tone, 
 
 " I warn you that I shall watch that inau." 
 
 " You are very welcome," was his civil reply. 
 
 Miss Glyn felt she had better say no more ; so, with a distant 
 bend of the head, she left the apartment, and returned to her 
 own room. She there found Sybil, troubled and anxious. 
 
 " Oh ! aunt, you are not going away again ? " she entreated. 
 
 " Going away ! — no, indeed ! Mrs. Mush is so prudent and 
 selfish that she would not remain ; she got out of it, but I will 
 stay for your sake, Sybil." 
 
 Miss Glyn longed to add a severe prohibition concerning 
 speech, intercourse, and even looks, as connected with Sybil's 
 impostor uncle, but prudence bade her be silent, and was luckily 
 obeyed. 
 
 " Aunt, is there any thing about — about Mr. Smith ? " asked 
 Sybil, all curiosity. 
 
 " It is worse — much worse ! " solemnly said Miss Glyn ; but 
 she would say no more. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Miss Glyn's watching began that same evening. She went 
 down to the library resolved to discover some great fault, or 
 vice, or mischief in the impostor — so she mentally called Sybil's 
 unc le — for nothing would convince her that the relationship was 
 at all genuine ; but to her annoyance she failed. Uncle Edward 
 was all she could wish with Sybil ; he was kind, but not affection- 
 ate. When he reproved her, it was sensibly and shrewdly, and 
 in look, manner, and bearing, he was the most consistent of 
 uncles. 
 
 "It is all his art," indignantly thought Miss Glyn, and she 
 gave him withering glances, which frightened Sybil, but which 
 Uncle Edward bore with the greatest composure. 
 
 The next day rather added to Miss Glyn's exasperation, than 
 lessened it; for she then learned from Sybil the forthcoming 
 arrival of Miss Cains : also that Mrs. Ronald was giving another 
 partv, and that she, Sybil, her father, and her uncle, were all
 
 84 sybil's second love. 
 
 going to it that evening. " And you must come too, aunt," 
 added Sybil. 
 
 " That settles it all," moodily thought Miss Glyn ; " the im- 
 postor will appear as her uncle, and his brother, and how will it 
 ever be possible to efface the impression of such an announce- 
 ment ? " 
 
 Miss Glyn wondered whether she could not prevent Sybil 
 from appearing in public with " the impostor ! " but, not being 
 of an inventive turn, found no better expedient than to be very 
 ill, and go to bed just as Sybil was dressing for the party. 
 
 Sybil at once volunteered to stay and nurse her aunt ; but 
 her father, who, may be, saw through Miss Glyn's illness, curtly 
 forbade her to think of such a thing. So it was decreed that 
 Sybil should go all the same. 
 
 " And I am so sorry, aunt, you cannot come," said Sybil, 
 fastening on a pretty gold bracelet, her father's last present, by the 
 bedside of Miss Glyn. " It is quite tiresome. Uncle Edward, 
 too, declares he will not go, at the eleventh hour. It is provok- 
 ing ! " 
 
 " And why will he not go ? " sharply asked Miss Glyn, vexed 
 not to have known that before. 
 
 " He says he does not like parties. But it is tiresome. He 
 let me think the whole day that he would be one of my part- 
 ners. And it is most provoking ; for it seems I must not waltz. 
 French girls do not waltz, as a rule, down here; and Mrs. 
 Ronald is afraid of affronting them — only I could have waltzed 
 with my own uncle. But he never said he Avas not going till 
 you went to bed with that bad headache of yours." 
 
 " He did it to aggravate me," thought Miss Glyn, irefully. 
 " Well, well, we shall see yet." Vexation and annoyance had 
 given her a genuine headache by this, and it was quite sincerely, 
 though somewhat impatiently, that she requested to be left 
 alone, and in darkness. Sybil went down, very sorry for poor 
 aunt, vexed at not having a waltzer in Uncle Edward, but 
 charmed at heart after all. For was she not going to a party, 
 and should she not be admired and courted again? She was 
 to wait for her father in the drawing-room ; but when her hand 
 was on the lock, she learned by his voice within that he was 
 already there, for she heard him saying, 
 
 " Now, Ned, you must." 
 
 To which Uncle Edward's voice replied, most deliberately, 
 
 " I will not."
 
 sybil's second love. 85 
 
 Sybil felt a little frightened, and entered precipitately. Her 
 father stood with an open letter in his hand, and, as Sybil saw 
 at a glance, not dressed for the party. He detected her disap- 
 pointed look, and said a little hurriedly, 
 
 " I cannot take you, Pussy — a very provoking piece of busi- 
 ness keeps me here this evening ; but your uncle will go with 
 you." 
 
 He gave neither uncle nor niece time to reply; but, by 
 leaving the room as he spoke, compelled them to settle this del- 
 icate matter between them. Sybil knew now what her father 
 was insisting upon, and what her uncle was refusing when she 
 came in upon them. She sat down disconsolately, and said not 
 one word. Uncle Edward rose and came up to where Sybil 
 sat, with her cheek on her hand, and her eyes bent on the floor. 
 She looked the picture of disappointment in her pretty ball at- 
 tire, dressed from top to toe, her very gloves on, her fan dan- 
 gling on her arm, her little satin feet sadly tapping the oak floor. 
 
 " Confess, Sybil, you think me a monster? " said Uncle Ed- 
 ward, trying to speak gayly. 
 
 Sybil shook her head. " No, she thought nothing of the 
 kind. Of course she was disappointed ; but she could bear it." 
 
 Uncle Edward walked about the room, and came back to 
 her, looking troubled and perplexed. 
 
 " I wish I could please you," he said ; " I wish your aunt 
 had not put on that foolish headache, and that your father could 
 take you." 
 
 Sybil felt provoked. 
 
 " Where's the use of wishing ? " she said sharply. 
 
 "You mean I should assist you, Sybil — I cannot — I must 
 not." 
 
 " And you will not, uncle ? " 
 
 " My dear, it would be wrong, very wrong. Your father is 
 so bent on pleasing your little whims, that he looks over every 
 thing ; but I think more of your good than of your pleasure." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I know," said Sybil, who was getting cross. " I 
 suppose I ought to be much obliged to you, uncle, but you see 
 I am not. You could give me a happy evening, and you will 
 not do it. Of course you mean it for my good, but as I cannot 
 see how and why it is so, I do not feel very grateful." 
 
 " Sybil, do not be unjust." 
 
 He sat down by her and wanted to take her hand, but Sybil 
 would not grant her sinning uncle this token of good-will.
 
 86 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Do not tempt me, Sybil," lie said, a little reproachfully. 
 
 Of course on hearing this, Sybil tempted him at once. 
 
 " Dear, good old Uncle Neddy," she said, turning a beam 
 ing, coaxing face toward him ; " I shall love you so much, 1 
 shall be so happy, if you will take me this one evening. Oh ! 
 do — pray do ! I shall not dance a bit more than you like ; and 
 I shall not want to be admired — not I." 
 
 She shook her head in demure denial, and she looked so 
 pretty, that Uncle Edward laughed, and said frankly, 
 
 " But you cannot help being admired, Sybil." 
 
 " And you will take me ? " continued the little siren, softly 
 smoothing his cheek with her little gloved hand. 
 
 There were many reasons for which, though he disliked go- 
 ing to Mrs. Ronald's, Uncle Edward could not help wishing to 
 please Sybil. He felt as the harshest sometimes feel, in the 
 yielding mood. So looking down at her with a smile, he hesi- 
 tated, said " Yes," then rising from her side, retracted it with a 
 sharp, sudden "No." 
 
 " That is too bad," cried Sybil, and she burst into tears ; 
 but the yielding moment had flown by, and did not return. 
 
 Uncle Edward was sorry for her childish grief, but it was 
 childish, and it did not change his purpose. Sybil's tears were 
 still flowing behind her little cambric handkerchief, when a 
 knock at the door ushered in Denise, and behind her Madame 
 de Lonville. Sybil rose rather flushed and ashamed ; then, see- 
 ing that Madame de Lonville was in full dress, and evidently 
 going to the party, she flew to her in sudden hope. 
 
 " Oh ! dear Madame de Lonville," she cried, in eager, broken 
 French, "will you take me to Mrs. Ronald's? Papa and uncle 
 cannot, and aunt is unwell, and I must stay at home. If your 
 carriage is too small, ours is large enough. Oh ! do." 
 
 Madame de Lonville was rather taken by surprise at this eager, 
 vehement, and decidedly indecorous address, but she soon re- 
 covered, and, indeed, so did Sybil, who, blushing and ashamed, 
 begged her pardon, and requested her to be seated. Madame 
 de Lonville complied with the request, and looked round as if 
 for Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 " Papa is busy," said Sybil, rather downcast, as it occurred 
 to her that Madame de Lonville had come to talk business 
 with Mr. Kennedy, " but that is uncle." 
 
 A cold bow and hard stare were exchanged by Uncle Ed- 
 ward and the lady ; then she coughed a dubious cough, and said 
 cautiously :
 
 sybil's second love. 87 
 
 " I am so glad you were not gone — I was afraid you would 
 be." 
 
 Sybil's heart beat. It could not be to take her that Madame 
 de Lonville bad come. 
 
 " My errand is a friendly one," resumed the lady, " yet do 
 you know, dear mademoiselle, that it is very hard to express — ■ 
 very?" 
 
 Sybil looked as she felt — very much perplexed. Madame 
 de Lonville resumed: 
 
 "Just before setting out I received a visit from a gentleman, 
 who will not be named. Through him I learned, my dear child, 
 that you had better not go to Mrs. Ronald's to-night." 
 
 " And pray why so ?" asked Sybil, reddening. 
 
 " My dear young lady, Mrs. Ronald has for years past been 
 endeavoring to unite her French and English friends, and she 
 never succeeded till the other evening, when your success made 
 them unite — I mean the ladies, of course — against you. There 
 was quite an uproar after you left ; the ladies would not dance, 
 and the gentlemen were punished. I see you are shocked — 
 well, it is hard ; only, as you took all their partners from them, 
 they have decreed that you shall have no partner worth having. 
 So if you go to Mrs. Ronald's to-night, no good dancer will 
 ask you." 
 
 " Then I shall go," excitedly said Sybil, who looked two 
 inches taller ; " I will not remain here and confess myself con- 
 quered." 
 
 " But, my dear," impressively said Madame de Lonville, 
 " think how dreadful to be the laughing-stock of a whole room ! 
 All the men — all save the one who revealed to me this cabal 
 against you — have been compelled to promise that they would 
 not ask you. The ladies declared that unless the gentlemen 
 yielded, they would rather never dance again than be affronted 
 as they had been the other evening. In short, my dear, it is a 
 dancing strike." 
 
 Sybil was too much mortified to take any pleasure in Mad- 
 ame de Lonville's joke. Tears of vexation and pain rose to her 
 eyes, and though pride would not let them fall, the struggle was 
 a severe one. 
 
 " I consider it quite providential that my informant sustained 
 such an accident that he could not possibly go to the party," 
 resumed Madame de~ Lonville, "for otherwise he did net mean 
 to tell me this. He meant to dunce with and avenge you, as he
 
 88 Sybil's second love. 
 
 said, instead of which he would simply have committed you, aa 
 I told him. For what would the world have said if it had seen 
 you dancing with none save one very handsome young man ? " 
 
 Sybil did not answer — she could not. This was her first 
 battle with the world, and she had come out of it conquered. 
 What nothing else had done, jealousy of her had effected. She 
 had reconciled the most opposed and antagonistic parties. It 
 was a hard and hitter pill to swallow, and Sybil was not proud 
 enough to conceal her grief. But what is one man's poison is 
 another man's meat. Mrs. Ronald, faithless woman, knew of 
 this cabal, and rejoiced in it, for by sacrificing poor little Sybil 
 to her enemies, she could fulfil the end of her existence, the 
 purpose, no doubt, for which she had been created. Sybil did 
 not know this, but Madame de Lonville knew it well, and Uncle 
 Edward, who had listened to her revelations in attentive silence, 
 knew it too. He knew more. "Whilst Madame de Lonville 
 spoke, his keen gray eyes never left her face, but read it like a 
 book. We are sorry to add that Uncle Edward liked but indif- 
 ferently well the story it told him. 
 
 " Miss Kennedy is much obliged to you, madame," he said 
 gravely, " for the trouble you have taken on her behalf; but 
 she was not going to Mrs. Ronald's, as you see. Perhaps you 
 will have the kindness to tell Mrs. Ronald what a succession of 
 small accidents deprive us all of the pleasure of seeing her this 
 evening." 
 
 Madame Lonville would be most happy to do so, and she 
 rose and took her leave, comforting poor woe-begone Sybil. 
 
 " Ob ! Miss Kennedy will be a match for them yet," gayly 
 said Uncle Edward ; " I suppose that if it becomes known her 
 father too means to give balls, it will change matters wonder- 
 fully." 
 
 " Why, yes, I do believe it will," slowly said Madame de 
 Lonville, " the drawing-room is large at Saint Vincent. Do not 
 fret, my dear — this is but a cloud, it will pass t away." 
 
 She waddled off; Sybil was too miserable to think of seeing 
 her out. But Uncle Edward escorted her with scrupulous po- 
 liteness. 
 
 " Uncle, none of these girls shall ever enter this house," 
 jried Sybil with flashing eyes, when he came back — " never, I 
 cannot endure the sio-ht of them. I had not deserved that. 
 What ! all against me, and the men too — only one who was not 
 a coward ? "
 
 sybil's second love. 89 
 
 ■ ' 
 
 Her lips trembled with indignation. Uncle Edward tried 
 to comfort her ; but she would not heed him. Sybil was ill- 
 used and wronged, and declared in one breath that sbe " did 
 not care a pin about it;" and in the other, that she "had never 
 spent so miserable an evening." 
 
 " Wait till it is out," said Uncle Edward, looking at his 
 watch, " it is not nine yet." 
 
 " Oh, uncle ! " cried Sybil with sparkling eyes, " do 7011 
 tbink Blanche will come ? " 
 
 " Strange things happen daily," he replied. 
 
 " Yes, but then how should you know 1 " 
 
 "How do I know a hundred things of which your ladyship 
 has no conception ? Birds in the air give me information. Your 
 cat Minette tells me all sorts of things : chairs and tables let out 
 secrets; in short, I have many ways and means of getting 
 knowledge." 
 
 Uncle, you are in very good spirits to-night," said Sybil ; 
 " you look ten years younger." 
 
 " Do I ? Then I suppose it is because the spirit of proph- 
 ecy is upon me. Or is it the prospect of seeing the peerless 
 Blanche ? " 
 
 " She is peerless, " cried Sybil ; " and if she comes to-night 
 I shall be glad to have remained within, whatever you may think, 
 uncle." 
 
 " Ah ! but remember that dreadful cabal." 
 
 " I do, and I scorn it — I know Blanche would. There, you 
 laugh. Now, uncle, confess you have taken a prejudice against 
 poor dear Blanche ! " 
 
 " No — but I am apt to form my own opinions of people." 
 
 " I am not afraid for her," cried Sybil warmly, " she will 
 stand the test — no, uncle, you cannot imagine what she is." 
 
 " I suppose not — only the more you praise her, Sybil, my 
 dear, the more I like you. I do believe you have one of the 
 finest and the mjost generous natures I ever knew." 
 
 Sybil looked at him with some wonder. His gray eyes 
 sparkled as they were bent on her. His pale face was slightlj 
 flushed, and overflowed with tenderness and admiration. 
 
 " Sybil, my. dear little Sybil," he said, taking one of hei 
 hands and pressing it softly between his own, "the world is 
 often very cruel. The world may tell you some day that Uncle 
 Edward did not value you as you should be valued ; that he held 
 you lightly, and as a thing of litlle worth ; never believe it,
 
 90 Sybil's second love. 
 
 Sybil — never. But believe me when I say that I love you truly 
 and dearly — no brother ever loved a darling sister better." 
 
 " Nor uncle a niece," said Sybil gayly. 
 
 " Our years are more those of brother and sister than of 
 uncle and niece," he replied ; " and, Sybil, I don't want your 
 respect so much as your confidence and affection." 
 
 " Well, then, uncle, I shall tell you something," confiden- 
 tially said Sybil, drawing her chair nearer to his. 
 
 " Do, my dear." 
 
 " At first I did not like you at all — I mean before I saw you." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " Then for two days I liked vou." 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " After that I disliked you." 
 
 " That was an improvement." 
 
 " Then I got to like you realty, you know." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 " And now, uncle. I am quite fond of you." 
 
 She spoke triumphantly, but was somewhat amazed to see 
 the change which came over Uncle Edward's face as he spoke. 
 Infinite softness beamed in his eyes, but they did not gaze on 
 her; his lips trembled with a smile, but it seemed to Sybil that 
 in that smile she had no part. 
 
 " Uncle," she said, a little abruptly, " what are you thinking 
 
 " Nothing, my dear ; but I believe your friend has arrived — 
 I heard a carriage." 
 
 Sybil started to her feet, and rushed down-stairs, reckless of 
 her Indian muslin dress, which caught in a treacherous nail, and 
 got a fearful tear. In a moment she was at the gates, in an- 
 other moment she was clasping Blanche Cains in her arms. 
 
 " Oh ! Blanche," she cried, " I have got you at last — at 
 last!" h J 
 
 A fair face was bent over hers, gentle lips were pressed to 
 her cheek, and a fond pressure of the hand silently answered 
 Sybil's warm greeting. 
 
 " Come in ! come in ! " she cried, joyfully ; " my new uncle 
 is here, and I want him to see you. We were talking about 
 you, and expecting you." 
 
 She ran first, again heedless of the muslin, and entered the 
 drawing-room with a joyful 
 
 " Here she is uncle ! — here she is ! "
 
 sybil's second love. 91 
 
 But unwilling, bo doubt, to intrude on the interview of the 
 two friends, Uncle Edward bad left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " He is gone ! " cried Sybil, much disappointed — " what a 
 shame ! — but then I shall have you all to myself ; let me look at 
 you, darling, and do take off that horrid cloak." 
 
 With careless grace Miss Cains dropped her cloak on the 
 nearest chair, and stood before her friend tall, stately, and, there 
 could be no doubt about it, eminently handsome. Sybil looked 
 at her admiringly, and well she might. 
 
 Miss Cains certainly was a very fine young woman. She 
 was tall and rather large, perhaps, but she had a grand look, es- 
 pecially about the head and shoulders, which threw poor little 
 Sybil in the shade. Grace was in all her motions, and with it 
 something more. " She is set to music," Sybil said, enthusias- 
 tically, and so she was in a certain way. In her dwelt the har- 
 mony which belongs to perfectly formed, though somewhat lan- 
 guid limbs, to unbroken health, and nerves of steel. Nothing 
 startled, and very few things excited Miss Cains. She was not 
 cold, and by no means apathetic ; but hers was the tranquil 
 warmth of autumn, rather than the fervid heat of spring. You 
 read this in her handsome face, with its unvarying complexion 
 of pure red and white, with its calm, though bright blue eyes, 
 and its tranquil Greek features. A square chin, which some- 
 what marred the beauty of her countenance, also gave it the 
 meaning of strength and will associated with the development 
 of that feature. A pretty dimple in it redeemed the sternness 
 of this rather Napoleonic outline, and a rosy smile contradicted 
 it completely. To these attractions were added a genial face 
 and a genial voice. No one took pleasure so readily as Miss 
 Cains — to enjoy seemed her nature, and she looked one of those 
 free, open creatures, whose charm it is to spread their own 
 geniality around them. Something, indeed, she failed in. The 
 delicacy and sensitiveness of Sybil's face were wanting in hers, 
 and she had not Sybil's tine impassioned eyes ; but the first im- 
 pression was in her favor, and the first impression rules us all. 
 
 "Oh! how handsome you are," said Sybil, with sparkling
 
 92 sybil's second love. 
 
 eyes. "Blanche, you will avenge me. They have a caha, 
 against me in this shabby little place, but they cannot have a 
 cabal against you — you will take all their dancers away whether 
 they like it or not." 
 
 " Why, you mischievous little thing, what have you been 
 doing to have a cabal against you ? — but you are going to a* 
 party, are you not ? " she added, glancing expressively at Sybil's 
 dress. 
 
 " I was going to one," replied Sybil, with bitter emphasis, 
 " but there was a cabal against me." 
 
 In a few words she told her the whole story, adding, by way 
 of conclusion, 
 
 " I would have gone all the same, if Uncle Edward would 
 but have taken me." 
 
 " I fear I am the cause of Uncle Edward's leaving the 
 room, am I not?" said Miss Cains. 
 
 " If he left, Blanche, it was that we might be free." 
 
 " Oh ! I know I am nobody," carelessly said Blanche ; " do 
 not suppose I am hurt or offended. I expect no courtesy, I 
 mean no marked courtesy, from any one." 
 
 Sybil's expressive countenance became full of concern. 
 
 "Pray don't go and think that," she said — " pray don't." 
 
 " My* dear, I think nothing." 
 
 " Yes, you do, and to show you how mistaken you are, I 
 shall go aud fetch uncle directly." 
 
 " Not, on my account," said Miss Cains ; but she spoke a 
 little faintly, and Sybil, declaring she should not be five minutes 
 away, went on her errand. She ran up quickly to Uncle Ed- 
 ward's room, and knocked at the door, but got no answer. 
 And as no light came through the keyhole on the dark landing, 
 it was plain he was not within. Sybil was turning away disap- 
 pointed, when her aunt's door opened, and Miss Glyn appeared 
 on the threshold in her flannel morning-gown, and a light in her 
 hand. 
 
 "Sybil ! " she said, in amazement. 
 
 " Blanche has just arrived," breathlessly said Sybil, " and 1 
 am hunting for uncle, to introduce him to her." 
 
 -And the party?" 
 
 " I did not go. I had uo one to take me ; besides there is 
 a dreadful cabal against me. But I wish I could find uncle, 
 Have you heard him, .aunt ? " 
 
 " Sybil, go to your room and change your dress."
 
 sybil's second love. 93 
 
 " I can't, aunt, Blanche is alone below." 
 
 " Do as I tell you. You have had one cold already — that 
 is enouo-h. I shall dress, and qo and receive Miss Cains." 
 
 For her friend's sake Sybil thought it better to obey. In- 
 deed, the delay was not a long one ; in a few minutes Sybil had 
 changed her dress, and was running down the staircase. 
 
 "I cannot find him," she cried, opening the drawing-room 
 door ; but had scarcely time to say the words before she per- 
 ceived her uncle standing near the fireplace, and talking to Miss 
 Cains. 
 
 " Why, uncle, where have you been hiding ? " cried Sybil, 
 all amazement. 
 
 " I have not been hiding, my dear," he composedly replied, 
 " but introducing myself to Miss Cains." 
 
 " But how did I miss you ? " urged Sybil. " I cannot un- 
 derstand it." 
 
 " Nor I," he said, smiling. 
 
 " I must go and look for papa," said Sybil, starting up from 
 her chair with the thought, " he does not know you are here, 
 or he w r ould already have been to see you — he must be longing 
 to know you." 
 
 She was already at the door of the room, when it opened 
 and admitted Miss Glyn, who entered with much stateliness. 
 Sybil greeted her with the ardent exclamation : 
 
 " Aunt, that is dear Blanche Cains at last ! " 
 
 Miss Glyn bore the overwhelming uews with much compo- 
 sure, and formally made Miss Cains welcome; then sat down, 
 and looked hard at her. Sybil was rather disappointed at her 
 aunt's coolness, but her hopes rose again as she heard her father's 
 voice. He would appreciate Miss Cains. Mr. Kennedy entered 
 the room as she came to this conclusion ; again Sybil performed 
 one of her ardent introductions. Mr. Kennedy went up to his 
 young guest in a free and friendly manner, welcomed her to his 
 house with great seemiug cordiality, questioned her concerning 
 her journey, the weather she had left behind her; and after 
 standing talking with her for five minutes, he w r ent and joined 
 his brother, with whom he was soon in close converse. Sybil 
 was disappointed. She had expected that her lather, at least, 
 would be charmed with her friend ; now, it was plain that Mr. 
 Kennedy admired Miss Cains as a man ever admires a tine 
 woman, but that beyond this he did not go. Sybil could find 
 no trace of sympathy, or emotion, or dawning liking, in hei
 
 94 sybil's second love. 
 
 father's countenance and manner, and it vexed her exceed 
 ingly. 
 
 If Miss Cains detected any thing of the kind, she showed 
 no resentment of it. She chatted gayly with Sybil, gave her 
 all the school news, and looked as brilliant and fresh as if she 
 had not had a long and fatiguing journey that day. Sybil, who 
 vao-uely felt that something was wanting to the reception of her 
 friend, was bent on securing her admiration, at least, and asked 
 her to sing, if she were not fatigued. 
 
 Miss Cains smiled. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " you know I am never fatigued ; but 
 then I only sing duets." 
 
 Sybil's facefell ; she had a pretty voice, but she could not 
 sing with Blanche Cains. 
 
 " Sybil, why don't you ask me ? " whispered Uncle Edward, 
 bending over her chair. 
 
 Sybil, who had no suspicion that her uncle could sing, was 
 both charmed and surprised at the suggestion ; but still doubt- 
 ing his efficiency, and remembering that Blanche Cains could 
 sing none but Italian music, she asked bluntly, 
 
 " Can you sing, uncle ? " 
 
 Uncle Edward smiled. 
 
 " Yes, he could." 
 
 " Then I shall accompany you ! " cried Sybil, all joy., 
 
 " Darling," said Miss Cains, " I like accompanying myself 
 best." 
 
 " Then I shall listen," submissively said Sybil. 
 
 And so she did. She drew a low chair forward, and sitting 
 upon it with her hands clasped on her knees, she listened, 
 rapt in admiration, whilst Miss Cains and her uncle sang. 
 
 They both had fine voices, and both sang well, and in won- 
 derful harmony. They took their audience by surprise. Miss 
 Glyn, though compelled to admire, looked none the better 
 pleased for it ; but Mr. Kennedy, who was fond of music, was 
 evidently charmed ; and Sybil was in the seventh heavens. 
 
 " Oh ! uncle, it was divine ! " she cried, when he came back 
 to her. " What a beautiful voice you have ! but what a shame 
 ■ not to have let us bear it before." 
 
 " The merit lies all with Miss Cains, my dear." 
 
 But for once Sybil forgot to give the palm to her friend. 
 Her uncle's voice was the finer of the two, and though she did 
 not say so, even Blanche saw she thought it.
 
 Sybil's second love. 95 
 
 " Oh ! papa, what a shame not to have told me about uncle's 
 singing," she said, reproachfully. 
 
 "My dear, Neddy's accomplishment is new to me — we all 
 owe the knowledge of it to Miss Cains. But will she not favor 
 us ajcain ? " 
 
 This time Miss Cains required no pressing. She sat down 
 to the piano, and sang alone ; to Sybil's surprise, and to her an- 
 noyance, she did not sing very well, not at least to advantage. 
 So to make up for this, she whispered to her Uncle Edward, 
 
 " Is she not handsome ? " 
 
 K Very ; but how well you look to-nigbt, Sybil ! N/o wonder 
 they bad a cabal against you." 
 
 " Blanche will break the cabal," sagaciously replied Sybil ; 
 " look at her hair — is it not like sunshine ? " 
 
 He looked from Miss Cains to Sybil, and all he said was, 
 
 "I cannot help thinking, Sybil, that you admire Miss Cains 
 on speculation." 
 
 Sybil looked surprised and inquiring. 
 
 "Admiration becomes you so well. That is my meaning, 
 my dear." 
 
 Miss Cains came up and resumed her seat, and Sybil could 
 not utter the petulant reply her uncle's complimentary remark 
 had suggested. 
 
 The whole family sat up late and had supper, and after sup- 
 per, sat again, and one struck as Sybil and Miss Cains retired 
 for the night. They first went to Sybil's room. With this 
 dainty little bower Miss Cains seemed much smitten. 
 
 " Oh ! you bappy little thing ! " she said, sinking down in a 
 luxurious chair, " what a nest you have ! " 
 
 Her look wandered over Sybil's pretty room, with its ele- 
 gant and comfortable furniture, and all its dainty toys, and there 
 was just a sigh, not of envy, but appreciation, as she uttered the 
 words. Indeed, it was plain to an acute observer, that Miss 
 Cains was no ascetic. To do her justice, she professed nothing 
 of the kind. She had always loved her ease, and had never 
 denied it. She was frankness itself in some things, though, like 
 most of her slandered sex, there were plenty of things concern- 
 ing which she could keep her own counsel. That she bad a 
 failing for fine apparel, jewels, and luxurious furniture, she con- 
 fessed freely. Cfiina and laces were her adoration. • Her eyes 
 sparkled when she spoke of them, and there was an eager yearn- 
 ing in her voice, or a languishing softness, both of which told of 
 longing and desire.
 
 9G Sybil's second love. 
 
 " Shall we change rooms ^" eagerly said Sybil. " I gave 
 you Mrs. Mush's room because it has a liner prospect than 
 mine." • 
 
 Blanche laughed. 
 
 " Yes, I remember — you were all for prospect and shy, and 
 you fell in love with the Surrey hills, having nothing better ; 
 but it is like you to want to give me your room. You are a 
 queer little girl." 
 
 " But do take it, Blanche — do." 
 
 " No ; and there's an end of it. But I say it again, you 
 are a queer little girl. Now to think of your wearing that 
 trashy thing upon you — your maid ought to know better." 
 
 " I have no maid ; papa says I do not want one." 
 
 Miss Cains looked at her with compassion -and contempt, 
 and said emphatically — 
 
 " You little simpleton ! " 
 
 " But, Blanche, I can do without one." 
 
 " Nonsense ! you were not at all well dressed in that white 
 muslin." 
 
 " Uncle advised me to wear something light in texture," said 
 Sybil. 
 
 " Oh ! if he is your authority, I am mute," replied Blanche 
 with mock gravity. 
 
 " How do you like him ? " eagerly asked Sybil ; " is he 
 not handsome and errand looking?" 
 
 " And red-haired," interrupted Blanche. " ITe is large, to 
 be sure ; and so you think him grand — you silly little thing!" 
 
 "Well, but' how do you like him, and how do you like my 
 father and Aunt Glyn? " 
 
 " My dear," again interrupted her friend, " how I like them 
 is very little to the purpose — I have come here resolved to like 
 them, and think them delightful, were it only for your sake ; 
 but how they like me is the question." 
 
 " Well, of course they do like you," stoutly said Sybil. 
 
 " Do they, little goose ? I caught your aunt looking at me, 
 and your father, and your uncle too, and I can tell you exactly 
 what they thought of your humble servant" 
 
 "Don't!" entreated Sybil. 
 
 " Yes, I will — the truth is the truth, and you know I am 
 not afraid of her. Your aunt looked at me, and thought, ' She 
 is very handsome, a great deal too showy for Sybil — silly thing 
 to bring her here.' Your father thought, 'A fine girl, but
 
 Sybil's second love. 97 
 
 laro-e — I like small women.' And with this flattering comment 
 he dismissed the subject of Blanche Cains. Your uncle — " 
 
 " Now, Blanche, that is unkind," interrupted Sybil, with 
 tears in her eyes. 
 
 " My dear, it is true, and therefore cannot be unkind ; but 
 give me a kiss, and let's say no more on that subject." 
 
 " I am sure aunt and papa will both like you, and uncle 
 too," persisted Sybil fondly. 
 
 Blanche's blue eyes flashed. 
 
 " Your uncle, indeed ! — why, Sybil, you do not mean to 
 say you have not found him out yet, with his red hair and his 
 green eyes, and his singing ! " 
 
 Sybil was so amazed at this outburst, and at the tone in 
 which it was uttered, that she remained dumb. Blanche 
 laughed a little scornfully. 
 
 " I tell you, child," she said, " that your uncle is a woman- 
 gcorner. We are nothing in his eyes, my dear, but a set of 
 pretty creatures made for Godlike man's pleasure and amuse- 
 ment. Woe to the woman that man marries ! " 
 
 " Oh, Blanche, you are quite wrong, I assure you," said 
 Sybil, warmly. " You cannot imagine how good uncle is — and 
 so kind to me, so very kind ! " she added gratefully. 
 
 " Oh ! of course he is kind to his niece," carelessly said 
 Blanche. 
 
 " But he is really kind, Blanche, and really fond of me." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Red-haired people are fond of number one — 
 selfishness is the badge of the tribe." 
 
 Sybil got a little indignant. 
 
 " He is not so red as all that," she said, half angrily ; " and, 
 red or not, he is very handsome — almost as handsome as my 
 father. It is not merely that he has good features, but there is 
 something so sweet and spirited, and good and manly in his 
 countenance, that it tells you of a fine nature." 
 
 She spoke warmly, and colored as she spoke. Blanche 
 laughed, and drawing her on her knee, kissed her heartily. 
 
 "You dear, good little simpleton," she said; "you are a 
 simpleton, but I like you for it. It is like you to stand up for 
 the absent friend, and defend him warmly, generously. It does 
 one good to hear you, Sybil." 
 
 And she kissed her again, and Sybil, remembering how her 
 uncle and her friend both praised and loved her for the one 
 trait, felt puzzled, and almost sad. There was a vague revela- 
 5
 
 98 sybil's second love. 
 
 tion to her of a world where there is not much praise bestowed 
 on the absent, and where the friend you profess to love is too 
 often left undefended. 
 
 "Yes," resumed Miss Cains, "you are a good little thing, 
 there is no doubt about that ; but I must not keep you up all 
 night, and so good-night, or good-morning." 
 
 " Oh ! not yet," pleaded Sybil. " I have so many things to 
 tell you. We are asked, once for all, to Mrs. Ronald's parties, 
 and she gives one every fortnight, and so are you, for I told her 
 I expected a friend soon, and she said my friend must go with 
 me. And you must help me to break the cabal. Now, what 
 shall we wear, Blanche, for I must get a new dress ; I tore this 
 in running out to see you." 
 
 "I shall not go to Mrs. Ronald's," dryly said Blanche. 
 
 " Not go ! Why so ? " 
 
 " I have no dress to wear, and do not choose to buy one. 
 The plain truth is, I cannot afford it." 
 
 " But / can," eagerly said Sybil ; " my father gave me three 
 hundred francs yesterday, and I did not spend it." 
 
 " You saved it for me ! " cried Blanche, with a sudden flash 
 in her blue eye. 
 
 Sybil turned crimson and stammered. Miss Cains took out 
 her purse, and put two sovereigns on Sybil's table. 
 
 " You sent me that, and I would not affront you by return- 
 ing it," she said quietly ; " for, of course, I know how you 
 meant it ; but once for all, Sybil, I will have no such presents." 
 
 " Then you do not love me." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 Tears stood in Sybil's eyes, but Blanche laughed and kissed 
 her and was obdurate. At length Sybil's tears and entreaties 
 wrung a reluctant compromise from her. Blanche took back 
 the money, and promised to provide herself with a blue tarletan 
 dress, and Sybil was to have another like it, and both dresses 
 were to be trimmed with white roses. It was four before the 
 debate was over, and Sybil, having assured her friend she had 
 better not cross the landing for fear of ghosts, Blanche laugh- 
 ingly consented to share her bed. This little white nest re- 
 ceived both these fair birds, and a flounce kept them awake 
 till five o'clock, after which they slept.
 
 sybil's second love. 99 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Late though she fell asleep, and early though she got up, 
 Sybil was as fresh as a rose the next morning. So at least 
 thought Uncle Edward, when he met her crossing the cloister. 
 
 " Whither so fast ? " he said, stopping her. 
 
 " I am going for water-cresses. Blanche is so fond of them, 
 and I want to get her some myself." 
 
 " Pray, was it the fair Blanche who kept you up so late, 
 Sybil?" 
 
 " How do you know we stayed up late, uncle ?" 
 
 " I was in the counting-room, and saw the light in your 
 window. I saw also two shadows moving behind the curtain." 
 
 " Yes, we had a good deal to say. But I am glad you ad- 
 mire her, uncle. I knew you would." 
 
 " I did not say I admired her ; but I do say she will throw 
 you in the shade." 
 
 " Then she will break up the cabal," gayly said Sybil ; " and 
 you will come with us,£o the next part}', uncle, and dance with 
 her. Now, confess she is beautiful." 
 
 " Oh ! she is a very fine young woman." 
 
 Sybil longed to tell her uncle he had but indifferent taste ; 
 but she thought it wiser to go back to her entreaty. 
 
 " Uncle, you know I want you to dance with Blanche." 
 
 " Do you, though 1 — and suppose I decline going to all par- 
 ties ? " 
 
 " No, dear old uncle, pray do not. She is a stranger, you 
 know. Pray do promise to dance with her ! " 
 
 " Oh ! I shall require a great deal more of praying and 
 coaxing than that to make me do it, I can tell you. ' Old un- 
 cle, is any thing but an inducement, to begin with." 
 
 " You know what I mean when I say it." 
 
 " Just so ; and do not like your meaning at all. My hair 
 may not be the right color, but it is not gray yet, Miss Ken- 
 nedy." 
 
 "Your hair is beautiful hair," stoutly said Sybil : "and you 
 will dance with Blanche, who will look lovely in blue." 
 
 " Oh ! that is to be the color, is it ? — and what will you 
 wear ? " 
 
 " Blue — we arc to be alike." 
 
 " Blue will not suit you, my dear."
 
 100 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Qh ! yes, it will ; besides, we must be alike." 
 
 Did Uncle Edward guess why Sybil and Miss Cains should 
 be alike ? Perhaps he did, for he was one whom few things 
 escaped. At all events, he softly laid his hand on Sybil's dark 
 hair, and looked down in her face silently, but so kindly, that 
 Sybil wondered in her heart at Blanche's unjust sentence. He 
 a woman-scorner ! — he selfish and unkind ! — Ah ! no, surely — 
 he was good among the good — a generous and noble man. 
 
 " Dear, good old Uncle Edward," she thought, looking up 
 at him, and that with so expressive a countenance that it made 
 him say, 
 
 " Blue will suit you, Sybil ; and you need fear no rival if 
 you will but look so. And now let us go for the water-cresses." 
 
 "And will you really come with me?" joyfully cried Sybil 
 — how kind you are ! " 
 
 " Very ; I, too, have a weakness for water-cresses." 
 
 They left the cloister, crossed the lower garden, and went 
 up into the grounds above. A little delving path led them ere 
 long to a green shady region known as the u Cressoniere." A 
 spring, which helped to feed the river of JSaint Yincent, flowed 
 out from beneath a dark rock, crowned with wild roses and 
 hawthorn, passed beneath a few rude stones which spanned it 
 bridgewise, then spread into a wide shallow pool, around which 
 grew a deep and irregular circle of tall trees. Verdure, shade, 
 and sdence marked this quiet spot. On the surface of the wa- 
 ter floated a green field of water-cresses, and Avhere the water 
 was deeper, and flowed over them, there spread a mirror dark 
 and clear, in which the bending trees looked at themselves, and 
 where eveiy now and then appeared a patch of blue sky gently 
 rippling along with the thin crystal. In the shade of the trees, 
 spreading through the brushwood, ran little rills, fed by the 
 central lake, and on their banks more water-cresses grew thick 
 and luxuriant. 
 
 " I like this place," said Sybil, sitting down on a mossy 
 bank, when her lap was full. " You know that papa is the 
 only water-cress-grower in Saint Vincent, and could starve all 
 these girls who would not let me have a partner." 
 
 " But you scorn that revenge, Sybil ? " 
 
 " I do ; but I like this place — it is so calm and still. Here 
 there is no angry roaring of the sea, no boisterous wind — 
 nothing but little breezes to whisper through the trees, and 
 birds singing on their boughs — and I like these trees, uncle.
 
 sybil's second love. 101 
 
 They stand in a circle like sages in council, nodding their green 
 heads in the sun, and not scorning the huinhle water-cresses at 
 their feet. I shall bring Blanche here, and we shall sit and sew 
 together, and you will come and sit with us, uncle." 
 
 " Will the gracious Blanche like it ? " 
 
 "Why should she not? You must admire her, uncle, and 
 she must like you, and — " 
 
 Sybil paused, not daring to go on. Uncle Edward was sit- 
 sing by her side ; he looked in her face and smiled. i Sybil 
 blushed, but said resolutely : 
 
 " Well, I do mean it. I love you both, and I do mean it. 
 Uncle, she is the dearest and the best girl living. When I had 
 scarlatina at school, she nursed me like a sister of mercy. I 
 never can forget that — never ! " 
 
 " This is the merest nonsense," said Uncle Edward, shaking 
 his heavy hair a little impatiently — " here am I idling away my 
 morning hours gathering water-cresses, and listening to Miss 
 Cains' s praises. I wonder what brought and what keeps me here, 
 you little witch ? But there is a curious spell about you — no 
 one can deny that. You are quite capable of making me marry 
 that friend of yours, whether I like it or not. Ay ! and capable, 
 too, of what would probably be much harder — of making her 
 admire me.*' 
 
 Sybil's eyes sparkled, and she clapped her hands. 
 
 "Oh ! how I should like it ! " she cried. 
 
 " And it will actually soon be breakfast -time," he inter- 
 rupted, rising ; " and I have business at the mill, and the royal 
 Blanche will waken and wonder where her maid-of-honor is all 
 this time." 
 
 " So she will," cried Sybil, starting up. " Good-morning, 
 uncle." 
 
 She gave him a nod, and darted away. As she was hurrying 
 through the cloister, Miss Glyn's voice, issuing from the open 
 library window, summoned her within. Sybil obeyed the call, 
 and dutifully bade her aunt good-morning. 
 
 " Where have you been ? " frigidly asked Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Gathering water-cresses for breakfast." 
 
 "What was that gentleman saying to you a while ago in the 
 cloister ? " 
 
 "I suppose you mean uncle, aunt. Well, we were talking 
 about Mrs. Ronald's party, and I was telling uncle that Blanche 
 and I are to wear blue ; he thinks blue will not suit me, but I 
 am sure it will."
 
 102 sybil's second love. 
 
 Miss Glyn looted very indignant " That impostor " to 
 talk to her uiece on a matter of dress, and the color that would 
 suit, or the color that -would not suit her ? And her foolish 
 niece to be wearing blue, which would make her look hard and 
 common, just because blue suited that upstart, Miss Cains ! — it 
 was all exasperating. 
 
 " Sybil, you are a fool ! " she said, with so much bitterness, 
 that Sybil looked and felt dismayed. 
 
 "I am amazed at your talking to that gentleman about what 
 you are to wear, and your wearing blue, which does not, and 
 never did, suit you, is the most absurd thing I ever heard of. 
 Pray," she added, with considerable asperity, " what made you 
 bring Miss Cains here, and what makes you take her to Mrs. 
 Ronald's party ? Miss Cains is a great deal more effective than 
 you are, and will throw you in the shade ; and it will do her no 
 sort of good, whilst it will do you considerable harm. I wish to 
 see you admired, and I do not see the necessity of providing 
 yourself with a rival. I repeat it, it will do Miss Cains no sort 
 of good, and it will injure you." 
 
 These remarks were probably dictated by the kindest mo- 
 tives, but Sybil took them very ill. She became crimson, and 
 looked so hot and indignant, that her father, who saw her 
 through the door she had left open, entered the room to ask, 
 " What is the matter ? " 
 
 " The matter is this," replied Sybil, vehemently, " that aunt 
 blames me for having brought poor dear Blanche here. She 
 says she will take all my admirers away, and she scolds me for 
 wearing blue, and for telling uncle about it." 
 
 Now, if Miss Glyn's remarks had displeased Sybil, they 
 thoroughly offended Sybil's father. 
 
 " My dear Mary," he said, "how can you put such ideas into 
 the girl's head ? The idea of that Miss Cains, who has not a 
 penny, robbing Sybil of her admirers, is ridiculous. Nor can I 
 imagine that, were their fortunes equal, my little Sybil need 
 care a pin. Surely no one would think of preferring to her that 
 big, fair, fat, girl — " 
 
 " Oh, but she is lovely," interrupted Sybil, little pleased to 
 be so defended. 
 
 " My dear, our tastes differ. I do not admire her. She is 
 a fine woman, and she has splendid teeth, and laughs a good deal 
 to show them. There — there, I will say no more, but I repeat 
 it, the idea of rivalry between you is absurd. As to blue, wear
 
 Sybil's second love. 103 
 
 it if you like ; and," lie added, turning once more to Miss Glyn, 
 " if Sybil does consult her uncle on a question of dress, you need 
 not wonder, Mary ; it was I who referred her to bim whilst you 
 were away." 
 
 " I am much obliged to you for the lecture you have read 
 me," said Miss Glyn rising; "and I do admire, James, the 
 teaching you give your child. If she does not become the 
 vainest girl in Ireland, it will be no fault of yours. I tell her 
 what I think, that Miss Cains, who is much handsomer than she 
 is, can eclipse her ; and that this Miss Cains, whom I suspect to be 
 both false and artful, will do so, I have no doubt ; but I wash my 
 hands of this once for all, and Sybil may wear black or yellow, 
 or a Scotch plaid, if she pleases, and get any gentleman to fix 
 the height of her flounces, for all I shall care or meddle, from 
 this day forth." 
 
 With this dignified speech, by which she meant to cut up 
 both father and daughter, Miss Glyn rose, and deliberately left 
 the room. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy laughed gayly, but Sybil looked ready to 
 cry. 
 
 " Never mind, Pussy," he said. " I know what you feel 
 most is the ' false and artful.' But never mind ; here is more 
 money to get you a blue dress, since blue it must be ; and you 
 will be the prettiest girl in the room, whatever you wear." 
 
 AYith this kind speech, and a kiss and some gold pieces, Mr. 
 Kennedy left his daughter ; but Sybil's heart was sore. Blanche 
 had begun the work, and every one seemed bent on completing 
 it. These four people were all engaged in fault-finding, suspect- 
 ing, and sneering at each other. It was dreadful, and very tire- 
 some. Oh ! if her uncle would only not be giving his indirect 
 hits at dear Blanche — if dear Blanche would only spare him, and 
 not call him red-haired, and a woman-scorner — if aunt would 
 not attribute such bad designs to her dear friend — and if her 
 good kind father would only not call Blanche a big, fat, fair girl, 
 and accuse her of showing her teeth ! Oh, why would they not 
 all love and admire Blanche, and why would not Blanche believe 
 in their love and admiration ? It was hard, and so cruel ! 
 Moreover, all little Sybil's match-making plans were sadly down. 
 She was afraid, she was, her uncle and her friend would never 
 fall in love with each other. 
 
 She was quite pensive when she went in search of Denise to 
 give her the water-cresses. She found her in the kitchen-garden
 
 104 sybil's second loye. 
 
 with Narcisse — Denise standing lingering to her heart's delight, 
 and Narcisse talking with mysterious emphasis. 
 
 "I told him to be off with himself," said Narcisse, loftily. 
 " I told him he was an oyster." 
 
 Denise looked dismayed. 
 
 " You should not," she said. " You should not, Narcisse." 
 
 " But he is an oyster," persisted Narcisse. " Why did he 
 not go for the surgeon at once ? " 
 
 On hearing the word surgeon, Sybil inquired if there had 
 been an accident. 
 
 " There has," emphatically said Narcisse ; " and instead of 
 going for a surgeon, they bound up his wrist." 
 
 " Whose wrist, Narcisse ? " 
 
 "Monsieur de Renneville's; he sprained Ids' wrist as he was 
 going to Madame Ronald's party, and his man-servant bound it 
 up, instead of going for a surgeon." 
 
 " And did he go to the party ? " ashed Sybil, turning crimson. 
 
 Narcisse, who was more emphatic than polite, asked how 
 Monsieur de Renneville could go to the party with his wrist 
 bound up ; and by the tone in which he put the question, he 
 evidently thought Sybil an oyster for the time being. But 
 Sybil did not heed him ; she walked away strangely fluttered. 
 She saw it all now. It was Monsieur de Renneville who had 
 called on Madame de Lonville, and given that lady the warning 
 she had conveyed to Sybil. She forgot the errand that brought 
 her to the kitchen-garden, and Blanche and the water-cresses, 
 and she only thought " How kind ! " A little smart tap on her 
 shoulder roused her from this fit of abstraction. She turned 
 round, and saw Blanche Cains smiling at her. 
 
 " Well, Penserosa,"she said gayly, " what musing fit is on 
 you now ? — Mr. Smith, eh ? " 
 
 " No, no, indeed — not Mr. Smith." 
 
 "By the way, what of him? When is he going to turn up 
 again? I feel quite inquisitive about him, and especially desir- 
 ous of seeing him, and of hearing that non-aspirate and too aspi- 
 rate II, which roused your ire." 
 
 " I hear nothing about him now." 
 
 " Was it about him your uncle went away ? " 
 
 " Uncle did not tell me what he went away for." 
 
 " Are you sure he went away at all ? My belief is that he 
 and Mr. Smith were locked up all the time in some garret of 
 this old nunnery, and had it out between them."
 
 sybil's second love. 105 
 
 Miss Cains spoke very deliberately, and again with that dis- 
 like of Uncle Edward which Sybil had noticed the night before. 
 " I suppose I must give up all thought of their marrying," she 
 thought with a sigh, which did not escape the quick car of 
 Blanche Cains. 
 
 " For whom is that ? " she asked ; " for Greeneyes or for Mr. 
 Smith?" 
 
 " For neither. One I love, the other I detest ! " 
 
 " Yes ; but which ? " 
 
 " You know, Blanche." 
 
 " I know I am dying to hear something about Mr. Smith, 
 and can get nothing out of you." 
 
 Something did rise to Sybil's lips, for she remembered the 
 letter she had half-read, hut she remembered too that her uncle 
 had bid her keep a seal upon her lips, and she only laughed and 
 shook her head. 
 
 " Now, my dear, I give you fair warning," said Blanche 
 Cains, solemnly ; " I am here in clover, pretty much as Eve was 
 in Paradise, for Miss Blunt has given me unlimited leave of ab- 
 sence, and I must complete the likeness by being up to mischief. 
 The tree of knowledge is here, with a secret, the forbidden fruit 
 growing upon it, and that tempting serpent we all carry within 
 us declares it is delicious. Therefore, as I said, I give you fair 
 warning. I shall pump your servants, and ferret over the house, 
 and hunt up evidence, till I know all about Mr. Smith." 
 
 " And then you will share the apple with me and tell me ? " 
 
 "No," resolutely said Miss Cains; "Adam was a sneak, 
 who threw all the blame on poor Eve. She should have sinned 
 alone, and left him in Paradise ; and, manlike, he would have 
 forgotten her for another Eve." 
 
 "Miss Cains spoke with some bitterness. Sybil looked at 
 her earnestly. 
 
 " You have had some trouble, Blanche," she said. 
 
 "You think my Adam has forsaken me, do you? My (bar, 
 I have none, and never had any. I have told you so again and 
 again. I am twenty-five, as poor as Job, and I look expensive ; 
 no man has yet been found daring enough to undertake inc. 
 And after all I cannot blame them," candidly said Miss Cains. 
 " I would not marry a poor man." 
 " Blanche ! if you liked him ? " 
 
 " My dear, I would not like him. Remember, you have the 
 theory of poverty, and I have the bitter practice. It is cruel, it 
 5*
 
 10(3 sybil's second love. 
 
 is selfish in a poor girl to marry a poor man. It is dragging 
 him down to life-long sorrow. But, oh ! you lucky little girl, 
 what a place is this Saint Vincent ! What fruit you must have 
 here, and flowers, and vegetables, and poultry — a very land of 
 Goshen ! " 
 
 "You are fond of cauliflowers, I know," said Sybil, eagerly. 
 
 " My dear, I adore them ; and peas, and salad, and a young- 
 chicken, and a dish of strawberries and cream." 
 
 " Peas are not in," said Sybil, with a sigh ; " but we have 
 plenty of other good things. Come and take what you like for 
 dinner." 
 
 Miss Cains was quite willing, and made a most liberal and 
 judicious selection. When it was over she said again that Saint 
 Vincent was a land of Goshen ; and Sybil, giving her a fond 
 kiss, wished ardently they could live and die together in Saint 
 Vincent. 
 
 — +*+- 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 It is all very well to declare that we will meddle no more 
 in this matter, that we have had enough of it, that we wash our 
 hands of it henceforth, etc., the difficulty is to keep to such a 
 resolve, and so Miss Glyn soon found. The free-and-easy foot- 
 ing on which Miss Cains established herself at Saint Vincent 
 exasperated her; the doubtful relationship of Uncle Edward 
 was to her the very height of iniquity ; and Mr. Kennedy's cool 
 assumption of undivided authority in his own house, and in his 
 own concerns, provoked her the more, that she knew not how 
 to resent it. For all that, it only required so trifling a thing as 
 an interview with Madame dc Lonville to upset all Miss Glyn's 
 dignified resolves. 
 
 Mrs. Ronald was an old friend of Miss Glyn's, and at this 
 lady's house she and Madame de Lonville had become acquainted 
 within the last few days. But the acquaintance was a brief one 
 at the best. Miss Glyn had not asked Madame de Lonville to 
 call upon her, and unmitigated surprise appeared in her counte- 
 nance as Denise announced this unexpected visitor. It so hap- 
 pened that Miss Glyn w T as alone, for the two friends were in the 
 garden, so she requested Denise to show the lady into the draw- 
 ing-room, to which she forthwith repaired, infusing a double
 
 Sybil's second love. 107 
 
 amount of statelincss in her manner. On seeing her enter, 
 Madame de Lonville rose and came forward. A stout, round- 
 faced lady, with a childish smile and a keen green eye, was Ma- 
 dame de Lonville. She waddled up to Miss Glyn, and was con- 
 siderably out of breath by the time she reached that lady. 
 
 " Do not mind it," she said, as if deprecating Miss Glyn's 
 interference with her breathless condition ; " I am used to it." 
 
 She dropped down in a chair as she spoke, and smiled her 
 vacant childish smile up in Miss Glyn's face. 
 
 " Now, you know I have not come to see you," she said, 
 with engaging candor ; " I come upon business." 
 
 This intimation caused Miss Glyn no surprise. She knew 
 through Mrs. Ronald that Madame de Lonville's finger was ever 
 in some pie or other. She had either tickets for a charitable 
 lottery to dispose of, or subscriptions for some excellent pur- 
 pose to collect, or some first-rate bargain to propose to the large 
 circle of her friends. Some anonymous lady had a diamond 
 ring too many, or some unknown gentleman a capital cask of 
 wine to part with, or even some mysterious friend of the needy 
 was willing to lend some thousand francs at so much per cent, 
 on good security. 
 
 " Yes, I come upon business," repeated Madame de Lonville ; 
 " and what do you think that business is ? " Without waiting 
 for Miss Glyn's reply, she sank her voice to a whisper, and 
 speaking behind her hand, she added, " Matrimonial." 
 
 Now, it so happened that when she called on Mrs. Ronald, 
 Miss Glyn had informed that lady she wished to see Sybil 
 speedily and well married before she left Saint Vincent, for she 
 feelingly added, " I cannot trust the child to her father, you 
 know." 
 
 Madame de Lonville was present when the remark was ut- 
 tered, and treasured it up. For she sometimes indulged in the 
 matrimonial pie. She was ever ready, good soul, to help and 
 unite any fond pair in the holy bonds of wedlock. In Eng- 
 land, the girl who wants to marry, hunts for herself; or the man 
 w T ho wants a Avife, casts his eye about him, and, sultan-like, 
 picks out the one that suits him, thinks over it, and finally tells 
 her his mind. In France, matters are rarely managed so. The 
 points of marriageable young ladies arc well known to their 
 friends, and frequently discussed in society. So much money 
 down, so much more coming in, blue eyes, dark hair, a sweet 
 temper, accomplishments, etc., etc. On this nomenclature, sin-
 
 108 sybil's second love. 
 
 gle gentlemen, of whom a similar account is kept and giren, 
 keep themselves ready to fall in love, get introduced to the fair 
 damsel, and from that first interview hoth parties judge how far 
 it is advisable to meet again. It is a foimidable ordeal that 
 first interview ; love sometimes springs from it, and often dislike, 
 disgust, and aversion. Then are flattering descriptions tested, 
 and blue eyes, dark hair, and gentlemanlike manners are held 
 at their true worth. Little thanks do the De Lonville sisterhood 
 often get for their pains — but they are not disheartened ; the 
 wish of promoting the happiness of their species, the hope of 
 more substantial rewards, sustain them ; but that is nothing to 
 our present purpose. 
 
 " Now let us be open," engagingly said Madame de Lon- 
 ville — " I am quite open, as you see. You have got a charming 
 niece, whom you wish to see well and happily married." 
 
 " What do you call well and happily married ? " slowly 
 asked Miss Glyn. 
 
 " I call a girl well and happily married who gets a hand- 
 some, brave, and spirited, and yet most moral and exemplary 
 nobleman." 
 
 " Poor ? " dryly said Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Well, not rich, of course," replied Madame de Lonville ; 
 " when they are rich, they do not go seeking for wives, poor 
 dears ! — they' have to run away from them." 
 
 Migs Glyn seemed to muse. At length she spoke : 
 
 " I certainly do wish to see my niece well and happily mar- 
 ried," she said, gravely ; but I must know more of the young 
 man before I give you even a doubtful answer." 
 
 " Dear me ! — I came for that," said Madame de Lonville, 
 with a sudden lighting up of her keen green eye. " I heard 
 you speak on that subject at Mrs. Ronald's, so I came for 
 that. Perhaps you would rather question me — I shall answer." 
 
 " Then be so good as to tell me his name." 
 
 " Why, no, you see, I cannot do that just yet. You are so 
 very much on your guard that I must not be too open. But it 
 is a good name, and he is a count — a real count of the old no- 
 blesse. You would like to see your dear little niece a count- 
 ess ? " she coaxingly added. 
 
 Miss Glyn's only reply was to put another question. 
 
 " How old is he ? " 
 
 " Thirty, but does not look more than twenty-live," glibly 
 replied Madame de Lonville.
 
 sybil's second love. 109 
 
 " He is too old for Sybil, then — a great deal too old." 
 
 " Excuse me, I think his being thirty such an advantage ! 
 lie has sown all his wild oats, as your friend Mrs. Eonald would 
 say." 
 
 Miss Glyn was any thing but pleased with this remark ; her 
 brown eyes flashed, and she drew up her spare figure with con- 
 siderable dignity. 
 
 " Madame," she said, gravely, " I disapprove of a man hav- 
 ing any wild oats to sow." 
 
 " Ah ! " sighed Madame de Lonville, " so do I, Miss Glyn ; 
 but it is a dreadful thing when it comes after marriage, as it did 
 with me, Miss Glyn. It half killed me — I never got back my 
 breath." 
 
 "And that count, whoever he may be," continued Miss 
 Glyn, " is too old, and not moral enough for my niece." 
 
 " Dear me ! — I have not spoken against his morality, have 
 I ? " cried Madame de Lonville ; " he is a most exemplary 
 young man, lives with his mother in an old chateau, has a little 
 shooting now and then,- never touches a card, never swears, 
 goes to church twice every Sunday, his mother is a saint — in 
 short, he is a most pious, well-conducted young nobleman." 
 
 " You spoke of his wild oats ? " said Miss Glyn, still suspi- 
 cious. 
 
 " My dear madame, I spoke of his being thirty — as to his 
 wild oats, I do not know — on my word, I do not know that he 
 ever had any." 
 
 She spoke so emphatically, that Miss Glyn was pacified, and 
 the cross-examination was resumed. After the years of the 
 anonymous count came his looks. He proved to be tall, gen- 
 tlemanlike, and fair. It also appeared that he wore whiskers, 
 and was adorned with a mustache — that he had blue eyes, a 
 straight nose, and very good teeth. Then his accomplishments 
 were discussed. He was a good linguist, said Madame de Lon- 
 ville, and played on the fiddle. Then he had the sweetest tem- 
 per, and the noblest heart — in short, so good a young man had 
 never made a happy girl a countess since counts began and 
 marriage-knots were tied. 
 
 " Has he good health ?" asked Miss Glyn—" tall and fair, I 
 suspect he is consumptive, Madame de Lonville." 
 
 " Consumptive ! " almost screamed Madame de Lonville — 
 " I do not know such lungs as he has. Every one of the Ren- 
 nevilles — there, the name lias slipped out ! — dies of old age —
 
 110 sybil's second love. 
 
 mere old age. There is neither gout, nor asthma, nor livei 
 complaint, nor rheumatism, in the whole generation." 
 
 " But he is poor," said Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Why, yes, he is." 
 
 " Very poor." 
 
 " My dear madame, I will be quite open with you. I be- 
 lieve he has something like four thousand francs a year." 
 
 "A hundred and sixty pounds English — and pray tew 
 much would he expect ? " 
 
 " Why, something like two hundred thousand francs down, 
 and as much later." 
 
 " That is to say, sixteen thousand pounds English — a cool 
 gentleman. No, no, that will never do." 
 
 " Madame de Lonville looked disconcerted and disappointed. 
 What a pity to throw away such an opportunity, it might never 
 come back, you know ; a real count — and surely Mademoiselle 
 Kennedy had or would have the money." 
 
 " My niece has more, and will have more," said Miss Glyn 
 with some pride, " but Count Andre de Rcnneville — I have 
 heard the name before — is too poor for her." 
 
 " He has an uncle," reluctantly said Madame de Lonville, 
 " who might leave him something." 
 
 " But he also has a mother, who would expect to live with 
 him, and I caunot allow that." 
 
 " Oh, dear me ! I forgot to tell you that his mother is to 
 stay in the chateau." 
 
 " And where, then, is he to live ? " sharply asked Miss 
 Glyn. 
 
 * " With his wife." 
 
 "And on his wife. No, madame, that will not do. My 
 niece's money shall not help to keep a count in idleness. Idle 
 husbands are bad husbands, and I wish her to be a happy 
 woman. That is of far more importance than being a countess." 
 
 " But why should she not be a happy countess ? " persisted 
 Madame de Lonville — " why should he live upon his wife and 
 be idle ? He would like a busy life of all things, if he had but 
 capital to start with." 
 
 Now capital was one of Miss Glyn's hobbies. She was sure 
 that with capital you could do any thing She had capital, but 
 she was a woman ; a vision of a docile nephew, who would 
 adopt and work on her ideas, dawned before her, and softened 
 her so far that she said "she would see this young man."
 
 sybil's second love. Ill 
 
 " And if you will speak to Mr. Kennedy — " 
 " There is no need to do that ; I must be satisfied first," 
 interrupted Miss Glyn. " Later," she added with a certain 
 condescension of manner, " will do for Mr. Kennedy. In the 
 mean while, I must see this young man." 
 
 Madame de Lonville wagged her fat head with a roguish 
 look. 
 
 " He is to be at Mrs. Eonald's ball," she whispered. 
 And thus came to naught Miss Glyn's stern resolve of wash- 
 ing her hands of Mr Kennedy's daughter, and letting Sybil wear 
 a plaid dress if she pleased. Indeed, so far was she from such 
 philosophic indifference, that her very first act, after Madame 
 de Lonville had left her, was to order the carriage and drive oft' 
 to Saint Vincent, for the express purpose of questioning Mrs. 
 Ronald. She found her surrounded by visitors, whom she he- 
 roically sat out. 
 
 " I am so glad you stayed," eagerly said Mrs. Ronald, as 
 soon as they were alone. " I have found the very husband you 
 want for Sybil." 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 " Yes. A most delightful young man ; a count, too, of an- 
 cient family." 
 
 " Count Andre de Renneville ? " suggested Miss Glyn. 
 " Why, how could you guess ? " 
 
 " Madame de Lonville has just called and proposed the 
 match to me." 
 
 Mrs. Ronald was silent awhile, then she said with much 
 feeling, 
 
 " I cannot do without Madame de Lonville, or rather I dare 
 not offend her, and she presumes upon it. But really it is too 
 bad for her to go and forestall me in this case. I am quite 
 hurt, I am, Miss Glyn." 
 
 Miss Glyn listened to her lament with great composure ; 
 then, when she ceased, inquired into Count Andre de Renne- 
 villc's character and circumstances. Mrs. Ronald's account 
 tallied so completely with Madame de Lonville's — it would have 
 lessened Miss Glyn's satisfaction had she known that Madame de 
 Lonville was Mrs. Ronald's authority — that she went home in 
 high spirits. 
 
 But Miss Glyn was eminently a prudent person. She now 
 determined in her own mind that she would see this young man, 
 weigh him well, turn him over, ascertain how far he would be
 
 112 Sybil's second love. 
 
 equal to the management of capital, then speak to her brother- 
 in-law, and propose that he should give him Sybil, and take him 
 into partnership. These preliminaries being settled, Sybil would 
 be consulted. Now it so happened that this wise and prudent 
 course had to be reversed. Madame de Lonville called the 
 next day with the information that Count Andre de Renneville 
 was on the eve of a matrimonial expedition to Paris, and that 
 unless he received some definite encouragement, he could not 
 afford Miss Glyn more than one interview. He asked for 
 nothing like a promise ; but he must feel that he was not wholly 
 unacceptable to the young lady, not liable, in short, to be re- 
 jected at the eleventh hour by that potentate from whose deci- 
 sions there was no appeal, Sybil's heart, or he would excuse 
 himself from going to Mrs. Ronald's party, and proceed to Paris 
 at once. Miss Glyn sharply asked how this prudent gentleman 
 could know that Sybil would suit him ; but with a knowing wag 
 Madame de Lonville replied that there was no doubt on that 
 head. The Count had seen Miss Kennedy, and was fascinated 
 by her grace and beauty. Miss Glyn said she must take time 
 to consider so weighty a matter ; but promised to give Madame 
 de Lonville a definite answer before the day of the party. 
 
 Severe were Miss Glyn's mental struggles before her mind 
 was finally made up. At length she yielded to the force of cir- 
 cumstances, and sent Madame de Lonville the promised token. 
 But she so far adhered to her original plan, that she did not 
 open her lips to Mr. Kennedy on the subject, and resolved not to 
 speak to Sybil herself, until she had come to some sort of opin- 
 ion concerning Count de Renneville. This she would do on the 
 evening of the party ; if her opinion was favorable, she would 
 let Sybil into the secret; if, on the contrary, it was not so, she 
 would be silent, and plainly tell Madame de Lonville that the 
 young man would never do for her niece. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Little did Sybil suspect her aunt's intended kindness. She 
 now and then wondered, indeed, if she should see Count Andre 
 de Renneville at Mrs. Ronald's; and now and then, too, she gave 
 the gray towers of Raymond's manor a pensive look ; but these
 
 sybil's second lote. 113 
 
 were only passing clouds across the summer sky of her thoughts. 
 Sybil had cared too little about herself, as yet, to think much of 
 such matters. She was also greatly wrapt up just then in the 
 concerns of a poor woman, the tenant of a wretched hovel on 
 Mr. Kennedy's land. This cabin, mere mud, with a thatched 
 roof, he wished to pull down ; he offered his tenant a better 
 home for the same money, but Jeanne had lived and grown old 
 in this miserable abode, and she loved it with the blind passion- 
 ate love of a wild thino- for its lair. Arguments availed not, she 
 moaned and lamented, till Sybil, moved to pity, pleaded her 
 cause, and finally won it by sheer importunity. 
 
 " You are a little simpleton, Pussy," said Mr. Kennedy ; 
 " the woman will die of rheumatism there ; but have your way 
 both of you — you may go and tell her that she can stay in her 
 mud castle as long as she pleases." 
 
 This was an errand after Sybil's own heart, and she ran and 
 told Blanche " her luck," as she called it, and it was agreed 
 they would both go and convey the joyful tidings to the widow. 
 But a violent headache would not allow Miss Cains to fulfil her 
 part of the contract. She said it would be better as the day 
 wore on, and spent the morning in her room ; but when Sybil 
 sought her again, and fondlv asked : 
 
 " How is your headache, darling ? " 
 
 Though Blanche Cains raised her head, and answered 
 " Better," her looks belied her words. 
 
 " Xo, no, it is not better," said Sybil, full of concern, " and 
 you must not come out in this hot sun. I will not let you." 
 
 " Oh ! pray do," urged Blanche — " I do feel as if the air 
 would do me good." 
 
 " It is not air is out now, but heat. You must stay within ; 
 I shall come back all the sooner if I go alone." 
 
 Blanche smiled and vielded, but she asked which road Sybil 
 would take, that she might go and meet her. 
 
 '*' I shall come back by the Pines," said Sybil. " Shall I sit 
 and wait for vou there ? " 
 
 " Do ; I dearly like that spot." 
 
 " And so do I," said Sybil, her eyes sparkling. " I cannot 
 tell you what I feel, Blanche, when I sit beneath those pine-trees, 
 and hear the sea breaking on the shore. It is fine, is it not ? " 
 
 "It is graud, my dear," replied Blanche, with gentle 
 mockery. 
 
 "Ah ! you arc quizzing — well, then, why do you like it?"
 
 114 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Because I clearly like the scent of the pine-trees, my dear — 
 for no other reason. If I could have them in this room, and 
 the sea ten miles off, I should like it all the better. I hate that 
 old moaning sea." 
 
 She spoke so pettishly, that it was Sybil's turn to laugh. 
 
 " Little the sea cares for your hatred, my dear," she said 
 gayly ; " it will moan as you say, or roar even, whether you like 
 it or not." 
 
 " Well, hut why does it make me sick ? " resentfully asked 
 Miss Cains — " I could endure it but for that. I would not kill 
 a fly if it did not hurt me ; but — " she did not go on, but 
 laughed. 
 
 " But what ? " asked Sybil. 
 
 " Nothing- — I was going to talk nonsense - ; but my plain 
 meaning is I must not be bored, or worried, or balked — it 
 changes my nature," she added, with a slight yawn ; " and so I 
 do hate the sea, and would dry it up if I could." 
 
 "Hate away," gayly said Sybil, "provided you don't 
 hate me." 
 
 " Hate you, my pet ? " softly said Miss Cains, looking at her 
 with fond eyes — " hate you, who, I do believe, would make a 
 cushion of yourself if I wanted one ! Why, that would be 
 monstrous, Sybil ! " 
 
 " Ah ! but suppose I bore, or wrong, or balk you ? " sug- 
 gested Sybil, gravely. 
 
 Miss Cains laughed, and shook her handsome head. 
 
 " You can't bore or wrong me," she replied, " because I love 
 you ; and you can't balk me, because you love me." 
 
 " Is your head better ? " cried Sybil, eagerly — " you look 
 quite well again." 
 
 " My dear, it is worse," replied Miss Cains, with a sigh ; 
 " the truth is, talking does not improve it." 
 
 " Oh ! how selfish I am ! " said Sybil, full of remorse. " I 
 must go at once ; but do you think you ought to come and 
 meet me ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I feel sure the scent of those trees will do me good, 
 so pray wait for me." 
 
 Sybil promised to do so, and hurried away on her errand. 
 Miss Cains went with her to the end of the garden, and Sybil, 
 looking round, saw her standing at the head of the stone steps, 
 ti.l a clump of trees hid each from the other's view. Sybil went 
 straight on for the pine-trees, then suddenly it occurred to her
 
 sybil's second love. 115 
 
 that tlii3 was the longest route, and that she would reach her 
 goal more quickly if she went down by the mill. 
 
 Sybil did not like that part of her father's demesnes, ana 
 seldom took it ; for up the stream, beyond the water-cresses, 
 there grew a small wood, which she must now cross, and which 
 she ever shunned. It is not always on her vastest scenes that 
 Nature bestows her deepest significance. A beetling crag, a 
 sweep of shore, a line of heath, are often more impressive than 
 mountain, ocean, or desert, in all their magnitude. Many an 
 Alpine solitude is not so grand as some bleak and narrow val- 
 ley ; many a forest has not so dark and mysterious a meaning 
 as this little wood, which Sybil disliked, and almost feared. 
 Though so small that in a wider landscape it would not have 
 looked more than a clump of trees, it was strangely dark and 
 melancholy. Sybil was a child of life and light, and hated its 
 oppressive gloom. A sense of awe now stole over her as she 
 entered the silent place. 
 
 The tall trees grew close and high. Beneath their shade 
 flowed the dark river. A cold wind blew above, and passed 
 like a chill breath through the nodding boughs. Everywhere 
 in the damp earth ferns grew high and green. If birds ever 
 haunted this gloomy spot they were silent now. No love-song 
 nor joyful cry was heard here — nothing but the low rush of the 
 brown water in its dark bed. Surely some Druid priestess had 
 dwelt here of old ? — surely this was the very spot for the rites 
 of a dark and pitiless faith ? 
 
 " I thiuk I shall turn back," thought Sybil. Suddenly she 
 heard a step behind her, then her name was uttered, and look- 
 ing round quickly, she saw her Uncle Edward. 
 
 "Oh! lam so glad," she said, with a sigh of relief; "I 
 was getting frightened here." 
 
 i' Frightened, Sybil! " he laughed. 
 
 " Uncle, it is so gloomy that it sends a chill through one's 
 heart." 
 
 " It is fine, Sybil, very fine ! " 
 
 " I think it dreadful." 
 
 He did not answer, he did not seem to hear her. His eager 
 eyes were scanning every dark nook as if in search of something. 
 
 " Are you looking for serpents ? " uneasily asked Sybil. 
 
 " Serpents, Sybil ! — there are none here. You don't sup- 
 pose that Saint Patrick, a native of these parts, would bave 
 allowed them ? "
 
 116 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Well, then, there ought to be serpents here," impatiently 
 said Sybil ; " this looks the very spot for treason and perfidy." 
 
 "Child, do not let your imagination carry you away so, 
 Around these few trees lies an arid, sunburnt waste. Moreover, 
 cut one down, and the sky looks in, and the sun scorches up 
 these damp-loving ferns, and show's you the pebbly bottom of 
 the river — and the character of the place is gone. But since 
 you dislike it so much, what brings you here, Sybil ? " 
 
 " I am going to Jeanne's." 
 
 " So far alone ? " 
 
 And he looked rather surprised, and scarcely pleased. 
 
 " Blanche could not come with me. Poor, dear Blanche ! 
 she has such dreadful headaches ! It makes me wretched to 
 see her in such pain." 
 
 " Nonsense, Sybil, Miss Cains must bear with her head- 
 aches." 
 
 lie spoke impatiently, and Sybil thought unfeelingly. 
 
 " But it is a dreadful headache," she insisted, reddening. 
 " It began this morning. She could scarcely keep her eyes 
 open. I bathed her forehead with eau-de-Cologne ever so long, 
 but though she allowed it so patiently, it was of no use." 
 
 " Patiently ! Pray where was the patience in letting your 
 little kind hands pour out upon her that scent she doats on — to 
 use her own expressive phrase ? " 
 
 "Don't be so unjust, uncle. She only did it to please me. 
 And she is so unselfish. She knew I liked going to Jeanne's, 
 and she would not let me stay with her. Now, that was kind." 
 
 " Very," he dryly said. 
 
 "And I must go, for I am to wait for her at the Pines. 
 Good-by, uncle." 
 
 "No, do not — stay just a few minutes with me, Sybil. Sit 
 down on that bank by me. You do not object? " 
 
 " No," replied Sybil, a little surprised. 
 
 She sat down as he spoke, and he half sat, half stretched 
 himself by her side. She thought he had something to say to 
 her, but he only looked at her intently, his chin resting on the 
 palm of his hand, his eyes fastened on her face. Sybil was 
 going to question him, when he spoke. 
 
 " Sybil," he said, " did you ever in your life utter a false- 
 hood — tell a lie, in short? I know I have no right to put the 
 question, for even a father confessor must hear and not ask ; and 
 yet, Sybil, do answer me. Did you ever do it ? "
 
 Sybil's second lote. 117 
 
 " Well, uncle, I will tell you, because I am proud, and it 
 will humble me — I did." 
 
 He looked disappointed. 
 
 " You, too, Sybil I " he said in a tone of regret. " Ah ! what 
 a pity ! " 
 
 "Yes," returned Sybil, reddening, "but it made me very 
 miserable, uncle ; and yet," she added, with much contrition, 
 " I did it twice." 
 
 " Twice," he echoed ; ' you actually did it twice, and some 
 time back, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Years," replied Sybil. 
 
 "Two falsehoods in a lifetime," he repeated very gently. 
 " Poor little sinner, but you will never utter a third, will you \ " 
 
 " Never, I hope," she warmly replied. 
 
 " Do not, Sybil," he said, with some passion — " do not. Let 
 Truth be your worship. There is nothing like her — nothing ; 
 we all long for and adore her ; the meanest, the vilest, thirst for 
 her too, selfishly, of course, but still ardently ; for who would be 
 deceived, and who does not scorn deceit, though himself a de- 
 ceiver ? You have never read Spenser, Sybil ? Well, I have ; 
 and I remember Una, my second love ; and, dike all second 
 loves, the purest and the best." 
 
 " And who was the first ? " asked Sybil, gravely. 
 
 "Cinderella — dear, darling little Cinderella; but you see that 
 was pity ; now Una was both pity and adoration. Talking thus 
 with you, I remember how she came to the ' secret shadow ; ' 
 may be a spot not unlike this— a spot where treason and perfidy 
 look congenial, as you say. But heavenly Una laid her stole 
 aside, her angel's face, 
 
 ' As the great eye of heaven shined bright, 
 And made a sunshine in the shady place. ' " 
 
 " Then I wish she were here," saucily interrupted Sybil. 
 " I should like to see a ray of sunshine." 
 
 " She is here, Sybil — I see her." 
 
 " Where, then ? " 
 
 " With the mind's eye." 
 
 Svbil laughed. 
 
 " I almost thought you meant me," she said, gayly. 
 
 "Mean you, indeed! Yon -vain little thing! Why, child, 
 have you not prevaricated twice? It is quite dreadful to think
 
 118 sybil's second love. 
 
 of, especially in this world of ours, where men brave and strong 
 can never utter a falsehood, and where truth dwells on the lips 
 of young and beautiful women." 
 
 " Why, uncle, how strangely you do talk ! " said Sybil. 
 
 He laughed and rose. 
 
 " It is this place," he said ; " you are right, Sybil, it has a 
 chill, unhealthy look, and I suppose suggests morbid thoughts. 
 Let us go out into the sunshine." 
 
 He walked with her to the limit of the trees, but when 
 they reached it he stood still, evidently not meaning to go any 
 farther. 
 
 " You will not come with me ? " she said, coaxingly. 
 
 " I cannot. Poor little Una, do not look so disappointed. 
 I am not good enough to go with you. I must go back to that 
 deceitful wood, and try my luck there. Perhaps I shall find 
 some rare pearl after all — or may be encounter a green dragon, 
 or catch Melusina bathing in that black-looking water." 
 
 " Uncle," again said Sybil, " how strangely you talk ! " 
 
 " Well, I believe I do," he replied, after a brief pause ; " but 
 you see, there are hidden griefs in every life which must break 
 forth every nowand then, and just now I am wading knee-deep 
 through the very waters of bitterness. I am sick of it, Sybil, 
 frightfully sick of it." 
 
 His eyes flashed, and he bit his lips. Suppressed passion, 
 disgust, and anger were in his aspect. Sybil laid her hand upon 
 his arm, and said, very earnestly, 
 
 " Uncle, can I do nothing for you ? " 
 
 " You ! " he replied, his features suddenly relaxing into a 
 kind smile; "you little thing, whom it saddens one to see going 
 forth, all unarmed as you are, into a world of snares and pitfalls ; 
 you do any thing for one who would like to do so much, and can 
 do so little for you ! A little while more, and your path and 
 mine must part ; and, alas ! I know this world is not Fairyland, 
 and that roaring lions oftcner devour poor Una than they lick 
 her feet, and keep watch and ward over the sleeping virgin. I 
 wish I were your father, my little girl ; if I were, I wonder what 
 harm could come near you?" 
 
 " My father will let no harm come near me," jealously said 
 Sybil. 
 
 " Not if he knows its existence ; but what if he thinks harm 
 a good ? " 
 
 " Uncle, you should not talk so, it is Avrong — quite wrong."
 
 Sybil's second love. 119 
 
 Sybil's eyes sparkled with indignation, but be only smiled, 
 and seemed ratber pleased to bave vexed ber. 
 
 " I like to see you so, Sybil," be said gayly ; " it gives me 
 comfort for the future. You are a brave, ay, and a resentful 
 Irish girl. You trust entirely, but woe be to tbose who wrong 
 or deceive you! And now good-by, Sybil; make up for lost 
 time, and do not keep your dear Miss Cains waiting." 
 
 He turned back into tbe wood, and Sybil walked along the 
 path that led through the moor in silent but great indignation, 
 at the ironical tone with which ber Uncle Edward bad uttered 
 the last words. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Sybil's wrath cooled as she went on. It was much weaker 
 when she reached Jeanne's cabin ; and there it subsided en- 
 tirely, for the door of the but was fast, and there was no one with- 
 in. Sybil sat down to rest awhile. The river here flowed into a 
 sluggish pool. Yellow rocks, belonging to the neighboring 
 cliffs, and baked by tbe sun, were piled behind the cabin, and 
 bad scattered their fragments on the banks of the stream. 
 Here sun and light abounded ; but here ceased the freshness 
 and verdure of earth. Here began a nature other than that of 
 the poet's, yet not without its own beauty, contrasts, and bar- 
 monies. A more arid waste never greeted traveller's ey^un tho 
 sands of Africa. And this was the spot which it wasTleart- 
 breaking to leave, which it was such happiness to remain in. 
 
 " Poor thing ! " thought Sybil. " I am so sorry there is no 
 one I can tell the news to. What a pity that she must wait an- 
 other day ! I am glad now dear Blanche did not come. She 
 would have been so disappointed." 
 
 And, as it was plain that Jeanne's cabin was deserted for 
 the day, Sybil, after resting awhile, rose and bent ber steps 
 homeward. This time she took the longer and shadier route, 
 and soon found herself in tbe pine-tree plantation — wood or 
 forest it could not be called — which skirted the seashore. 
 
 Ob ! bow Sybil liked that spot. How she liked that long 
 low glimpse of sea and golden west passing behind the trees, 
 and that suro-e breaking in strange music on the smooth sand 
 of the shore ! How she liked that deep, calm gloom above her
 
 120 sybil's second love. 
 
 head, and that soft carpet under her feet, and that sweet pene- 
 trating odor which filled the air ! She walked on, her heart 
 heating with pleasure, her whole being thrilled with secret de- 
 light, till she reached the try sting-place. There she sat and 
 again rested, for Miss Cains, not expecting her so soon, had 
 not yet made her appearance. 
 
 Thought was the food of Sybil's life, young, and inexpe- 
 rienced, and, indeed, ignorant of many things though she was. 
 As she now sat waiting for Miss Cains, she sat and thought 
 not of her, however, but of her Uncle Edward. Sybil was 
 trusting, because she herself was true ; but there is a calm and 
 happy faith which, though it serves to blind, does not always 
 exclude penetration. Sybil wore a bandage over her eyes when 
 she loved, but when her affection was not called' into jeopardy, 
 when she could see and not doubt, Sybil was keen-sighted 
 enough, and could cast a deep and searching look in matters 
 that seemed beyond her years, and were certainly beyond her 
 experience. Her uncle appeared to her under a new aspect, 
 and Sybil was quick in apprehending its meaning. He had 
 called himself prose to her, and prose he was in some things. 
 He had a clear, firm mind, which abhorred all vagueness, as 
 matter was said to abhor the vacuum of the old philosophers. 
 He was severe and sometimes cynical in his censure of this 
 world's falsehoods and assumptions ; but he was not heartless. 
 No, Sybil had seen it that day by his quivering lip and his 
 troubled eye — Pain had her hold upon him too, that cruel grasp 
 which she willingly foregoes from none of her mortal children. 
 He could suffer keenly, Sybil was sure of it now ; and whatever 
 the cause of that suffering might be, feeling, strong and deep, 
 was its source. The cold, the callous, have no such secret 
 anguish to hide as he had half betrayed to her that morning. 
 They need never break out into those half-bitter, half-passionate 
 ejaculations, which, for the first time, had passed his lips in 
 Sybil's hearing. Ay, he was very different from what he hail 
 seemed — Sybil was very sure of it now. Strong though he 
 looked, a tender heart lay hidden beneath that defiant smile. 
 
 There is strange fascination in the searching thoughts that 
 have some half-known, half-hidden character for their object. 
 Sybil let time go by and forgot it, and did not see a darkening 
 sky nor a coming storm till thunder rolled and lightning flashed. 
 She started to her feet and hurried homeward. Her path now 
 lay wholly by the sea, and what a grand sight met her view !
 
 sybil's second love. 121 
 
 The sky bent over the heaving waters. Between these stretched 
 a space not clear, nor yet quite dark. There thunder lay brood- 
 ing like a lion in his lair. A fishing-boat, with anxious sails 
 outspread, flew home on green and livid-looking waves. Sybil 
 was not timid by nature, and she liked that fierce war of the 
 elements. She stopped to look and admire. 
 
 " Sybil, Sybil," said her uncle's voice behind her, " what are 
 you doing here ? " 
 
 She looked round and saw him carrying her cloak and um- 
 brella. 
 
 " Quick ! " he said ; " do not linger — quick, Sybil ! " 
 
 He was hurrying her away, when suddenly h^ stood still. 
 
 " If that cloud breaks into rain," he said, " you will be 
 drenched. Neither cloak nor umbrella will save you. You see 
 the coastguard's hut yonder — shall we have a run for it?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, let us," she eagerly replied ; " I hate being wet — 
 and I like a run of all things." 
 
 " Well, then, come on." 
 
 Sybil was light and fleet, and her feet now scarcely seemed 
 to touch the earth. Her Uncle Edward had taken her hand, 
 lest she should fall or stumble over the uneven ground ; but he 
 had no need to support or assist her. . 
 
 " Why, what a little light-footed nymph you are," he said, 
 gayly, as they reached the hut ; " and we are in time, too." 
 
 " The door is locked, uncle." 
 
 " Well, my dear, I must turn burglar, that is all." 
 
 Before she could remonstrate, he had picked up a pebble, 
 broken the lock, and forced the door open. They entered the 
 hut in time ; scarcely had its door closed upon them, when the 
 cloud broke, and the rain came pouring down in torrents. Her 
 first feeling of joy at having reached a safe refuge over, Sybil 
 began to look around her. Nothing could be ruder than this 
 retreat. Its walls were of clay, but thick enough to withstand 
 the storm ; and its thatched roof was an effectual shelter against 
 the rain. It had a door and a narrow window, and by way of 
 furniture, a stool, on which Sybil sat down, whilst her uncle 
 held fast the door, which shook in the wind. The rain was 
 dashing down with furious force, and Sybil, in great glee at 
 having escaped it, cried, as she clapped her hands : 
 
 " We are safe ! — we are safe ! " 
 
 "Very true; but pray what kept you out with this storm 
 
 coming on ? " 
 
 6
 
 122 SYBIL S SECOXD LOVE. 
 
 " I was waiting for Blanche, uncle." 
 
 "And the fair Blanche, seeing the sty covered with heavy 
 clouds, declared you could not possibly expect her, and stayed 
 within." 
 
 " I am very glad of it," stoutly said Sybil ; " I should not 
 like her to he out in this weather. It was that storm which 
 made her head ache, I have no doubt." 
 
 " No more have I," he dryly replied ; " electricity must 
 have much influence on Miss Cains. She looks so sensitive, 
 you know." 
 
 " " She is sensitive," said Sybil, " and I wish, uncle, you would 
 not spoil your kindness in coming out for me, by speaking so 
 of dear Blanche." 
 
 " My dear, I shall not say another word .about her, there- 
 fore we must needs agree. But allow me to wonder at the fas- 
 cination which made you stay out so long. Pray, on which of 
 her many virtues were you meditating ? " 
 
 " I was not thinking about her at all," shortly replied Sybil, 
 " I was thinking of some one very different from Blanche Cains. 
 I was thinking of you, uncle." 
 
 " "Were you ? Pray, what might your thoughts be ? " 
 
 Sybil sat on the stool, and he stood before her, leaning 
 against the wall of the hut, his right hand keeping fast and 
 closed the frail door, which the wind shook wildly. He gazed 
 down at the young girl, and his luminous gray eyes had a 
 look so penetrating" that she blushed a little ; but she .replied 
 frankly : 
 
 "I was thinking, uncle, that you are not happy, and wish- 
 ing I could relieve you." 
 
 " Not happy ! ' Who told you so ? " 
 
 " You did, "uncle, have vou forgotten it ? " 
 
 " Oh ! it will blow off,"" he said lightly. 
 
 " Ah ! yes, but it is hard." 
 
 " Hard*! " he cried, stamping his foot ; " Sybil, it is intoler- 
 able." 
 
 She rose and went up to him. 
 
 " Uncle," she said earnestly, " speak, it will relieve you ; on 
 my word no one shall know it — not even Blanche Cain 
 
 - Xot even Blanche Caines?" he repeated smiling, " and on 
 your word, too ; your yea and nay would have sufficed, Sybil — 
 I know you are incapable of betrayal ; but it would not relieve 
 me to tell you — the trouble which words relieve is a light one.
 
 123 
 
 SYBIL S SEC02TO LOVE. 
 
 Why, its very nature would be a mystery to you. I am a 
 slave, Sybil, and I loathe my bondage — that's all." 
 
 " You are married ! " cried Sybil, amazed. 
 
 In a moment his face was all in a flame. 
 
 " Who told you so ? " he asked, looking confounded at her 
 quickness. 
 
 " No one," replied Sybil, confused ; " I guessed it." 
 
 " Well, Sybil," he said after a short pause, and speaking in 
 a much calmer tone, " you are a good archer ; but yet your 
 arrrow overshot the mark. I am not married, but engaged." 
 
 " And vou do not like her ? " He was silent. " But she 
 likes you." 
 
 " Does she ! She is a sphinx." 
 
 " Ah ! you like another," exclaimed Sybil, thinking that 
 other must be Blanche Cains, and feeling a great throb of guilty 
 
 " What if I do," he said with his keenest look, " does that 
 set me free ? " 
 
 " No," replied Sybil abashed. 
 
 " Well spoken, little casuist. Well, be it known unto you 
 that I do not like another — I have not even the poor excuse of 
 faithlessness. My little cruise went to the well once on a time, 
 and came back full, and thought itself a very fountain, and lo 
 and behold you ! — looking into it the other clay I found that 
 the waters we're spilt and gone, and the poor cruise all barren 
 and dry. Whose is the blame, Sybil — hers or mine ? Was I 
 too careless, or was she too prodigal ? I know not, but, alas ! 
 where are those sweet waters now ? What arid earth or barren 
 sand has drunk them up, God knows, Sybil ; but they are 
 gone, and gone forever, and I am bound, and can I ever be free 
 again ? " 
 
 " No," said Sybil, " you cannot. Never ! " 
 
 Her uncle seemed to wince as she uttered the words. 
 
 " You are made of steel," he said ; " I have already noticed 
 that terrible rigidity in you. What is right is and must be — 
 escape or evasion is not to be thought of. And yet, Sybil, life 
 has many loopholes." 
 
 " Uncle, I am very sorry for you," gently said Sybil ; " but 
 perhaps you will like her again." 
 
 " Water flows on, Sybil, never backward." 
 
 " But why, having liked her once, not like her now, uncle ? " 
 
 He laughed at the question.
 
 124 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Thereby Langs a tale," he said, " and where's the use of 
 telling it ? It is so old, so very old a story, Sybil. Ah ! if the 
 heart would but be changeless ! If what charmed once would 
 
 o 
 
 but charm forever ! There was a time when a storin like this 
 would have seemed sunshine if it led to her ; and now, oh ! 
 how sweet it would be to be out in that drenching rain, and 
 feel its dullness in my very marrow, if by so doing I could but 
 escape once that formerly worshipped presence. Do not loot so 
 scared, Sybil, and let us have no more of that dreary talk. 
 How is the storm getting on ? Clearing, it seems to me." 
 
 " Uncle, will you really marry her ? " asked Sybil. 
 
 " Why, of course I will — did you not say yourself I must ? " 
 
 " But hating her so ! " 
 
 " I do not hate her at all, my good little girt ! Why should 
 I ? but oh ! I confess it, I do abhor my self-sought boudage ! 
 What about it ? " 
 
 He was quite callous, quite defiant again. Sybil shuddered. 
 
 " Oh ! how dreadful," she said under her breath, " how 
 dreadful for you — and for her ! " 
 
 " I dare say she will never know any thing about it," he re- 
 plied carelessly. " I am not going to tell her, you know. Let 
 us hope, Sybil, that she will live and die thinking herself an 
 adored woman." 
 
 But Sybil, looking on the mud floor of the cabin, thought : 
 " God forbid this should ever be my fate I " 
 
 " The rain is over, Sybil ; let us go. Your poor little feet 
 must be wet, unless you will let me carry you home." 
 
 " Carry me ! " echoed Sybil — " no, uncle, I am very heavy." 
 
 " Ah ! to be sure. I had forgotten that. Come, put that 
 cloak around you, and let us be gone." 
 
 Sybil obeyed. They went out ; the sky was clear again, 
 with a few heavy purple clouds ; the sea shone and sparkled, 
 yet rain still fell, and Uncle Edward opened the umbrella, and 
 held it above Sybil as they walked along. 
 
 "Uncle," she said, very gravely, "you liked her once, and 
 I cannot help thinking that if this misunderstanding were 
 over — " 
 
 " There is no misunderstanding," he interrupted. 
 
 Sybil was a little abashed. 
 
 " Well, but, uncle," she said, rallying, " there is something." 
 
 " My dear Sybil, how can you talk of such things under an 
 umbrella ? In that little hut beyond, with the rain dashing and
 
 Sybil's second loye. 125 
 
 the storm rolling;, I could talk nonsense ; but with this umbrel- 
 la over my head — a cotton one, too, borrowed from the kitchen 
 — I feel chilled into commonplace itself." 
 
 He spoke quite lightly, but Sybil could uot forget what she 
 had heard. She looked up at him very earnestly — so earnestly, 
 that he suddenly stood still. 
 
 " You should not, uncle," she said, gravely — " look, I am 
 standing in the mud." 
 
 " I am very sorry ; but why did you look up at me so with 
 those soft, pitiful eyes of yours ? Those eyes should not belong 
 to you, Sybil, for you are a child, and their youth has some- 
 thing eternal in it." 
 
 " My eyes are my own," saucily said Sybil, who knew quite 
 well that she had fine eyes, having been told so from her child- 
 hood upward ; " but oh ! uncle, how can you talk so ? — under 
 an umbrella, too ! " 
 
 He did not mind her. 
 
 " Sybil," he said, still without moving, and forgetting that 
 they were in a pool of water, " do not pity me — never pity a 
 man. I told you so once — I tell you so again. It is his fate to 
 get out of trouble, or if he cannot, to bear it ; but, Sybil, my 
 dear, such a net as I am now in may some day be cast around 
 you. Do not struggle in its meshes, but tell me — tell me, Sybil 
 — and it will be hard indeed if I do not set you free." 
 
 "Thank you, uncle," said Sybil, nimbly walking away from 
 his side ; " your boots are thick, and mine are thin, and so you 
 recklessly lead me into pools of water. But we are at home 
 now, and as I am half drowned, I shall leave you, with many 
 thanks for your kindness." 
 
 She waved her hand, and tripped away, skipping over the 
 quagmires of the path, and not once looking round at him. lie 
 closed his umbrella, and followed her; but Sybil never seemed 
 aware of his presence till they both reached the house, and 
 were received by Miss Cains, who was anxiously waiting for 
 them on the threshold. 
 
 "My poor darling, what a mess you are in?" she exclaimed, 
 looking pitifully at Sybil's feet. 
 
 " Yes," gravely replied Sybil — " uncle praised my eyes, and 
 led me straight into the mud." 
 
 Miss Cains laughed, and looked at Sybil's uncle, who re- 
 turned the gaze with something like defiance. Sybil saw the 
 look, and, thinking that she read its meaning, was silenced at
 
 12G sybil's second love. 
 
 once by the revelation. She went up to her room, and took oil 
 her wet clothes, and thought: "Can it really be?" It so 
 chanced that when she came down again she met her uncle on 
 the staircase. He seemed inclined to pass by her without 
 speaking, but Sybil addressed him : 
 
 " Uncle," she said, very earnestly, " I know it all now." 
 
 " What all ? " 
 
 "Why, you don't like Blanche," she answered, in a very 
 low tone. 
 
 He stood quite still, looking at her gravely. Sybil bent and 
 whispered in his ear, 
 
 " Blanche is like her." 
 
 He did not answer her at once. 
 
 " Yes," he said at length, " that is it, Sybil— she is like her." 
 
 He went up undetained by Sybil, who went down, secretly 
 amazed and triumphant at her penetration, and also thinking : 
 " If she is as handsome as Blanche, why does he not like her ? " 
 
 -*-♦♦- 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Before Sybil had reached the foot of the staircase, the door 
 of Miss Cains's room opened, and that young lady herself came 
 down rather quickly after her. She looked very bright and airy, 
 and it was plain that her headache was all gone. 
 
 " Now, my poor little Sybil," she said, locking her arm 
 within that of her friend, " what kept you out so long ? I could 
 not believe you were waiting for me, but your uncle would have 
 it that you were, and went forth to meet you, whilst your aunt 
 gave him scornful looks — they do not agree, do they?" 
 
 " Aunt does not like uncle — I cannot imagine why," replied 
 Sybil. 
 
 " Can't you, you dear little simple thing ? — why, it is as plain 
 as plain can be." 
 
 "Do you know why, Blanche?" 
 
 " Well, I believe I do, but I shall not tell you — it would be a 
 pity ; besides, it would interfere with my plans — you know I am 
 still finding out wonderful things about Mr. Smith." 
 
 " Are you, Blanche ? " 
 
 " Of course I am, and you could help me, if you liked ; your
 
 sybil's second love. 127 
 
 uncle would be sure to tell you if you would only set the right 
 way about it. Confess he tells you every thing ? " 
 
 She turned sharply upon Sybil as she made this remark, but 
 though Sybil blushed a little, she did not feel tempted to betray 
 her uncle to Blanche. 
 
 " I wish he did tell me every thing," she said ; " but the fact 
 is, he has a way of putting me off, and I cau get nothing out of 
 him." 
 
 " He is afraid you would tell me," said Miss Cains. 
 "But I would not tell you," rejoined Sybil. "I would tell 
 no one, and he need not fear." 
 
 "You are an austere little thing," said Blanche gravely; 
 " but for all that you have a tell-tale face ; and something passed 
 between Greeneyes and you when you were out together. 
 There, you need not redden so — I do not care about his secrets, 
 child, and you have none. Indeed, I have other fish to fry. I 
 have been thinking of the cabal, Sybil, and as my name is 
 Blanche Cains, I will make these young ladies repent their in- 
 tended insult upon you. 
 
 Miss Cains looked very handsome as she uttered this defiant 
 speech. Indeed, from the moment that the cabal against Sybil 
 was fully explained to Blanche Cains, that heroic young lady 
 declared it was her firm resolve to annihilate it. Now, Miss 
 Glyn, on learning the circumstances of the cabal, felt deeply 
 incensed against the ladies, English and French, old and young, 
 with whom it had originated ; but she felt more than incensed 
 with the avowed intention of Miss Cains. That this little up- 
 start should be her niece's champion was insufferable. She 
 had not liked Miss Cains from the first ; but after the bold con- 
 fession which Blanche again uttered this day at dinner, " I never 
 allow my enemies to get ahead of me," she fairly detested her. 
 She was sure, she was, that there was defiance in Miss Blanche's 
 blue eye as it lit upon her, and she took the declaration as a 
 challenge — neither more nor less. 
 
 " My dear James," she said to her brother-in-law after din- 
 ner, "I am very sorry that Miss Cains is with Sybil. I do not 
 like her manner; she talks slang; she is insolent, and she stares 
 at men in a way which is quite shocking." 
 " Men ! what men? " asked Mr. Kennedy. 
 " Well, I did not mean you." 
 
 " Then you meant my brother Edward. I have not noticed 
 it ; but for once we agree. I neither like that young lady nor
 
 128 sybil's second love. 
 
 her manners ; only, poor wretch, I cannot turn her out, cai* 
 I?" 
 
 "But surely she is not going to stay here forever ?" 
 
 " She has not been here a week," shortly replied Mr. Kenne- 
 dy; and as it was plain that they would soon cease to agree if 
 they pursued this subject, he walked away and left Miss Glyn 
 with the memory of a new wrong to treasure up against poor 
 Miss Cains. 
 
 Poverty is a sharp school; moreover, though Miss Cains 
 was not an ardent reader like Sybil, and did not go wild about 
 dead men and women, she had plenty of cleverness. She was 
 quick-witted, brave, and keen-sighted. She knew her enemies 
 at once, and neither feared nor spared them. 
 
 " My usual luck," she said to Sybil, as they walked in the 
 garden after dinner. " I have affronted your aunt. Look at 
 her talking to your father — it is about me. She is telling him 
 that I am vulgar and can only spoil you. Sybil — Sybil," she 
 added, almost sadly, " why is it no one loves me ? " 
 
 " But you are loved ! " cried Sybil. 
 
 "No," replied her friend, sitting down on a bench in the 
 sun. " Women fear me, and men admire me, but no one loves 
 me!" 
 
 " But I do — I do ! " said Sybil, throwing her arms around 
 her. " I love you ! " 
 
 As a rule, Miss Cains rather submitted to Sybil's girlish 
 fondness than liked it. She valued her affection, but had been 
 too much tossed about by a hard world to care for her caresses. 
 Now, however, she caught her in her arms, and nearly smoth- 
 ered her with kisses, and all the while her tears flowed and sobs 
 broke from her. 
 
 " Sybil, I am wretched," she said — " I am miserable — the 
 whole world is against me !" 
 
 " Now, that's nonsense," interrupted Sybil, drawing away 
 to look at her, " Perhaps we shall have a cabal against you, 
 too ; but until then, how can you say the whole world is 
 against you ?" 
 
 But though Blanche checked her tears, her blue eyes kept 
 a moody look. 
 
 " I know what I am saying," she said. " Why does not 
 your uncle go to Mrs. Ronald's party, Sybil ? " 
 
 " Is he not going 2 " asked Sybil. 
 
 " No ; I saw him this morning on the staircase, and I asked
 
 sybil's second love. 129 
 
 him if tomorrow were not the day of the party. He replied lie 
 did not know, that he was not going. And now shall I tell 
 you why he is not going? — because he is afraid of me. 
 Yes, afraid of rne ; that Greeneyes is prudent. I know, or 
 at least I guess, what promise you reminded him of the other 
 evening, when I said I expected no partners. Of course, you 
 had made him promise to dance with me, or something of the 
 kind. Well, rather than keep his word, and commit himself, he 
 will not go. Sybil — Sybil, I am afraid you have gone beyond 
 the dancing. Perhaps you suggested that he should marry 
 your poor friend. There, you are red enough — you stand con- 
 fessed ! Well, poor child, I forgive you, but never do it again." 
 
 When Sybil could speak, it was to say, 
 
 " Blanche, you frighten me ! " 
 
 " Why so ? " 
 
 " You are so dreadfully clear-sighted." 
 
 " Am I ? Well, you are not, to he sure, and therefore it 
 seems marvellous to you, who go about life with bandaged eyes, 
 tbat I should see my way as I do. Never mind; of the two 
 you will fare the better in the main, and my clear-sightedness 
 only helps to give me pain. And now, child," she added, with 
 a sudden change of tone and manner, " do let us see about 
 those white roses — will they do, or not ? 
 
 This important question took them in, and was debated and 
 aigued again and again, and not finally settled till the next day, 
 an hour before dressing for the ball. 
 
 "Blanche, you are splendidly handsome!" said Sybil, as 
 they entered Mrs. Ronald's drawing-room with Mr. Kennedy 
 and Miss Glyn ; "mind you do not let the cabal triumph." 
 
 " If I do ! " said Blanche ; a smile of saucy triumph told 
 her meaning. 
 
 Miss Glyn's worst presentiments were fulfilled on that fatal 
 evening. Sybil was eclipsed by her friend, and looked insignifi- 
 cant by her side ; and this was to be her first interview with 
 Count de Renneville ! 
 
 Exasperating though it was to let Sybil wear blue, which did 
 not suit her, Miss Glyn had submitted to this crying evil, rather 
 than betray her secret, by seeming to take an undue interest 
 in her niece's good looks. She even declined to superintend 
 her preparations, or to advise her in any manner, and kept up 
 an appearance of injured dignity, which could not but deceive 
 Mr. Kennedy, who, indeed, did not suspect any one would at- 
 6*
 
 130 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 tempt to provide his daughter with a husband without first con 
 suiting him aud Sybil, who did not think about a husband at 
 all. But there was a third person whom this matter did not 
 seem to concern, and who yet proved more clear-sighted than 
 Miss Glyn would have liked had she known it ; this was Miss 
 Blanche Cains. 
 
 "Your aunt is up to something," she repeatedly said to 
 Sybil ; " I see it I tell you there is something in the wind." 
 
 " Something ! — what then ? " asked Sybil amazed. 
 
 " I cannot tell, but something there is." 
 
 Sybil looked at Blanche, and thought she knew what ailed 
 her aunt. Miss Cains was certainly very beautiful that evening, 
 and no one admired her more than generous little Sybil. 
 
 " What a grand, sparkling creature she is ! " .she whispered 
 to her father. 
 
 He gave Miss Cains a critical look, and smiled. 
 
 "Yes, she is not amiss," he said. "I think I shall dance 
 with her. Must I, Sybil ? " 
 
 " Oh ! do," she entreated. 
 
 He went and asked Miss Cains, who stood a few paces off. 
 She smiled and bowed assent; and Sybil, whom a tall handsome 
 man had just asked and was leading out, watched them, to the 
 no small detriment of her partner. In vain did this gentleman 
 seek to engage her attention. Miss Kennedy's eyes were too 
 busy for her mind not to follow them. What a noble pair they 
 looked ! Blanche was so lovely, with that white w r rcath in her 
 hair ; and the row of pearls with the sparkling heart affixed to 
 it which encircled her throat — Sybil's gift — was not purer in 
 hue than the fair neck on which it rested. Then she had such 
 fine features and such noble shoulders, and she was such a 
 grand-looking creature altogether, that Sybil thought, 
 
 " Oh ! what a pity uncle could not fall in love with and 
 marry her! She would just do for him, and he would just do 
 for her." 
 
 So strong was this impression, that she could not help im- 
 parting one of its main features to Blanche when they met 
 again in a pause of the dancing. Miss Cains was fanning her- 
 self with much zeal, and Mr. Kennedy had gone to fetch her an 
 ice, wdien Sybil said eagerly, 
 
 " Now, Blanche, confess there is no one here so handsome 
 as Uncle Edward." 
 
 Blanche stared, then looked frigid.
 
 sybil's second love. 131 
 
 " Oh ! he has green eyes> you know." 
 
 " He has not, Blanche." 
 
 Miss Cains laughed carelessly, and said, 
 
 " Nonsense ! " then added quickly, " I told you that your 
 aunt was up to something; I know it now, Sybil." 
 
 " Know ! — know what ? " 
 
 Blanche did not answer; Sybil's partner had come back, 
 and with him Mr. Kennedy. The dancing beo-an anew, and 
 they had no immediate opportunity of renewing their discourse. 
 
 In spite of the cabal, Sybil had a few partners, but Miss 
 Cains had a superfluity of this precious commodity. She 
 danced three times running with Mr. Kennedy, who seemed 
 nothing loth, and after him with every man who was so for- 
 tunate as to secure her. She was evidently the queen of the 
 night, and evidently, too, she saw and enjoyed her success. 
 
 " She is certainly a fine girl," said Mr. Kennedy to his 
 daughter ; but is she not a bit of a flirt, Sybil ? " 
 
 " A flirt ! — no, iudeed," was the indignant reply ; "I am 
 amazed at you, papa." 
 
 "Are you, my dear? — well, at all events, you will grant 
 there is not much in her ? " 
 
 " Xot much ! "Why, papa, she is amazingly clever ! " 
 
 "Is she really?" he answered carelessly; "I should not 
 have thought so." 
 
 And seeing some one whom he knew in the crowd, Mr. 
 Kennedy rose and walked away. Sybil felt vexed. How tire- 
 some no one appreciated dear Blanche ! And then how strange 
 her father did not make her dance, but left her without a part- 
 ner, sitting near her aunf, who was all-absorbed with these 
 French people ! A very close, and, if Sybil had but known it, 
 a very interesting conversation was then going on between Miss 
 Glyn and a dowager lady and her son ; but Sybil, looking on 
 dolefully at the dancing, in which she could not join, lent it but 
 an inattentive ear. There they were, chatting away about " so- 
 cial progress, and the element of commerce in modern society, 
 and the might of capital," and what was it all to her ? 
 
 "Capital," said the dowager's son, "is simply the grand 
 hinge on which society now revolves." 
 
 " I think so," dogmatically replied Miss Glyn. 
 
 The gentleman bowed, and resumed, 
 
 " Supported by your authority, I will venture to add, that 
 'capital is society — take away capital, and BOciety vanishes."
 
 132 Sybil's second love. 
 
 " I am sure of it," said Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Next to capital comes the working of capital," resumed 
 the gentleman; and that ought to be the special duty of ever) 
 man who means to keep on a par with his age." 
 
 To this axiom, Miss Glyn added an unexpected corollary — 
 
 " I think women ought to work capital too." 
 
 The gentleman seemed taken by surprise ; but he recovered 
 quickly, and said, 
 
 " Very true." 
 
 " I think women have a strong business talent," resumed 
 Miss Glyn, fastening her brown eye upon him. 
 
 " Diplomatic," he suggested. 
 
 " And administrative too," she rejoined, a little severely. 
 
 He bowed his graceful head, and declared he did not 
 doubt it. 
 
 Sybil suppressed a yawn, and began to think that it was not 
 all pleasure to go to parties. Suddenly Blanche came up to 
 her. She took the place Mr. Kennedy had left vacant, aud 
 whispered eagerly, 
 
 " Well, I was right, was I not ? " 
 
 Sybil's surprise was so great, and so legibly expressed in her 
 countenance, that Blanche saw the propriety of leading her 
 away. She took her arm, and did so with as much composure 
 as if she had been one of Mrs. Ronald's oldest guests. 
 
 " My dear child," she said, as they paced a comparatively 
 quiet part of the ball-room, " I told you there was something, 
 and you must be a little goose not to have found it out. But, 
 first of all, Avhy don't you dance ? " 
 
 " Why, because I am not asked." 
 
 " Why don't you make yourself be asked ? " 
 
 " Now, Blanche—" 
 
 " Now, Sybil, I am not going to stand that — there you are, 
 the prettiest girl in the room, without a partner. Why did you 
 not tell Mr. Kennedy to dance with you ? I see I must lecture 
 you; but that will do at home — for the present I must en- 
 lighten you. Do you know with whom you danced when we 
 came in ? " 
 
 " No ; but I suppose aunt does, for she and that gentleman 
 have been talking about capital and social progress ever so 
 lono;." 
 
 " The very thing Well, my dear, you have been dancing 
 with your future husband, Count Andre de Eenneville, a young
 
 sybil's second love. 133 
 
 nobleman of very ancient birth, and very small means, -who 
 is much smitten with Miss Kennedy's charms of purse and 
 person. 
 
 Miss Kennedy's face expressed so much amazement, that the 
 fair Blanche had something ado not to laugh outright. How- 
 ever, she did refrain, and resumed, 
 
 " It is so, I know it ; and what is more, every one in this 
 room knows it save you and your father, who is as wisely and 
 as profoundly ignorant as your wise self. I dare say Miss Glyn 
 would not thank me for telling you, but I don't care — not I. 
 You must know it; and another time, my dear girl, do not 
 wear blue." 
 
 Sybil turned red and pale alternately. 
 
 "Well, what are you frightening yourself about ? " asked 
 Blanche ; " is the prospect before you so dreadful ? I know all 
 about him, for my partners kindly gave me the particulars, and 
 by their jealousy of him, enlightened me more than if they had 
 praised him ever so much. Talk of women being envious — 
 my dear, the men surpass us in that, as they do in every thing. 
 Well, I learned this, that there is not a stain on this noble 
 count's character, that he is terribly poor, that he must marry 
 a rich wife, and that he has declared he will not marry a plain 
 one : beauty he must have. So thinking you rich and hand- 
 some enough to be made a countess of, he has spoken to Ma- 
 dame de Lonville, who has spoken to your aunt, who has 
 spoken to no one, and who is now coming toward us with his 
 countship, no doubt to ask you to honor him with your hand 
 in the next quadrille. And there is my partner looking for me 
 in sore distress, so good-by to you." 
 
 She moved away as Miss Glyn came up with the Count de 
 Renneville. 
 
 " You may dance now, my dear," graciously said Miss 
 Glyn, thus intimating that if Sybil had not danced, it was by 
 no means for want of a partner, but because her aunt had pro- 
 hibited her from doing so. The count said a few words, which 
 Sybil did not hear, for there was a rushing sound in her ears, 
 but she gave him her hand, and he led her away ; and as they 
 moved through the crowd, Sybil could sec that more than one 
 scrutinizing eye was fastened upon them. 
 
 The attention she had denied him in the early part of the 
 evening, Sybil now bestowed on her partner. And so this 
 was Andre "de Renneville, the hero of Denise's admiration ; the
 
 134 Sybil's second love 
 
 poor and proud gentleman who bad been conquered in the bat- 
 tle of life. She saw him, as girls see, without looking at him. 
 He was a pale, handsome man, fair, with grave eyes, and a seri- 
 ous lip. There was power, tempered by sadness, in his face. 
 Her heart beat with pity and emotion as she remembered what 
 his trials had been. And had he fixed upon her to retrieve the 
 decayed fortunes of his house, and was she perhaps destined to 
 give new lustre to that fallen name ? She scanned him without 
 embarrassment or shame, without undue freedom but with the 
 frank simplicity that was in her nature. Their eyes met : in 
 hers he could read " sweet records, promises as sweet." In his 
 Sybil found a respectful admiration, which agreed with his 
 manner, courteous and refined, and wholly free from any servile 
 desire of pleasing the wealthy girl. Sybil felt,-as she listened 
 to him — and he talked well, though he was not a prolix talker 
 — that she stood in the presence of a nobly-born gentleman, re- 
 fined and well-bred, and worthy of the happy destiny Fate de- 
 nied him. Then came the insidious question whispering at her 
 heart : " Shall you be the one ? — are you destined to redeem 
 the Renneville race ? " 
 
 By the time M. de Renneville led Sybil back to her aunt, 
 the young girl's mind was equal to answering the question put 
 to her by that lady. 
 
 " Sybil," she said, very gravely, " do you know the gentle- 
 man who has just left you ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Sybil, in a low, calm tone, " he is Count de 
 Renneville." 
 
 Her manner struck Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Do you know what brought him here this evening ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 Sybil bowed her dark head without answering. 
 
 " And what do you think of him ? " asked her aunt. 
 
 " I never noticed him before this evening." 
 
 " My dear, I do not ask you if you are ready to say yes or 
 no ; but you can tell me this, is he displeasing to you ? " 
 
 " No," replied Sybil, in the same calm, low tone with which 
 she had first spoken. 
 
 Miss Glyn rose, and confiding Sybil to Madame de Lonville, 
 went in search of her brother-in-law. After a brief conference 
 with him, she introduced him to Count de Renneville. Sybil, 
 who saw all this from afar, felt like one in a dream. The few 
 quiet words she had spoken had done this; her father probably
 
 sybil's second love. 135 
 
 had some previous knowledge of Count de Eenneville, and had 
 no objection to seeing his daughter a countess ; and so Count 
 de Renneville's visits were sanctioned — she felt sure of it. She 
 wondered whether, on seeing him nearer, she would like him ; 
 whether that man of whom she knew nothing, an hour before, 
 would really be that momentous being — her future husband ? 
 She looked at him and at his mother, a cold, haughty woman, 
 with a sort of awe. Would they ever like her, the little ple- 
 beian, and really forgive her her obscure birth ? She felt half- 
 frightened of them both, and half-sorry, too, that she had not 
 at "once put a stop to the matter. But it was too late now ; 
 the few words she had spoken had so far bound her, that she 
 must give Count de Renneville a trial. 
 
 " Well, Pussy, you are very demure ! " said her father, gay! v. 
 
 She gave a little start on perceiving him by her side, for she 
 had not seen or heard him coming. 
 
 " Are you ready, and is your peerless friend ready ? " asked 
 Mr. Kennedy. " The place is thinning." 
 
 So it was. The heated room was growing cool, and you 
 could see now the dust on the floor which the dancers' feet no 
 longer hid. Count de Renneville and his mother still lingered 
 among the guests, no doubt to see them off. Madame de Lon- 
 ville rose abruptly and joined them. Mechanically Sybil rose 
 too, and took her father's arm. She looked round for Blanche, 
 and saw her coming, escorted by one of her partners ; the 
 count stood by Miss" Glyn's side, and walked with her down- 
 stairs to the carriage. Mr. Kennedy entered it last ; from the 
 corner where she hid herself, Sybil could hear him saying : 
 
 " I trust you will find your way to Saint Vincent one of 
 these days ?" 
 
 The answer, though slowly uttered, came ready and clear: 
 
 " I shall be too happy to do so." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy entered the carriage, which rolled away on 
 the stony road. Not one word did Sybil utter all the way 
 home ; she had never felt so grave or so thoughtful in her life 
 before; she must either accept or reject this man, and either 
 seemed formidable to little Sybil's inexperience. So every one 
 else talked, but she was silent ; their mirth, their laughter, in 
 which even Miss Glyn joined, seemed amazing to Sybil with 
 her mind full of this one thing. It was a relief when she 
 reached home and got to her own room, and for once she would 
 rather that Blanche had not followed her there.
 
 136 Sybil's second love. 
 
 " Well," said that gay young ladv, " is it to be or not to be, 
 Sybil ? " 
 
 Sybil shook her head and was silent. 
 
 "Silence means consent. Well, you will make a pretty 
 countess," resumed Miss Cains admiringly ; " only, for goodness' 
 sake, do not wear blue any more, child ! " 
 
 " Well, but you cannot wear pink," argued Sybil, trying to 
 rouse herself up. 
 
 " No, child, and I do not mean to wear it either — pink kills 
 me ; but you need not wear blue for that. Well, it was a de- 
 lightful party," she added, reclining back in Sybil's little arm- 
 chair. " I say, how savage all these French girls looked ! I 
 suppose I gave them a new Waterloo— on their own ground, 
 too. I enjoyed it amazingly ! " 
 
 Her blue eyes sparkled with triumph ; she looked so hand- 
 some that Sybil was dazzled. She wondered, too, if the count 
 would not have preferred her had she been rich. Such thoughts 
 did not seem to trouble Blanche Cains. If she was not the 
 perfect being Sybil dreamed her to be, from one fault she was 
 free — she knew not envy. She liked pleasure, wealth, luxury, 
 and all the joys of life ; but though she was penniless, she was 
 too proud not to scorn that mean repining after another's good 
 which is the test of small natures. So she went on, gayly ex- 
 ulting in her triumph, not caring to remember that if she had 
 been the belle of the night, she had also been the poorest girl 
 present ; now and then digressing from this theme to teaze 
 Sybil concerning her significant silence, or to warn her against 
 blue, and finally bidding her good-night with a saucy " I have 
 broken the cabal, have I not, little countess ? " 
 
 Sybil undressed, and said her prayers, and went to bed, but 
 could not sleep — before her eyes ever floated the grave sad lace 
 of Count de Renneville, and when she slumbered at length it was 
 with her still. Once it grew so vivid that she awoke with a 
 start, and sat up in bed, looking at her moonlit window and half 
 dreaming, " Was it to be ? " Did the mysterious future hold 
 that tale within its pages, or would it dissolve like a fantastic 
 vision, and be seen no more ? 
 
 "God knows," thought Sybil, with a troubled heart; " but 
 oh ! how I wish I did know ! "
 
 sybil's second love. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 137 
 
 The thoughts which had filled Sybil's mind as she fell asleep 
 were also uppermost with every person whom she saw next 
 morning. 
 
 " Well, little countess," gayly said Miss Cains, as they met 
 on the staircase. 
 
 Sybil raised a threatening forefinger, then looked at her 
 friend with some surprise. 
 
 " You have been out walking ? " she said. 
 
 " I just had a look at the garden." 
 
 "I thought you had been by the sea — look!" and she 
 showed her a bunch of tangled seaweed which clung to her 
 cloak. 
 
 " "Well, I have been by the sea," a little shortly replied Miss 
 Cains. " I had a bad headache, and thought the air would do 
 me good, so I walked along the beach." 
 
 " But the tide is in, said Sybil ; " you could not find room 
 on the beach between cliff and sea, could you ? " 
 
 " Now, little countess, you want to lead me oft* my topic," 
 gayly replied Miss Cains ; " but whether I have been by the 
 beach, or above it like a bird, or under it like a fish — " 
 
 " Oh ! I know where you have been now," interrupted 
 Sybil ; " you have been to my haunt. The westerly wind often 
 sweeps the seaweed up there ; and look, this bunch of weed has 
 been many a day out of the sea ; it is dry and withered. But 
 why did you want to mystify me, Blanche ? " 
 
 "You dear little goose, you mystify yourself, not I. Did 
 you dream of him ? " 
 
 Sybil blushed, for her father now appeared at the foot of the 
 staircase, with a smile on his lips. 
 
 " Well, little countess," he said, using the very words of 
 Blanche Cains, " how are you this morning? " 
 
 " I am very well, but I am not sure that I shall or will be a 
 little countess," said Sybil gravely. 
 
 Her father laughed, and quite as gravely replied, 
 
 " No more am I sure that I will let you be one, Pussy." 
 
 To say the truth, Mr. Kennedy was the last man who would 
 bestow his daughter on a penniless count, and of mere affection 
 for that title. But then Mr. Kennedy, as a rule, liked what the 
 world liked ; and if the world thought it a good thing for Sybil
 
 138 sybil's second love. 
 
 to wear a coronet, and for her father to he so closely connected 
 ■with a gentleman of ancient birth and unblemished character, 
 Mr. Kennedy was just the man to think so too. He had had 
 other views for her, but having received a check where he least 
 expected one, he was sufficiently pleased that his daughter and 
 himself should have this chance, if it was a good one, within 
 their grasp ; and it was with a feeling of satisfaction that he 
 hailed her as "little countess." 
 
 " You will find your aunt in the dining-room," he continued. 
 " She wants to speak to you, and is quite amazed you should be 
 so late this morning." 
 
 Miss Glyn was, indeed, sufficiently impatient to have a sen- 
 sible talk with her niece, and she saw her enter the dining-room 
 with evident satisfaction. 
 
 " My dear child," she said, " how could you be so late on 
 such a morning ? The count will be coming, of course, to in 
 quire how we have spent the night." 
 
 " Not this morning, aunt," said Sybil. " Besides, even if 
 he should come, I shall not see him." 
 
 " Not see him ' " 
 
 " Why, aunt, I am not to take his visit to myself, am I ? " 
 
 " Well — no — you are right, Sybil, and I am glad to find you 
 so discreet. There is no hurry — none whatever. I must ascer- 
 tain how far that young man is equal to the management of 
 capital — under my directions, of course — before I can recom- 
 mend you to think of him at all. You know my meaning, 
 Sybil. I would never have you make a mercenary marriage ; 
 but neither would I have you contract an imprudent one. Now, 
 the man who cannot manage capital — who is not equal to 
 capital — " 
 
 Here Miss Glyn's exordium came to an abrupt close. Demse 
 had opened the door, and exclaimed in tones full of dismay — 
 
 " The cow kicked the pail of milk, and there's not a drop left ! " 
 
 " Not a drop ? " said Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Not a drop." 
 
 This domestic misfortune completely banished the count 
 from Miss Glyn's mind for the time being ; and as she was one of 
 those notable housekeepers who think nothing well done unless 
 they see it done, she abruptly left the room, and proceeded at 
 once to the scene of the calamity. She was scarcely gone when 
 Uncle Edward opened the door and entered. Sybil went up to 
 him in all friendliness.
 
 Sybil's second love. 139 
 
 "Good-morning, uncle," she said gayly. "The cabal is 
 broken, and Blanche was the queen of the night." 
 
 " Pray how did Miss Cains like that ? " rather dryly inquired 
 Uncle Edward, sitting down in Miss Glyn's vacant chair. 
 
 " Whv, very well, of course," jealously replied Sybil. 
 " What g r irl would dislike it ? " 
 
 " Why, no, you good, candid, little thing, no girl would. 
 It is glory, fame, honor, and more, if more could be, to you all. 
 So let it be. But I thought you had more to tell me, Sybil ? " 
 
 He spoke so gravely, he looked at her so keenly, that the 
 blood rushed up to Sybil's face, and covered it with a deep rosy 
 blush. How could he know it — so soon, too! 
 
 " Who told you ? " she asked a little impetuously ; " you, 
 too, have got seaweed about you. Was it Blanche ? " 
 
 Her uncle looked at her in some amazement. Her eyes 
 flashed; she was so excited that she shook again and trembled. 
 
 " You are a strange girl," he replied, very gravely. " I met 
 Miss Cains this morning down by the Pines ; but surely you do 
 not suppose this was the subject of our conversation. As for 
 the seaweed," he added, shaking his hair, whence it fell on the 
 floor, " what has it to do with my question, Sybil ? " 
 
 Sybil was silent. 
 
 "And is it really so?" he resumed. "And yet you once 
 promised me to enter into no such engagement without my 
 knowledge, Sybil." 
 
 " Uncle, there is no en^a^ement." 
 
 " My dear, when a girl allows such a man as Count de 
 Renneville to seek her society, his avowed purpose being mar- 
 riage, she gives him, or rather she gives her future destiny, a 
 pledge she rarely breaks." 
 
 Sybil looked, as she felt, rather dismayed. 
 
 " I hope not," she said quickly — "I trust not." 
 
 Then seeing how grave and silent he looked, she added, 
 hesitatingly — "Do you know him, uncle ? " 
 
 "Yes, I have had dealings with him on your fathers behalf." 
 
 Sybil looked at him earnestly ; but he did not seem disposed 
 to be communicative. She took courage to question. 
 
 " Dear uncle," she entreated, " do you know anv harm of 
 him ? " 
 
 " My dear, I do not. I had dealings with him, as I tell y<> 1, 
 and found him gentlemanlike, cool, and collected. I need not 
 tell you he is handsome, and has pleasing manners — more I 
 know not."
 
 140 sybil's second love. 
 
 " And yet, uncle, you seem to disapprove." 
 
 " I do. I cannot imagine why your friends are in so great 
 a hurry to see you married, and a countess." 
 
 " I do not care about that, uncle." 
 
 "And what else is there to care about? Are there not 
 scores of men equal to that one ?" 
 
 " Perhaps they will not care for me, uncle." 
 
 " If you give them time, they will. I'll be bound you were 
 the prettiest girl in the room last night." 
 
 " No, uncle, it was Blanche." 
 
 " Oh, she is handsome." Then there was a pause, after 
 which he resumed, "And so it is to be the count, Sybil?" 
 
 " Dear uncle," said Sybil gently, " I really have not made up 
 my mind." 
 
 Uncle Edward gave his tawny locks an impatient toss, and 
 he echoed in a mimicking tone : 
 
 "Dear niece, you will really make up your mind, or his 
 countship will make it up for you. He has so far pleased you, 
 that you have allowed him to come; and is it credible that, 
 having no other purpose in view than to follow up this favorable 
 impression, he will not succeed ? Why you are all so much 
 charmed with him, I cannot tell. He is handsome, but so are 
 others — gentlemanlike, so are others — pleasing, so are others ; 
 of looking further or deeper, I of course acquit you." 
 
 There was so much irony in his tone, that Sybil felt hurt, 
 too much hurt, indeed, to follow up the argument. 'It was plain 
 to her that her uncle was prejudiced against her suitor, though 
 he could give no valid reason for the feeling. So turning away 
 from him, she went and looked out of the window. The sun- 
 shine of morning reposed on the landscape. Far off she could 
 see aline of leafy trees on the blue sky, and rising from among 
 them the conical turrets and slate roofs of the old manor. There 
 had dwelt, in days of old, that bold Raymond, who waged 
 war against sovereigns, who was great as a prince, and richer 
 than many princes. He little thought the day would come 
 when his descendant would woo a strange girl for her money. 
 " For if I were poor, he would not think of me," said Sybil to 
 herself. " Strange that none of them should think of that ob- 
 jection! I suppose his title and my money make us quits — 
 and then, after all, the whole world knows he would not marry 
 his cousin, who was richer than I am." There was something 
 in that thought which proved infinitely soothing to Sybil's
 
 sybil's second love. 141 
 
 pride. It agreed with an impression that she had received from 
 Count de Renneville's manner on the preceding evening, that 
 he had chosen her. His looks, his tones had hoth told her the 
 same story, and Sybil's was not the age when such a tale is 
 doubted. There were plenty of rich girls about Saint Vincent ; 
 but for all that, she was the one he had selected, and on whose 
 decree he was willing to stake the happiness and the fortunes of 
 his future. Indeed, her uncle himself, averse to this match as 
 he was, did not doubt the count's sincerity. Why, then, should 
 she? 
 
 " There is no help for it," here said Miss Glyn's voice ; " we 
 must do without milk this morning." 
 
 Thus called out of her dreaming, Sybil came down once 
 more to the realities of life, condoled with her aunt, and gave 
 her uncle a shy look. His brows were knit, and his counte- 
 nance was so severe and displeased, that Sybil turned her look 
 away. What had she done, that he should take it so much 
 amiss ; and, after all, what was it to him if she married Count 
 de Renneville, or not ? His cold and altered manner gave her 
 further tokens of his displeasure during breakfast-time. He did 
 not look at her, or if he did his eyes did not seem to see her ; 
 he did not address her once. He talked with her father of a 
 journey he was going to take ; but not once did he attempt to 
 include her in his conversation, and when she spoke he was 
 silent. Sybil felt she was in disgrace. 
 
 " What is the matter between your uncle and you ? " bluntly 
 asked Miss Cains, as they sat alone that evening in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 " I believe he does not like all this about Count de Renne- 
 ville." 
 
 " And what is it to him ? " tartly asked Blanche. 
 
 " He thinks I an> too young. Besides, I know I vexed him 
 this morning." 
 
 " Vexed Greeneyes ! — impossible." 
 
 " Yes, I did, and I am afraid you did too, Blanche, when you 
 and he met at the pine-trees." 
 
 For a moment Miss Cains stood irresolute, as if not knowing 
 how to take Sybil's remark. She looked at her surprised, and 
 doubting, and at length said: "We scarcely spoke — how could 
 I vex him ? " 
 
 "Blanche, you scorn him — and I fear he sees it. C'b! 
 Blanche, Blanche/' she added, fondly clasping her arms around
 
 142 Sybil's second love. 
 
 licr, " what a pity it cannot be ! I did so hope you would like 
 each other, and marry." 
 
 " Nonsense ! To begin with, we cannot like each other." 
 
 " Now r Blanche, you are too scornful. Any one can see he 
 admires you, but — " 
 
 " Has he told you so ? " interrupted Miss Cains very coldly. 
 
 " Xo, Blanche, but I have eyes, and I could see how he 
 looked at you — when you came — whereas you — oh ! you are 
 too bad, there is disdain in every one of your glances." 
 
 Miss Cains laughed. 
 
 " Do you know what he and I spoke of this morning ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " No — oh ! do tell me, Blanche, do." 
 
 " We talked of Ulysses and the Sirens. Was not that a 
 delightful subject of conversation on a cool morning like this ? 
 I fairly wished him in the sea. Dreadful man ! — he gave me 
 the shivers." 
 
 Sybil laughed. 
 
 " I should like to be a mermaid," she said, gayty, " to live 
 in the blue seas and green grottos, and comb my hair and sing. 
 I should like it of all things, Blanche." 
 
 Miss Cains yawned. 
 
 " Well," she said, languidly, " I should not mind being a 
 mermaid for a few hours — nay, for a few days — but in very 
 warm weather, of course. It always exasperates me to look at 
 the sea, and to think she is full of treasures — greedy wretch ! 
 — which would make me happy, and are of no use to her. 
 Think of the pearls, and the coral, and the coined gold she 
 keeps, Sybil ! Oh ! I should like to dive and bring up, 
 amazingly." 
 
 " Oh ! but T would not be a mermaid for any thing," cried 
 Sybil, with sudden dismay. " I had forgotten that she is half 
 a fish — oh ! no, that would never do." 
 
 " I should not mind that a bit," coolly said Miss Cains — 
 "never mind about being half a fish for a time, when the prize 
 is so great." 
 
 " But I do mind," retorted Sybil, speaking in so sharp and 
 loud a key, that Miss Glyn, who was then entering the room, 
 asked uneasily, " What was the matter ? " 
 
 " Sybil objects to being a mermaid," gravely replied Miss 
 Cains. 
 
 " My dear, what wild talk ! " remarked Miss Glyn, with 
 some severity.
 
 sybil's second love. 143 
 
 " Well, I have read in the Koran that when the Queen of 
 Sheba went to visit Solomon — " 
 
 " Sybil, are you crazy ? " interrupted Miss Glyn, almost an- 
 grily ; " why, what would any one think who heard you talk 
 of the Koran in that strange way ? " 
 
 Sybil only laughed saucily, for she knew that " any one " 
 meant Count de Renneville. But even as she laughed, she sud- 
 denly remembered that she had not seen her uncle since din- 
 ner-time. 
 
 "Papa," she said, addressing her father, who had entered 
 the room with Miss Glyn, " where is uncle, please ? " 
 
 " My dear, he is gone." 
 
 " For a long time ? " 
 
 " For a few weeks." 
 
 Svbil felt sobered at once. Why had her uncle left without 
 bidding her good-by ? — why had he left at all ? Sybil looked 
 at her aunt, then at Blanche, and finally at her father ; but no 
 one else seemed to take any interest in this matter. Mr. Ken- 
 nedy's brother was gone, and there was an end of it. 
 
 The young are true. Their affections may not lie deep, but 
 there is a fervor in them which redeems them from the reproach 
 of shallowness. Sybil felt unhappy when she went up to her 
 room that evening. She was very sorry for the friend who had 
 left, and she feared he had left for the sake of the lover who 
 was coming. Why should the count be unacceptable to her 
 uncle ? But perhaps the count had nothing to do with his de- 
 parture. Perhaps some letter had suddenly called him away. 
 " Denise will tell me," thought Sybil. She at once proceeded 
 to the room of that discreet handmaiden, whom she found fast 
 asleep, with her unsnuffed candle flaring beside her. With 
 some asperity, Sybil asked Denise, who awoke with a guilty 
 start, if she wanted to set the house on fire. 
 
 " God forbid ! " said Denise ; " it was the burning of the 
 family papers that first brought the Rennevilles down — gam- 
 bling did the rest." 
 
 Sybil forgot to chide ; she forgot even that she had come to 
 question Denise concerning her uncle's departure. She stood 
 looking at the girl's full round face and dull blue eyes, hesita- 
 ting whether or not to make Denise pursue a topic on which 
 the poor girl was always eloquent. She had been a servant in 
 the Renneville family, and though years had passed since then, 
 the old worship was still strong in her heart.
 
 144 Sybil's second love. 
 
 " And so it was his father's gambling," at length said Sybil, 
 " that brought him down so low, and makes him loot so sad ? " 
 
 " Oh ! he has had plenty of other troubles," said Denise, 
 briskly ; " his poor cousin, you know, who married another — " 
 
 " I thought she was rich," said Sybil, reddening. 
 
 " Oh ! that was the plain one — the pretty one was poor. 
 He never seemed to care about her, but he fainted when he 
 heard she was married." 
 
 " Who is she ? — where is she, Denise ? " 
 
 " Oh ! she is dead, and her husband is married again, and 
 has a family of children." 
 
 " I suppose he grieves for her still ? " remarked Sybil. 
 
 She tried to speak sympathetically, but she was not much 
 pleased to find she had had a predecessor. 
 
 " La ! — why should he ? " innocently said Denise, " when 
 her own husband is comforted. Besides, he always knew he 
 could not marry her." 
 
 Oh ! what bitter and hard lessons poverty and pride had 
 taught this man ! What self-denial and self-subjection had he 
 not practised to reach his thirtieth year unsullied in honor ! 
 Sybil stood lost in thought, then suddenly she gave a little start. 
 
 " What step is that ? " she asked. 
 
 " I believe it is Monsieur Edouard going down," replied De- 
 nise, calmly. 
 
 Monsieur Edouard was the name by which Mr. Kennedy's 
 brother was known in Saint Vincent. 
 
 " Is he not gone ? " cried Sybil. 
 
 Denise did not know; she had seen Monsieur Edouard an 
 hour ago. 
 
 " He is going to the library, and I have the key," quickly 
 said Sybil — " good-night, Denise." 
 
 Denise volunteered to take down the key, but ere her speech 
 was half over Sybil was down the stairs. She found her uncle 
 at the library door, in the act of turning away, with a light in 
 his hand. Sybil silently took out her key, and showed it him. 
 Half smiling, he held out his hand, but Sybil put her hands be- 
 hind her back, and shook her head demurely. 
 
 " No, uncle," she said ; " you must pay toll. I thought you 
 
 were srone." 
 
 "I forgot some papers, and came back for them." 
 " I thought you had forgotten to bid me good-by, uncle, and 
 came back for that."
 
 Sybil's second love. 145 
 
 " Sybil, give me the key, if you please. I must be gone by 
 five o'clock to-morrow morning." 
 
 " The library is mine," obstinately replied Sybil ; " papa 
 made it over to me, and I give or withhold the key at my 
 pleasure." 
 
 " I can do without it," he said, turning away ; " it is only 
 sitting up and rewriting a few letters, Sybil." 
 
 " Take it," she said, in a low voice ; but though her face 
 was averted, her uncle saw tears in her eyes. He took the key 
 from her extended hand, and opened the library door; but sud- 
 denly pausing in the act, he said, 
 
 " I shall want you, Sybil. You must find Johnson for me, 
 if you please." 
 
 Sybil's face brigbtened ; she snatched tbe light from bis 
 hand, and darted on before him. In a second she was up the 
 steps, and was reaching down the heavy quarto, when he chi- 
 dingly came to ber assistance. 
 
 " Why, the weight of the surly old lexicographer is 
 enough to make you fall, Sybil," he said, taking it from 
 ber. 
 
 " Oh ! but I am stronger than you think," jealously replied 
 Sybil, reluctantly surrendering the volume ; " but the truth is, 
 you do not want me to help you." 
 
 " Now, Sybil, do not talk nonsense." 
 
 " Well, but why did you go away without bidding me 
 good-by ? " she asked, sitting down for an explanation ; " but 
 you need not tell me," she resumed, " it is all about Count de 
 Itenneville." 
 
 " No, Sybil, it is not ; it is all about you." 
 
 " Uncle, why do you object ? " 
 
 " Sybil, how old are you ? " 
 
 Sybil blushed. 
 
 " I am very young, I know." 
 
 " You are, indeed ; and he is not. I grant that he is hon- 
 orable and good ; you might wait and do better. I know no 
 harm of bim ; but how has be reached his present years and 
 found no other issue to his troubles than marriage ? Is life 
 shut to bim ? — is he too proud to fight his way ? — can he not 
 work ? " 
 
 " His motber would not let him." 
 
 "He is a good son," replied Uncle Edward, with a touch 
 of scorn. 
 
 7
 
 146 sybil's second love. 
 
 " He is, uncle," warmly said Sybil ; " and I believe that ia 
 good security for bis becoming a good husband." 
 
 " Do you mean to try, Sybil ? " 
 
 " Indeed, uncle, I do not know. I once promised you to 
 enter into no engagement." 
 
 " I release you from tbat promise," be said gravely. " Your 
 fatber, your aunt, like tbe match — " 
 
 " But I sbould like you to bke it, too," said Sybil, going up 
 to bim and coaxingly passing ber arm within bis, " and not to 
 be knitting your brows in tbat grave way, Uncle Edward." 
 
 Uncle Edward laugbed. His look softened, bis mouth 
 relaxed. 
 
 " Tell me tbe trutb," be said, looking down at her, " do you 
 really like tbat young man ? " 
 
 " Not yet, uncle ; but I may, you know." 
 
 " If you do, be happy, be very happy, Sybil ; and if ever 
 you want a friend, come to me." 
 
 " Uncle, you speak as if you thought I should not be 
 happy." 
 
 " I have no right to do so ; 'tbe fact is, I am not just to tbat 
 young man. I am jealous of bim, Sybil. No mother ever 
 thought another woman good enough for her son, no brother 
 thinks a man worthy of his sister, and I cannot think this 
 pretty count good enough for you. Besides, it seems such 
 quick work. You would not have thought of him, Sybil." 
 
 " No, nor of any man who did not ask me, uncle." 
 
 " Well, I suppose that is woman's nature ; so even let it be. 
 And now good-night, my dear. It is late, and I have a few 
 words to add to my letters." 
 
 Sybil silently went and fetched the ink-stand, and placed it 
 before him. He sat down and smiled. 
 
 "What a good little thing you are," he said, resting his 
 elbow on the table, and looking kindly at her ; " what a little, 
 willing, and busy handmaiden you are ever ready to make 
 yourself ! That count will be a happy man." 
 
 Sybil dropped him a courtesy, and uttered a saucy " Perhaps 
 be will, and perhaps he will not." 
 
 " That is bow it is," he continued ; " some draw the great 
 prizes, and others blanks, and it must be so to the end of time." 
 
 " Poor uncle ! " thought Sybil, looking at him wistfully ; 
 " what a pity he should be crossed in love ! He is quite young 
 yet — not older than tbe count."
 
 sybil's secoxd love. 147 
 
 " Good-night, my dear," plainly said her uncle, dismissing 
 her. 
 
 " Good-night, uncle." 
 
 " And good-by, for I leave early." 
 
 " And when do you come back, uncle ? " 
 
 " Not till you have become a countess, my dear." 
 
 " What ! " cried Sybil, reddening, " you will not come back 
 f jr my wedding — if I do marry ? " 
 
 " No, certainly not," he curtly answered. 
 
 " Then you hate him ! " she exclaimed, dismayed. 
 
 " Not at all ; but -we should not suit — that is the truth." 
 
 Tears rushed to Sybil's eyes. 
 
 " And so," she said, " if I marry, I must lose you ? " 
 
 His silence implied assent. 
 
 " Oh ! uncle ! " she said, imploringly. 
 
 "My dear child, do not fret ; but it cannot be helped. 
 
 He spoke so coldly, that Sybil felt chilled. 
 
 " Good-night, uncle," she said. 
 
 " Good-nigdit, mv dear." 
 
 " Good-bv, uncle." 
 
 " Good-bv, Svbil." 
 
 She held out her hand. He took and pressed it, but with- 
 out much cordiality. Sybil's heart sank. She walked slowly 
 to the door ; before she reached it she saw that her uncle had 
 dipped his pen in ink, and was writing. 
 
 This was their farewell. Whose was the blame ? Was he 
 too exacting ? — had she too readily dropped the old friendship, 
 though not caring much as yet for the new love ? Sybil did 
 not know, but she felt miserable. As she reached her door, 
 that of Blanche Cains opened, and that young lady herself 
 appeared on the threshold, dressed, and with a book in her 
 hand. 
 
 " Why, Mousey, where have you been ? " she said, coming 
 out toward Sybil. " I knocked at your door an hour ago for 
 the second volume of this French storv of vours, and the bird 
 was asleep, as I thought — but no, it was fiowu ! " 
 
 " Uncle was below, so I went to bid him good-by," list- 
 lessly replied Sybil. 
 
 " You seem none the better for the ceremony," rejoined 
 Miss Cains. " Come in." 
 
 She drew her into her own room, shut the door, and look- 
 ing earnestly at Sybil, said very softly,
 
 148 Sybil's secoisd love. 
 
 " Now what Las Greeneyes done to make you look so mis- 
 erable?" 
 
 " Blanche, he is going away because of the count ; and if I 
 many him he will not come to the wedding, and I do think it 
 hard to have but one uncle, and to be estranged from him." 
 
 " And what is it to him whom you marry ? " asked Miss 
 Cains, her lip curling with scorn. 
 
 "But it is, or ought it to be, something to him," jealously 
 said Sybil. " Is he not my uncle ? Only since he cannot find 
 a word to say against him, why does he object, and put me by? 
 He seemed so fond of me once. Even this evening he was 
 quite kind." 
 
 The handsome Grecian lip of Blanche curled again. 
 
 " Yes, he seemed ! " she said ; " but his kindness ceases 
 with your marriage. Shall I tell you why? He wants all 
 your affection — he is envious of that share which can never be- 
 long to him. His is not a generous but a selfish liking." 
 
 " No, that is not it, Blanche," a little indignantly replied 
 Sybil, " for if ever I want a friend — if ever I am in trouble! — I 
 am to apply to him ; but I was very fond of him, and I believe 
 he is a little jealous— indeed, he said so." 
 
 " Oh ! he did, did he ? So Greeneyes can be jealous ; but 
 of course there must be liking for jealousy — -that stands to 
 reason." 
 
 " Blanche, you say nothing to comfort me." 
 
 " I can't," a little drearily said Miss Cains. " I never could 
 understand your fondness for that uncle. It is not habit, for he 
 is a stranger." 
 
 "But he is my father's brother," interrupted Sybil ; "and 
 so good and so kind, Blanche : he laughs at me a little, and 
 he chides too, but I like it, for I know that at heart he likes me ; 
 and when he is indulgent and good-humored, no one can be 
 pleasanter than Uncle Edward." 
 
 " Then why don't you marry him ? " sharply asked Miss Cains. 
 
 " Marry my uncle ? " 
 
 " Ay, to be sure — I forgot the relationship ; but do you 
 know, Sybil, I fancy you like him a great deal better than that 
 poor count." 
 
 ' Why, of course I do ! " cried Sybil. " Of course I like 
 my uncle better than the count, whom I have only seen once, 
 and not spoken to for more than five minutes. Ycu do not 
 suppose, Blanche, that I like him at all?"
 
 sybil's second love. 119 
 
 Miss Cains laughed. 
 
 "Xo, my dear," she said; "but you -will marry him, and 
 care very little for Green eyes after that ; and Green eyes, know- 
 ing it, is not pleased. "We are all a little selfish, you know, and I 
 am selfishly keeping you up, though eleven is striking, so good- 
 night." 
 
 Thus dismissed, Sybil left, but her grief returned as sh<5 
 entered her own room. " Blanche means well," she thought, 
 " but she does not comfort me at all 1 " She went to bed feel- 
 ing disconsolate, and she cried herself to sleep, and when she 
 awoke, she knew her uncle was gone. Ah ! if she had known 
 how and when their next meeting would be ! 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 On the afternoon of the next day, and just as Miss Glyn was 
 declaring for the seventh time that she should not wonder if the 
 count — she already dropped his name — w r ould not call, the 
 count himself made his appearance. But by what magic was it 
 that Sybil, who, five minutes before was sitting in the drawing- 
 room, had vanished from that apartment when the count en- 
 tered it ? Miss Glyn looked for her, and reddened with vexa- 
 tion, then watching for a moment, when the young man and her 
 brother were fully engaged, she bent and whispered to Blanche, 
 ' ; Miss Cains, do oblige me by looking for that wilful girl ! ' 
 Miss Cains bowed assent, and silently left the apartment. 
 She did not go up to Sybil's room, she had watched her steal- 
 ing down to the garden, and there she now sought her. The 
 sun was hot and bright ; the lower garden was not large, and 
 standing on the door-step, Miss Cains ascertained that Sybil was 
 not in it Sbe had probably gone up to the upper garden, as it 
 was called, and she might be on the sea-shore bv this. Blanche 
 by no means cared to get overheated or sunburnt by looking for 
 her so far, and she was turning back into the house, when a little 
 low laugh above her head made her look up. There was no 
 open window from which that laugh could have proceeded, 
 nothing but a green and heavy-branched elder-tree which grew 
 near the house.
 
 150 Sybil's second love. 
 
 " Sybil," gravely said Miss Cains, " I do believe you are in 
 that tree." 
 
 The branches parted, and Sybil appeared, half-seated, half- 
 lying amidst the green boughs. 
 
 " Come up," she said, beckoning ; " there is room for you." 
 
 " Thank you," dryly replied Miss Cains ; " I prefer a softer 
 seat ; besides, I am rather too heavy, and not meaning to make 
 a dryad of myself this morning, I did not, like you, put on a 
 green dress ; moreover, I am the bearer of a message — your 
 aunt wants you up-stairs." 
 
 " I shall not leave this until he is gone," replied Sybil, very 
 deliberately. 
 
 " And you have perched yourself up here to watch him as 
 he passes by? — for of course he will take the short cut home." 
 
 " What if I do wish to see him and not be seen ? " asked 
 Sybil. 
 
 " Better see him, and be seen, my dear." 
 
 " Blanche, what do you think of him ? " 
 
 " My dear, I can well understand that Greeneyes should not 
 like him. Construe that as you please." 
 
 Sybil changed color, and looked troubled. Miss Cains 
 laughed. 
 
 " If you were a real dryad, and had just heard the woodman 
 saying, 'To-morrow I shall fell that tree,'" she said, "you 
 could not look more dismayed than you do. Why, child, it is 
 only saying 'No,' if you do not like him. Come and look at 
 him up-stairs. You will not? — well, then, farewell, I must be 
 gone, or Miss Glyn will say I am keeping you." 
 
 She reentered the house ; and Sybil, releasing the boughs 
 her hand had held back, was once more enclosed within her 
 leafy prison. Often had she sat and read there before Uncle 
 Edward's coming, and once or twice she had hid from him in 
 that unsuspected stronghold, till, detecting her one day, he 
 pulled the branches back and saw her mischievous and laughing 
 face. That moment lived over again as Sybil remembered it. 
 She saw herself careless and merry, and she saw him standing 
 by her and looking down at her amused and indulgent. Ah! 
 why were those happy days gone by ? Why had that stranger 
 come and broken this sweet harmony ? She felt almost angry 
 with her suitor, unconscious though he was of his sin, and she 
 had resolved to say, once for all, that she detested him, when a 
 sound of voices coming forth warned her that if she Avantcd to
 
 Sybil's second loye. 151 
 
 see him unseen, now was her time. Sybil remained very still, 
 and almost kept in her breath as they came forth from the 
 cool shade of the house into the sunshine of the garden. It al- 
 most seemed as if Count de Renneville were aware of Sybil's 
 purpose, and willing to abet it, for after giving a keen look to 
 the tree, he stood still talking, bareheaded, to Miss Glyn, and 
 full in the young girl's view. 
 
 Miss Cains had said it, truly ; this was a man whom her 
 Uncle Edward could not like ; both were fair, both had that look 
 of calm will -which is often found in fair men, but in all else they 
 differed. This young man's face expressed more tenacity than 
 power ; his look was clear, firm, and keen ; but his was not the 
 bright eagle eye of Mr. Kennedy's brother. His smile was frank . 
 and pleasant ; no one could say that it was genial. 
 
 As Sybil gazed at his marble countenance, which looked as 
 if no change of emotion could bring color into it, she remem- 
 bered how often a word, a look, a jest, had sent up a gay or a 
 sensitive flush to her Uncle Edward's handsome countenance ; 
 but if he was more open, more ardent, and more manly, per- 
 haps, than the Count de Renneville, he was less gentle, and less 
 amiable. Never, Sybil felt it, would this suitor of hers chide or 
 reprove in sharp speech. Silence would express his displeasure ; 
 and however deep this might be, it would be respectful. And 
 with all that he looked true. Misfortune had tried him, and not 
 found him wanting, and with a beating heart she felt it was im- 
 possible to connect a mean or ungenerous action with that pale, 
 proud face. 
 
 Whilst she was thus examining him, Count de Renneville 
 was exchanging a last adieu with Miss Glyn. Mr. Kennedy ac- 
 companied him to the limit of his possessions, and Sybil's aunt 
 and Blanche Cains remained behind. 
 
 " Miss Cains," solemnly said Miss Glyn, " I cannot have 
 heard you rightly ; you cannot have meant to say that my niece 
 was in a tree ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss Glyn, that was my very meaning, 
 and in a tree — in this very tree — I saw her." 
 
 Miss Glyn turned to the elder-tree. It was very still, and 
 looked unconscious of all harm or concealment. 
 
 ''Sybil, come down," she said. 
 
 A little breeze made the leaves of the elder-tree quiver, but 
 it made no other motion. 
 
 "Come down directly!" said Miss Glyn, angrily; "you
 
 152 sybil's second love. 
 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself, I never heard of so un-young- 
 lady-like a proceeding ! " 
 
 But as even this appeal did not bring forth Sybil, Blanche 
 opened the heavy boughs and looted in. 
 
 " The bird is flown," she said gayly ; " and yet she was 
 here a minute ago, for I saw her foot, and pinched it. Now, 
 indeed, Miss Glyn, you must not look at me. I did not advise 
 Sybil to get into the tree — not I." 
 
 This remark was accompanied with what Miss Glyn after- 
 ward termed to her brother-in-law " an audacious look " of 
 Miss Cains's blue eyes. She felt so indignant both at Sybil's 
 indecorous proceeding, and at her friend's impertinent glances, 
 that she walked off without a word. 
 
 "There," said Blanche Cains, when she had found out her 
 friend in her room, " you have got me into trouble with Miss 
 Glyn. I did not get into the tree, but I have the credit of it. 
 I wish you would make haste and be made a countess of, my 
 dear. May be the sunshine of it would shed a few rays upon 
 me, and give me that gilding I fail in. That I am not deep in 
 Miss Glyn's good graces I need not tell you ; and I am sorry to 
 say that though I try to be amiable, and all that, I can see Mr. 
 Kennedy only endures me. Indeed, I am not at all sure he did 
 not rather resent my being well when your head ached the 
 other evening. I must say I do not relish his compliments upon 
 my health and strength, etc. I can see he thinks me rather 
 large ; but I cannot help that, can I ? As to his countship, he 
 did not see me, but looked most orthodoxly — is that English ? 
 - — woe-begone at the non-appearance of his lady-love. Then 
 there's Mrs. Ronald, who gave me such austere glances the 
 other day. I can see that I am tabooed there. Perhaps I de- 
 serve it. If I had, indeed, some thousands for my portion, I 
 might dance to my heart's content, and crush them all; but 
 being poor I must not think of it, and must submit to be driven 
 about society as a sort of common foe." 
 
 This speech Miss Cains uttered with some bitterness of ac- 
 cent, and as she uttered it, she tossed her handsome head in a 
 defiant way, that reminded Sybil of her uncle. 
 
 " If you do not go to Mrs. Ronald's, I will not go," she said 
 eagerly ; "you may rely upon that." 
 
 Blanche laughed and kissed her. 
 
 " As if I wanted any tiling of the kind," she said good-hu- 
 morcdly. " No, no, my dear, that will never do ! Bless you !
 
 sybil's second love. 153 
 
 I can bear to be excluded from Mrs. Ronald's." And she added 
 with a sigh, " I have gone through heavier trials than that, Pussy. 
 But what about the count, my dear — are you really going to 
 marry that man? " 
 
 " How should I know ? " 
 
 " My dear, it looks terribly like it. He is evidently accept- 
 able to the powers that be, and unless you say 'no' I do not sec 
 what there is to prevent it." 
 
 " Well, but I may say no ? " 
 
 " But you will not. You have looked at him, and you will 
 not say no ? " 
 
 Sybil said nothing, but pulled to pieces a green twig she 
 had plucked from the elder-tree. She began to fear that Blanche 
 spoke truly, and that she would not say " no." Something be- 
 yond her own will seemed to be impelling her onward. She 
 was like a journeyer who walks down a path leading to a 
 bourne he cares not for, but who goes on scarce knowing why. 
 Her aunt, her father, were evidently favorable to the count's 
 suit. Oh ! for some strong hand that would compel her to 
 turn back and retrace her steps into the pleasant world of 
 maiden liberty — that she could say " no ! " 
 
 Sybil knew, but she was honest enough to confess to her- 
 self that she probably would not utter that word. It was her- 
 self whom she feared most, and not without cause. It is seldom 
 indeed that we are not our own gi'eatest peril and temptation. 
 
 "Well," said Miss Cains, " is it to be, or not to be?" 
 
 " I wish I knew, Blanche, and I wish some one would help 
 me to the knowledge, and settle it all for me. I wish uncle had 
 stayed ; I would have thrown my burden upon him, and had 
 rest. What would you do, Blanche ? " 
 
 " Say yes to a rich count, and no to a poor one, of course; 
 for what could a poor man do with me ? " 
 
 " But, I mean, if you were as I am." 
 
 Miss Cains shook her head. 
 
 " I never could believe in Metempsychosis, and I never can 
 transmigrate myself into some other person's position or con- 
 cerns. I am myself, and no one else — Blanche Cains, and there 
 is an end of it." 
 
 Sybil sighed ; she could get consolation and comfort from 
 no one. Temporary relief came to her that evening from an un- 
 expected quarter. Count de Rennevillc's mother was very ill, 
 aud not expected to live. 
 7*
 
 154 sybil's second love. 
 
 " And if you "would not see the count this morning, I do not 
 think you will see him in a hurry, my dear," reproachfully said 
 Miss Glyn. 
 
 " I am very sorry," replied Sybil in a tone full of concern, 
 "for I believe he is much attached to his mother." 
 
 " He is all heart," warmly said Miss Glyn. " I could see 
 that." 
 
 They stood in the garden. Sybil looked round for Blanche 
 to tell her the news, and saw her coming slowly toward them. 
 
 "Oh, Blanche," she cried, running up to her, "Madame de 
 Benneville is so ill ! " 
 
 " Is she ? " abstractedly said Miss Cains. 
 
 There was something in her tone, something, too, in her 
 face, which made Sybil exclaim : 
 
 " Blanche, what is the matter ? " 
 
 " My dear, I wish I could tell you without usiug slang, 
 which I know you hate, like a dainty little fairy as you are, 
 Well, I will make an effort for your sake, and clothe my infor- 
 mation in decorous language. My dear, Miss Blunt dispenses 
 with my services, and I am cast adrift." 
 
 " Then you shall stay with me ! " cried Sybil, clasping Mi^s 
 Cains in her arms ; " I will not let you go !" 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Blanche, laughing, 
 
 " It is not nonsense, is it, aunt ? Papa, you will not let 
 Blanche go, will you % " 
 
 " Certainly not," gayly replied Mr. Kennedy, who now came 
 up to them. 
 
 " I need not tell Miss Cains she may rely upon my doing 
 every thing to promote her views," stiffly said Miss Glyn. 
 
 Blanche bowed haughtily as Mr. Kennedy said quickly, 
 
 "Views! — what views? Miss Cains is not going to get 
 married, is she ? " 
 
 "No, no!" cried Sybil, "Miss Cains is going to stay with 
 me forever ! " 
 
 Miss Cains looked at Mr. Kennedy a little saucily. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Kennedy," she said, " don't you think I am 
 going to heed this young lady, and fasten myself upon you, like 
 the old man of the sea. But if you will bear with mc for a 
 week or two longer — " 
 
 " Now, Miss Cains," he interrupted, " do you mean to 
 break Sybil's heart, that you talk of weeks when years would 
 not content her — covetous little thing ! "
 
 sybil's second love. 155 
 
 "Well, I am covetous," confessed Sybil ; and I cannot bear 
 to be without all the people whom I like ; and, papa, I do long 
 to have uncle back again." 
 
 There was a querulous plaintiveness in her tone, which 
 made her father laugh, and turned her aunt's anger from the 
 present Blanche Caius to the absent Uncle Edward. 
 
 " I wish you would not be ridiculous, Sybil," she said, 
 sharply. 
 
 " I am not ridiculous," wilfully said Sybil ; " but I do love 
 Uncle EdAvard, and I am sure he loves me." 
 
 " Indeed he does, Pussy," kindly said her father ; whilst 
 Miss Glyn w r alked away in mute indignation. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy stayed with the two girls, and the three lin- 
 gered out in the soft summer night till heavy dews sent them 
 in. Miss Glyn was in her room. Mr. Kennedy said he had 
 letters to write, and must leave them. 
 
 " Are you w T riting to uncle ? " asked- Sybil. 
 
 " Yes, Pussy, I am." 
 
 " Well, then, do tell him I long to have him back," she said ; 
 " and give my love, my best love to him." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy promised to do so ; and his back was scarcely 
 turned, when Miss Cains exclaimed : 
 
 " Well, Sybil, I believe you dote on your uncle ! " 
 
 " I am very fond of him," frankly said Sybil ; but the plain 
 truth is, I feel so happy to know you are staying here forever 
 — it makes my heart overflow, Blanche." 
 
 " Forever ! " sharply said Miss Cains ; " you mean till I get 
 a situation. You do not suppose I take Mr. Kennedy's speeches 
 as more than civility ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Blanche, do not be unkind ! " 
 
 " Bid me not be clear-sighted — I cannot help it. I have not 
 lived in a downy nest like you, but have been storm-tossed as 
 any sea-bird ; and that from childhood upward. Of course you 
 are very kind, and all that, but I cannot stay in this house for- 
 ever ; I must go forth. Well ! let those who envied me t'other 
 night's triumph be avenged. The queen of the ball, who was 
 dressed in your finery, Sybil, is but a penniless girl after all, 
 and she is cast upon life with a few pounds in her pocket, and 
 
 I » 
 
 knows not, God help her, what the morrow may bring fortl 
 
 Tears rushed to her eyes as she spoke thus, and commented 
 
 on her hard destiny. 
 
 " You shall not go, you shall not leave mc ! " said Sybil, a
 
 156 SYBIL'S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 little passionately ; " what, have I but one friend, and must I 
 part with her ? I tell you, that until you have found such a 
 home as I approve, you shall not leave me." 
 
 She spoke with so much vehemence that her whole frame 
 shook. 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " softly said Blanche ; " am I not staying? 
 — is it not agreed, darling? Why, I have no sort of wish to 
 leave you. It is you who will go away. What a pretty little 
 countess you will make ! And you will look quite fairy-like and 
 interesting in that gray old manor. Well, well, no count will 
 ever come and woo me, my dear — not he. I shall bring wealth 
 and happiness to no one. I shall not be the restorer of a fallen 
 line, etc. — no, all that is out of the question. And yet I was 
 born rich, and, but for my father's love of cards, should be 
 wealthy now. Of course it is no use lamenting, but somehow 
 or other, I cannot help doing so every now and then. If some 
 prince would only fall in love with me, like the princes in the 
 fairy tales — but I do not suppose they exist out of the said 
 fairy tales, do they ? Now, my dear, I know what you are 
 going to say ; but it is out of the question — I cannot marry a 
 poor man ; and if ten counts, each more delightful than the 
 count, came to woo me, I should say ' No ' to every one. I 
 should do so out of mere prudence and charity ; I am an ex- 
 pensive woman, and should be the ruin of a poor fellow, for I 
 should be attired in fine apparel, and have comfort and pleasure, 
 and a home like this, with affluence around me." 
 
 Sybil heard her out, and all the time she Avas looking at the 
 old manor, where a light was burning. 
 
 " And suppose I should ever have the right to offer you a 
 home there," she said, nodding toward it,» 4 ' would you say 
 ' Yes,' or < No,' Blanche ? " 
 
 She looked up coaxingly in Miss Cains's face ; but there was 
 something moody in the look of that young lady's blue eyes. 
 
 " Promise," imperatively said Sybil. 
 
 Blanche's features relaxed, and she looked down at her 
 kindly. 
 
 " I do believe you are one of the best and most unselfish 
 little things that ever breathed," she said. 
 
 " Promise," again said Sybil. 
 
 With a sigh, Miss Cains gave the required pledge ; but as 
 she gave it, she said mischievously, 
 
 " Mind, you have promised to become a countess."
 
 Sybil's second love. 157 
 
 " No, I have not ! " cried Sybil. And she blushed and 
 looked guilty. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 The day was dark and gray ; mists from tbe sea stole across 
 the sky, heavy clouds lowered above Saint Vincent, yet tbe air 
 was so keen and cbill that tbe garden was too cool to sit in, 
 and the ladies stayed within. Miss Glyn put down her work 
 to remark, 
 
 " Now, I call it uncivil of Count Andre de Renneville not 
 to call. His mother has been dead a month." 
 
 " Aunt, he is in great grief." 
 
 " I suppose so. But how do you know, Sybil ? " 
 
 " Denise told me so." 
 
 Miss Glyn made no comment, but Blanche stole a sly look 
 at her friend. She had noticed how often Sybil and Denise 
 were together, and taxed her with delighting in the society of 
 that slow handmaiden. Some comment she would have added, 
 if Count Andre de Renneville had not that very moment been 
 announced. She gave Sybil a sly pinch, and whispered, 
 
 " The fairy prince is coming, my dear, so let the sleeping 
 beauty prepare ! " 
 
 " There has been a storm," quietly said Sybil. " This is 
 dreary travelling weather. I wonder where uncle is?" 
 
 " In a village inn by the kitchen fire, making love to the 
 red-armed damsel of the place, and thinking his tawny locks ir- 
 resistible, and his green eyes quite killiug ! " 
 
 " Pity he does not hear you ! " rather dryly said Sybil. 
 
 " Pity, my dear, I do not often hear him. ' That large, 
 vain Miss Cains,' he says, ' what — ' " 
 
 Here the entrance of Count de Renneville checked the flow 
 of Miss Cains's eloquence. 
 
 Sybil's heart yearned toward him. How pale, how worn he 
 looked ! Grief and watching; had •done their work with him 
 since their last meeting in Mrs. Ronald's ball-room. And yet 
 grave and dejected though he seemed, his eyes found her out 
 at once. It was to Miss Glyn that he directed his discourse ; 
 but though he addressed not a word to her, Sybil felt included 
 in all he said.
 
 158 sybil's second love. 
 
 The two girls remained apart, and did not join in the conver 
 aation, Blanche because she took no interest in it, Sybil because 
 her heart was beating so fast that she could not have uttered a 
 word. Again came back to her the feeling which she knew so 
 well — the almost painful curiosity concerning her future des- 
 tiny. She looked at him and wondered. He had come for 
 her, of course ; she knew it, but, for all that, was it to be ? 
 Were these two strangers, who sat so far apart in her father's 
 drawing-room, James Kennedy's daughter and Count de Renne- 
 ville, to meet in truth some day, and hand in hand to walk 
 down the paths of life until they reached the goal of all such 
 journeys, and parted on the threshold of death ? She knew he 
 did not come to her in mere love, but she also knew she was 
 his chosen one, and she did not feel offended because he could 
 not afford to marry a poor girl. 
 
 There was a sweetness to Sybil in the thought that she 
 could give as well as receive, the sweetness which generous na- 
 tures feel in the act of bestowing. She could fancy herself in 
 that old manor, where the grim family portraits looked down 
 from the walls, feeling that they looked not unkindly at her as 
 she moved about the cold stone rooms, bringing affluence and 
 warmth around her. Yes, there was something in all this, a 
 royal pleasure, but was it sufficient ? Would it make Sybil 
 happy ? She looked at him, seeking in his countenance the 
 answer to that question. The mingled suavity and pride she 
 read there seemed to give her security for the future. It did 
 not seem as if this man would ever be ungenerous to the wife 
 he had chosen, as if he would remember her birth and forget 
 its compensation. She listened to him, and pleasant to her 
 were the tones of his voice, and the matter of his speech. One 
 was measured and harmonious, the other was solid, though not 
 heavy. 
 
 "I wonder why I feel so drawn toward. him?" thought 
 Sybil — " this is not like the love-match one reads of, and yet I 
 like it. I do not think I am in the least fond of him, and yet it 
 seems to me it would be a pleasant — nay, a happy thing to be 
 his wife. I dare say there are girls who can never fall in love 
 — it is not in their nature — and I really do fancy I am one of 
 these. All that romance is not in my way at all. I never did 
 like the stolen matches in novels. I much prefer something 
 open, and manly, and true, and sensible ; and I do like that 
 French way of applying to the old people first. When a girl
 
 shjil's second love. 159 
 
 knows they are pleased, she can go straight on, and not fear ; 
 but if she does not know that, how is she to behave so as to 
 avoid trouble- and grief? For suppose Count de Renneville 
 asked me, and that I said ' yes,' and that papa and aunt said 
 ' no ' — what a terrible affair that would be ! Of course he must 
 withdraw, and then, how could I look him in the face again, 
 knowing I had said ' yes ' ? " 
 
 Here Sybil's soliloquy was brought to an abrupt close by 
 catching the blue gleam of Miss Cains's eyes, full of demure 
 and yet mocking meaning: She reddened much, and turned 
 her face to the window, then gave a start. 
 
 " The rain ! " she cried. 
 
 No one else had seen it, for Mr. Kennedy, his sister-in-law, 
 and his guest were sitting at some distance from the row of 
 windows, and Blanche had her back turned to them, and was 
 intent on watching Sybil. And so the rain had come, and was 
 now pouring down in a very deluge. Count Andre de Renne- 
 ville rose, and went up to the nearest window. 
 
 " I must leave you at once," he said ; " it is nothing as yet, 
 but will be something soon." 
 
 " It is something now," said Mr. Kennedy, " and we cannot 
 let you go. You must stay with us, count, and dine here to- 
 day." 
 
 He spoke cordially, and Sybil felt the count must know this 
 was a hospitable, not a designing invitation. The count did 
 seem to know it, and after brief excuse and hesitation, accepted. 
 When he had done so, to Miss Glyn's infinite satisfaction, he 
 quietly drew a chair near the couch on which Sybil still sat, 
 and evidently meant to devote some of his attention to the 
 daughter of the house. Why should he not, even had he meant 
 nothing ? — but that he meant something, Sybil felt in her in- 
 most heart. In the first place, his look, though reserved and 
 calm, was a scrutinizing look. Sybil felt it ; her heart swelled a 
 little, but she did not dislike it — why should she not be 
 weighed and tried too ? She would have hated him if he had 
 been ready to take her just because she had money, or because 
 she had a pretty face. The close attention he now gave her 
 proved that Count de Renneville was not the man to take a 
 wife so lightly. True, he had sought and chosen her, but he 
 had not asked her yet, and perhaps he would not ask her at all. 
 There was no knowing but that one of the many faults with 
 which she was no doubt endowed, would scare him away.
 
 160 sybil's second loye. 
 
 Every tiling about him denoted a fastidious man, and Sybil felt 
 very bumble ; she was not at all in love, but she did not think 
 herself worthy of him. Ah ! Sybil, Sybil, I fear much you 
 know little of those matters yet ! 
 
 While these thoughts ran through her, Count de Renneville 
 went on examining her, and weighed her, as Sybil truly felt. 
 He weighed her well as he sat thus, talking pleasantly of such 
 themes as might please a young lady of her years ; he weighed 
 her during dinner-time, when Sybil, having recovered a little 
 from her first awe, was lively, and even petulant, and the whole 
 of that long evening he weighed her still. Sometimes Sybil 
 saw it — sometimes she was not on her guard. In vain Miss 
 Glyn frowned and looked stern ; Miss Kennedy showed her- 
 self pretty much as she was, and spoke on every topic that 
 came uppermost in her mind. The least welcome of these to 
 Miss Glyn was Sybil's uncle. The night was stormy and wild, 
 and Sybil was sure her uncle was out in it. The count sympa- 
 thized with her distress, and Sybil gave him grateful looks, for 
 her father only said : 
 
 " Nonsense, Pussy ; Ned is an old traveller," and Miss Glyn 
 looked angry, and Miss Cains disdainful. 
 
 " Well, but travellers have been killed in thunderstorms," 
 urged Sybil, who looked doleful ; " and I cannot help wishing I 
 were sure of uncle's safety." 
 
 "Then you believe in certainty?" said the count. 
 
 Sybil gave him a doubtful look. What did he mean by that ? 
 
 " My meaning is this," he said ; " life is like a running 
 stream made up of a succession of changes, as that is made up 
 of a succession of waves. We are sure but of two things — of 
 life itself, and of death." 
 
 Sybil reddened. 
 
 " I am sure I love uncle," she said. 
 
 " True, but not that you Avill love or have him to love to- 
 morrow. There is no such thing as an abiding present ; it be- 
 comes a past even as we speak, and the future is not ours." 
 
 " I am sure I shall always love uncle," obstinately said Sybil. 
 
 The couut bowed, and would not pursue the argument 
 further. 
 
 " He is good and kind, and he likes me. Why should I not 
 .xke him ? " insisted Sybil. 
 
 The count looked as surprised as good-breeding would let 
 him at her eager tone.
 
 sybil's secokd love. 161 
 
 Poor Sybil, however, had an object at heart. If her uncle 
 did not like the count, she wanted the count to like her uncle, 
 forgetting that such dislikes are generally mutual. So she began 
 sounding the absent uncle's praises, till even her father stared 
 and looked annoyed. Not so Count Andre de Eenneville. He 
 listened like one deeply interested ; and, in reality, he was so. 
 He was a careful, fastidious man, and not all Sybil's money 
 could tempt him if she were not such as he wished her to 
 be. It so happened that this affectionate remembrance of her 
 relative pleased him. He did not much like, indeed, the object 
 of her praises, but what about that ! A girl of seventeen is 
 easily weaned from her early ties ; but the warm heart remains 
 when the unworthy idol is altogether shattered. Sybil's suitor 
 was pleased; and when he rode home in the calm moonlight, 
 with a watery landscape around him, and a clear sky above his 
 head, Count de Renneville confessed to himself that he had dis- 
 covered a rare pearl, and would do well to secure it ere some 
 other man should win and wear it. 
 
 " Sybil," said Mr. Kennedy to his daughter as the was going 
 up to her room, " come with me — I want to speak to you." 
 
 Sybil followed her father down to the library, and, with a 
 beating heart, listened to the following speech : 
 
 "I need not tell you the object of the count's visits, but I 
 must tell you this — unless you are prepared to sanction this 
 young man's addresses, he must come no more. He is neither 
 an old friend nor an old acquaintance; the whole world knows 
 what he is coming for, and you must not commit yourself." 
 
 "But I cannot say yes on such short knowledge," cried 
 Sybil. 
 
 " He will not ask you to say yes just yet," replied her father 
 smiling ; " but though I like him and approve of him, I will not 
 allow him to come unless I know how far you like him." 
 
 In her distress she became prudent. 
 
 " Papa, we know nothing about him," she said, gravely. 
 
 " I know plenty," he shortly replied. "I have got informa- 
 tion on which I can rely." 
 
 " From whom, papa, if you please ? " 
 
 "From no less a person than your uncle." 
 
 In a moment Sybil's face was in a flame. 
 
 "And does he really speak well of — of the count?" she 
 stammered. 
 
 " Most handsomely. Here is his letter. Wait, I want that
 
 162 sybil's second love. 
 
 half ; "but you will find all that concerns you. Take it, Pussy, 
 and give me your answer to-morrow morning." 
 
 He rose as Sybil took the sheet of paper he handed her. 
 Eagerly she ran up to her room, locked herself in, and read : 
 
 " This much I have ascertained — there is not a stain on 
 that young man's character. Few men reach manhood so un- 
 blemished, by common report. There is a general opinion of 
 his ability, which he has not had the opportunity to confirm, 
 but which speaks well in his favor. I have no doubt hut he de- 
 serves the respect and esteem he enjoys, and from my personal 
 acquaintance with him I know he would be invaluable to you. 
 With regard to Sybil, I believe she will find in him a kind and 
 attentive husband. So good a son cannot be' unkind to his 
 wife, especially to a wife like Sybil, young, pretty, and fascinat- 
 ing, and courtesy will satisfy her. She is entitled to more, and 
 can he give her that more? I doubt it, and if she were my 
 daughter, as she is yours — " 
 
 Here the letter was torn off, and Sybil remained in the doubt 
 that it suggested. But, indeed, it was nc doubt. Her uncle 
 was too just not to speak the truth of her suitor, and that truth 
 was to his honor; but he was too tenacious of his original dis- 
 bike to retract it. Never — Sybil felt it with a swelling heart — 
 never would those two men be friends. The whole night long 
 she tossed in doubt, perplexity, and grief; by dawn she slept, 
 and when she wakened, the sweet deluder, Hope, whispered that 
 she both would and could reconcile these two. Love for her 
 would bind them where all else failed. So when she returned 
 her uncle's letter to her father, Count Andre de Renneville had 
 prevailed over Uncle Edward. 
 
 ■♦ ♦ » 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Some men are never in a hurry, and it may be wise that 
 they should not be so. They cannot decide well, if they decide 
 quickly. To these Count de Renneville probably belonged. A 
 full week elapsed before he paid his next visit. 
 
 " You little goose ! " said Miss Cains. " If you had played
 
 sybil's second love. 1G3 
 
 your cards better, lie would have been crawling at your feet the 
 next morning ! " 
 
 "I should not like that at all," proudly said Sybil. 
 
 " "Well, but, my darling duck — for I believe you do not like 
 being called a goose — you would rather be loved than not. 
 Confess you would ! " 
 
 But Sybil would do no such thing. To wish for a man's 
 affection is a terrible step in the road of love, and to utter that 
 wish is simply owning yourself conquered. 
 
 "I wonder whether I could get it out of you by shaking 
 you ? " pursued Miss Cains. " Well, what are you blushing 
 for?" 
 
 "With which abrupt question Miss Cains went up to the win- 
 dow of Sybil's room, and saw the count slowly riding toward 
 the house. 
 
 " I would have made him gallop ! " she thought, indignantlv. 
 
 The young ladies were not summoned to the drawing-room, 
 and the count departed without having seen them. 
 
 " What a bear ! " said Blanche. " You may say what you 
 like, Sybil, that French way is all bosh ! I beg your pardon, I 
 mean it is not love." 
 
 " I like it," replied Sybil, with a light in her eyes. " I like 
 a girl to be placed beyond reach, and not to be like an apple on 
 a bough, ready to be plucked by every hand. I like her yea 
 and nay to be like that of a sovereign, the last asked for, be- 
 cause it is the final thing, after all, the word without which ah 
 else is vain, and which alone makes all else good." 
 
 " My goodness ! " cried Blanche, " who would have thought 
 the young lady had it all in her ? Just hear how she goes on ! 
 Why, she knows more than I do. Well, my dear, the count is 
 gone, or going, and you shall soon have to give your yea or nay, 
 I believe." 
 
 And, indeed, it proved so. Within half an hour of that 
 time, Sybil was closeted with her father, gravely listening to bis 
 communication. Count dc Renneville had done her the honor 
 of asking for her hand ; he, Mr. Kennedy, approved his suit, 
 which was also acceptable to Miss Glvn, the rest now lav with 
 SybiL 
 
 " I must know more of him," she replied. 
 
 " Must you, Pussy ? and pray how long will that knowledge 
 take you ? " 
 
 " A fortnight, at least."
 
 164 sybil's second love. 
 
 " And you will be much the wiser at the end of a fortnight I r ' 
 he replied, with a smile. " But be it so, Pussy, be it so." 
 
 No one, indeed, seemed to take Sybil's fortnight as meaning 
 any thing. Miss Glyn called it ridiculous, and Blanche laughed 
 at it — Count de Itenneville alone, when he called that same 
 evening, looked doubtful and anxious. As the evening were on 
 he seemed to gather hope and security from Sybil's calm and 
 gentle manner ; but often, when he thought himself unperceived, 
 he fastened on her a look so searching and so keen, that Sybil, 
 who detected it once or twice, felt troubled to the very heart. 
 
 As he watched her, another person watched him. The 
 young man soon became conscious that a cairn pair of blue eyes 
 was reading him very attentively. He shifted his position, he 
 rebelled and returned the look as resentfully as politeness allows ; 
 it mattered not — Miss Cains would look on as coolly as if a 
 wall and not a human face were before her. The count was 
 seusitive, and as he could not endure this inquisition, he re- 
 solved to tax Miss Cains with it, and break the charm. So, be- 
 fore the evening, he said to her with a smile : 
 
 " I perceive I am like some one you know ? " 
 
 " No, but you are very much like an historical portrait I 
 have seen," she frankly replied. 
 
 " May I inquire who was the original ? " 
 
 Miss Cains seemed to think, then shook her head with a 
 smile ; she had forgotten all about it. Sybil looked disappointed, 
 and the count rather cool and haughty. 
 
 From that day forth his manner to Miss Cains was a master- 
 piece of politeness and reserve. It was a mixture of profound 
 respect and cool indifference, through which she found it impos- 
 sible to break. She was defiant, impertinent, and even amiable 
 — in vain. The count had woven such a web of courtesy 
 around her, that she could not break from its meshes. So she 
 ended by submitting with a languid apathy, through which it 
 was impossible to detect any other feeling. 
 
 Somethiug of all this Sybil saw, but very little, for the war, 
 such as it was, took place cither behind her back, or during her 
 absence. Miss Cains was prudent by habit, and her antagonist 
 through apprehension. Indeed, his fortnight of probation 
 proved him to be a lover both modest and shrewd. He fol- 
 lowed the turns of Sybil's mood so closely that he never lost an 
 inch of ground in her favor. It was plain to his young mistress 
 that, conscious though he probably was, of good birth, good
 
 sybil's second love. 165 
 
 breedino-, and a handsome person, he relied upon none of these 
 for success. The doubt and uneasiness he did not attempt to 
 disguise served him well. Sybil felt potentate, and she loved 
 her power, though she was too generous to turn tyrant. Pass- 
 ing doubts and fears she had, but these she imparted to none. 
 The silence of Blanche perplexed and frightened her, and she had 
 not courage to break the subject till the eve of the last day of 
 the fortnight. 
 
 Miss Cains was in her room looting out of her window, 
 with her arms folded on the sill, when Sybil entered it unheard. 
 The sunset sky, red and glowing, filled the square of the open 
 window, and a flood of light poured on Blanche's fair head and 
 handsome face. Her blue eyes were fixed as in a dream, and 
 Sybil thought she looked both beautiful and poetic. She ap- 
 proached her with a sort of hesitation, and touched her gently. 
 Miss Cains gave a little start, but turned ronnd smiling. 
 
 " I thought you were in the garden," she said. 
 
 " So I was awhile ago, but I am here now." 
 
 " So I see, my dear." 
 
 "Blanche, what were you thinking of? — you looked so 
 lovely ! " 
 
 " My dear, I was thinking that cold mutton is delicious with 
 caper sauce, but that by saying as much I have lost the slender 
 share I possessed in Miss Glyn's good graces. Now, don't look 
 provoked. I must tell the truth. You would have liked me 
 to say that the glory of the sunset was the object of my thoughts, 
 but I cannot help it — that big staring sun is mute to me. I 
 wish he had never shone on me, since he would not give me a 
 brighter destiny." 
 
 " Blanche ! Blanche ! your destiny shall be bright if I many 
 him — a real fairy tale." 
 
 So spoke Sybil. Blanche was silent. 
 
 " Blanche, the fortnight is out to-morrow ; counsel, ad- 
 vise me." 
 
 There was a pause — a long one it seemed to Sybil's beating 
 heart. At length Miss Cains said, 
 
 " You want my advice, Sybil ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Well, then, never marry that man." 
 
 Sybi! turned pale, and said : 
 
 "Why so ? " 
 
 " You have teased me to try and remember what historical
 
 166 sybil's second love. 
 
 portrait lie was like. Sybil, I had never forgotten, but I would 
 not tell ; even now I feel I had better say nothing." 
 
 Sybil laughed nervously, and said : 
 
 " Never mind." 
 
 " But suppose your mind is made up, and that I influence 
 you to a change you may repent later? " 
 
 Miss Cains looked keenly at Sybil as she spoke. But Sybil, 
 still very pale, replied, firmly : 
 
 " I should never repent having followed your advice, Blanche.'' 
 
 " Well, then, never marry that man, I say again." 
 
 "Why so, Blanche?" 
 
 "Because he is too subtle, and too silent — because, though 
 you lived years with him, you would know nothing of him." 
 
 "And whom is he like, Blanche? " 
 
 " Oh ! that is nothing, after all — nothing." 
 
 "But you said you would tell me, Blanche, you did." 
 
 " I tell you it is nothing ; but since I said I would tell you, 
 why, he is like Judas in that picture we once saw together, you 
 know, when Judas is betraying our Saviour with a kiss." 
 
 Sybil reddened and bit her lip. She remembered the pic- 
 ture, and there was a likeness — a slight, hateful likeness — in the 
 calm, handsome face the painter had given to the great traitor. 
 
 " There, you are vexed," said Miss Cains — " I should not 
 have told you, for, after all, it is nothing. The Judas in the 
 picture was painted from a real man, who may have been both 
 good and true — a devoted son, a faithful lover, and the rest of 
 it. A painter once did me the honor to ask me to sit for 
 Lucrezia Borgia — kind, was it not?" 
 
 " Blanche," nervously said Sybil, " the likeness is nothing, 
 as you say ; but there is more in your mind. Tell it to me." 
 
 " No — where's the use ? I can only say what I think and 
 feel, and what is that ? " 
 
 But Sybil insisted, and Blanche yielded. 
 
 "Well," she said, "the count is a perfect gentleman.; but 
 though I have watched and watched him, and read and read 
 him again, I have not been able to detect how much, or how 
 little, he really loves you." 
 
 Sybil blushed, and laughed like one relieved. 
 
 " But he does love me," she said ; " you should have seen 
 him a while ago — you should have seen him ! " 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " Why, he forestalled the day, and asked me, and I was
 
 sybil's second love. 167 
 
 cruel, and played with him, and he shook and trembled like an 
 aspen-leaf." 
 
 "And what did you say ? " 
 
 " Blanche, I had not the heart to keep it up. I smiled — I 
 only smiled — and in a moment he was all joy — all happiness — 
 and so was I. Blanche, I am the happiest girl alive to-night." 
 
 Miss Cains started to her feet, crimson with rage. 
 
 " You little traitress ! " she cried — " how dare you deceive 
 me ? — how dare you play with me ? " 
 
 Sybil stepped back ; she had never seen her so. Her amazed 
 looks sobered her friend's manner, but did not subdue her real 
 anger. 
 
 " Sybil," she said, indignantly, " do such a thing again — at- 
 tempt to deceive me, and I leave the house forever ! How dare 
 you ask me to advise you, when you had given your consent ? " 
 
 " Blanche," said Sybil, trembling with agitation, " I was very 
 wrong ; but you always find me out — I thought you would. I 
 did not mean to deceive you — indeed, I did not ! " 
 
 " Indeed, I must have been blind not to have found you out, 
 as you say," replied Miss Cains, after a brief pause — " why, I 
 had seen you with him five minutes before. Yes, I was an idiot 
 to know no better — well, well, do not mind it ; and so you are 
 happy, and he really loves you ? — then, shall I tell you what, 
 Sybil ? — he does not like me, and he does not feel at ease when 
 I am by — yes, that is it. My old luck ! " 
 
 " But he does like, or he shall like you ! " cried Sybil ; " it 
 is bad enough to have lost uncle — do you think I am going to 
 lose you? — I will not, Blanche — I will not. Besides, it is all 
 settled. I have already told him you are to come and live with 
 us, and he is delighted. And, indeed — " 
 
 The look Miss Cains gave her checked Sybil's joy. It was 
 a very serious look indeed, almost a moody one, if such a word 
 could be used in reference to Miss Cains's blue eyes. 
 
 " My poor darling ! " said Blanche, " will you never weary 
 of fastening me, like the old man of the sea, on every one's 
 back ? What a dreadful bore they must find me ! " 
 
 " Now, Blanche, that is cruel." 
 
 " No, little countess — it is kind. Do you think I love you 
 bo little as to wish to begin by putting myself between your 
 .over and you ? Why did I stay up here this evening, but to 
 shun that ? And now you want me to go and live in the house 
 of a man who can scarcely endure me."
 
 168 sybil's second love. 
 
 " For shame ! " cried Sybil, indignantly. " He admires yon, 
 and he will like yon when he knows you as I do. I tell you it 
 is all settled. Am I going to give you up for him ? No, in- 
 deed ! Did he nurse me through mortal sickness? " she asked, 
 saucily. " I dare say he was making love to some other lady 
 whilst I was at death's door. No — no, my friend first — my 
 lover next ! " 
 
 Miss Cains smiled at this line of argument, and replied a 
 little sadly. 
 
 "You do not know what you are doing, Sybil; but you 
 mean well, you good little thing ! " 
 
 " And it shall be as I mean," said Sybil. 
 
 " I suppose so. And — are you happy, Sybil ? " 
 
 " Oh ! so happy ! — and so is he ! I saw it in his face, 
 Blanche." 
 
 " Of course one does always see it there," rather drjdy re- 
 plied Miss Cains. 
 
 " And he is so good ! " continued Sybil, " so affectionate- 
 he told me all about his mother, and how much she loved him, 
 and how devoted they were to each other, and how she wished 
 for all this — he has a noble heart, Blanche. And I am to tell 
 him every thing, and he is to tell me every thing. And we are 
 to live in the old manor, but to come here every day, because it 
 seems he is to be partner with papa. Oh ! Blanche, I shall be 
 so happy ! " 
 
 " Yes, my darling ! " softly said Blanche, stroking her hair, 
 and kissing her, " so happy, and so fond, and so good ! And 
 so good-by." 
 
 " What ! are you tired of me ? " 
 
 " No, child, but I must not begin by absorbing your com- 
 pany." 
 
 " Oh ! Blanche, let me stay, I have so much to tell you ! " 
 
 Miss Cains allowed herself to be persuaded, and with a re- 
 signed air listened to Sybil's outpourings. It was the old story. 
 She was the happiest girl alive, and her lover was the fondest 
 and most devoted a girl could have. They were to live in unin- 
 terrupted happiness till their dying day, and he was to bring her 
 what remained of the family diamonds, for her to say how she 
 would have them reset. They had been his mother's and they 
 were now to be hers, and he could not have endured that an- 
 other woman save herself should have worn them, he already 
 loved her so much.
 
 Sybil's second love. 169 
 
 "And what are the diamonds?" asked Miss Cains, who was 
 too fond of feminine adornment not to think this a very im- 
 portant and interesting matter. 
 
 " There are ear-rings, very fine drops, ho says, and a brooch. 
 There was a bracelet, and a diadem, but his father was obliged 
 to part with these." 
 
 " Ear-rings and a brooch," echoed Miss Cains. " Lucky 
 girl!" and her eyes sparkled, and a gentle sigh heaved her 
 bosom. " I should like diamonds," she resumed, with much 
 gravity, " they are so bright, so costly, and so enduring. It is 
 something to wear what can outlive generations, and not wither 
 like them. Pray go on, Sybil : I saw some fine pearls on the 
 dowager, did he mention them ? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, a necklace. They are small, he says, but good." 
 
 " Pearls, and black velvet, and a white skin," said Blanche. 
 " Ah ! what a conjunction ! " 
 
 She shut her eyes in an ecstasy, half assumed, half real. 
 
 " I like him ten times better than his pearls and diamonds," 
 a little jealously said Sybil. 
 
 " Oh ! of course you do, my dear, but you would not like me 
 to be so fond of him as that, so I shall take the liberty of pre- 
 ferring the pearls and the diamonds, my love." 
 
 It was impossible to answer this, so Sybil was mute, whilst 
 Miss Cains resumed : 
 
 " And what about the furniture ? For I suspect that old 
 turreted house to be rather bare." 
 
 " We are to go and take luncheon with him after to-mor- 
 row, so we shall see it, Blanche. And you will advise me," she 
 added coaxingly. 
 
 Miss Cains promised to do so, but she looked so languid 
 and fatigued, that Sybil could not help seeing it, and reluctant 
 though she was to leave her and retire to silence and solitude, 
 Bhe did so. Miss Cains made no attempt to detain her, and 
 Sybil went down to the garden, and wandered and dreamed 
 there, restless as a spirit. Every now and then she stole a look 
 up at her friend's window, and every time she did so, she saw 
 her motionless figure in the gray twilight. 
 
 " What a brown study she is in ! " thought Sybil with a 
 swelling heart. " She is like uncle — if they agree in nothing 
 else, they agree in thinking I cannot be happy with him, but 
 they will see — they will see, both of them, that the happiness 
 of fair}- tales will be nothing to mine." 
 8
 
 170 sybil's second love. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 If Miss Cains withheld her approbation from Sybil's consent, 
 it Lad that of two more important persons — her father and her 
 aunt. There were many reasons w r hy Mr. Kennedy should be 
 pleased with his future son-in-law, poor though he was ; and if 
 he was pleased, Miss Glyn was enchanted. This lady had a 
 hobby, which she delighted is riding ; its name was Capital, 
 and this fancy her future nephew had easily detected, and could 
 easily gratify. Commercial enterprise had long seemed the only 
 outlet to his ambition, all the more keen that it was subdued. 
 Practical knowledge he had not, for opportunity had ever failed 
 him, but in theory he far surpassed Miss Glyn. His mind might 
 not be one of great compass, but its range, though narrower, 
 was deep and searching. He daily astonished Mr. Kennedy by 
 the soundness and the penetration of his views, and he fairly 
 bore down Miss Glyn, or rather he so courteously managed his 
 victory, that the lady exulted in having found such a treasure. 
 Little mattered it, therefore, whether Miss Cains approved or 
 disapproved a match so acceptable to the elder lady. But, 
 indeed, so far as Sybil could see or know, that disapprobation 
 had all passed away. Blanche herself made light of it, and de- 
 clared she was out of sorts that evening, and Sybil, credu- 
 lous and happy as ever are the young, wished to believe her too 
 much not to do so. 
 
 Every thing, indeed, went on smoothly, save the weather. 
 A tempestuous moon had set in ; it rained daily, and the sodden 
 earth looked rank in the gray mist. The intended visit to the 
 manor was put off day after day, and slow walks in the arched 
 galleries of the cloister supplied the place of those summer ram- 
 bles in the garden during which Count de Renneville had wooed 
 and Avon his betrothed. 
 
 It was raining heavily one afternoon when they thus passed 
 together the narrow nagged path which enclosed the cloister and 
 its central cross. Sybil had coaxed her lover into describing the 
 manor to her. He had yielded, but with acknowledged reluc- 
 tance. Bare enough it was, according to his account. 
 
 " I would rather yon had seen it," he said frankly, " for you 
 have a poetical eye, and you would find beauty w here I only de- 
 scribe barrenness." 
 
 They were passing by the library windows as he spoke,
 
 sybil's second love. 171 
 
 Sybil saw the long shelves of books within. She gave a fond 
 look to that lonely room, and turning to the count, she said 
 abruptly : 
 
 " And where is the library in the manor ?— you have not 
 told me that," 
 
 A quiet smile passed across his pale, handsome face. 
 
 " Library ? " he replied — " there is none." 
 
 " None ? " said Sybil, amazed — " no books ? " 
 
 " None that you would call such, at least, for they relate to 
 political economy, agriculture, commercial enterprise, and the 
 rest." 
 
 Sybil looked bewildered. The rain splashed on the flags of 
 the cloister. Here and there a pool had formed in some broken 
 spot ; above all spread a dull gray sky, without even a passing 
 cloud to break its monotony. What could one do in that old 
 manor on a day like this, if there was neither poet to tell you 
 of sunshine, and lark soaring above fields of corn, nor historian 
 to fill your fancy with the pageantry of days gone by, nor nov- 
 elist to charm you with some fond tale of happy love, and true? 
 
 "You shall have books," said the count, "but I have for- 
 sworn them. They tempted and lured me from the hard real- 
 ities of life to its dreams — I wrote reams of poetry when I was 
 twenty — " 
 
 "Poetry ?" cried Sybil — " you wrote poetry, and vou never 
 told me so ? " 
 
 " Well, I will tell you now — the folly is passed, and I can 
 confess it." 
 
 " Folly ! — it was not folly," cried Sybil — " oh ! you must 
 show me your verses ! " 
 
 " They are burnt." 
 
 " Well, then, you must write new ones." 
 
 "You must be obeyed," he replied, "but they will be 
 dreadful trash." 
 
 " Shall I have them to-morrow ? " asked Sybil, eager as a 
 child for this new toy. 
 
 " To-night, if you like it ; but you must show them to none 
 — not even to Miss Cains. I will be as foolish for you as \<ni 
 please, but for no one else. Look behind the cushion of your 
 chair after I am gone, and you will find a ballad, or a sonnet." 
 
 Sybil looked at him with admiring eyes, and asked when, 
 then, would be compose either sonnet or ballad. 
 
 "Oh! I shall have plenty of time," he said, gayly ; "but,
 
 172 sybil's second love. 
 
 for goodness' sake, breathe not a word of this to your father; ho 
 will lose all belief in my business talents if he once knows that I 
 dabble in poetry." 
 
 " I shall tell no one," said Sybil, with sparkling eyes ; " it 
 shall be my own entirely. Perhaps I had better leave you now, 
 and give you time." 
 
 He protested against this, but Sybil was too much afraid of 
 losing her verses not to insist. So she paced one side of the 
 cloister, whilst he walked along the other. She watched him, 
 and saw him stop every now and then to write down something 
 on a leaf he had torn out of his pocket-book. Ere half an hour 
 had elapsed he joined her, and put a folded slip of paper in her 
 hand. 
 
 " Not now," he said, as Sybil wanted to open it — " to-night, 
 when you are alone ; you will feel more lenient when I am not 
 by. Nay, but you must promise." 
 
 ' Sybil promised, a little reluctantly, and in her impatience 
 she said, in her petulant way : 
 
 " I will go to the manor to-morrow, let the weather be what 
 it will — I will go to the manor to-morrow." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so — your wish will bring us fine 
 weather." 
 
 " I want to settle which room is to be the library," she con- 
 tinued ; " for I will have books, and you must read with me, 
 and write verses, too. Uncle did not write verses, but we read 
 together," she added, with a sigh. 
 
 " What, may I inquire ? " 
 
 " Every thing. Oh ! he is so learned — so accomplished, but 
 he does not write verses." 
 
 " He is not in love," replied the count, smiling — " love is 
 the great teacher and compeller." 
 
 " Poor uncle ! " thought Sybil, remembering her uncle's bit- 
 ter confession ; " he is not very likely to write verses for the 
 lady he is engaged to, and yet she is handsome ; but he does 
 not love her, and though I have but a moderate share of good 
 looks, I am loved — happy girl ! " 
 
 Happy girl, indeed, when having retired to her room for the 
 night, she opened the folded paper, and read the count's verses 
 with a beating heart. We will not venture on a rhymed version 
 of the lines which charmed Sybil ; prose will do to convey their 
 meaning, and to show in what quarter the lover's inspiration 
 had found its way. Brevity was one of their merits, for the
 
 sybil's second love. 173 
 
 count had not Lad time for either sonnet or ballad. 'Thus ran 
 the lover's lay : 
 
 "A traveller was wrecked on the shores of life. The wea- 
 ried man took refuge in a lonely dwelling, not far from that 
 whence he had gone forth to wrestle with the world. Stran- 
 gers owned his ancestral home. He shunned them. Not 
 through envy: it was theirs; hut because the unhappy care not 
 to see the bliss "of others. 
 
 " Once, however, he eutered the house that had been his so 
 long. He wandered over the ancient chambers, calling up the 
 past. In one which had long been locked up and unused, he 
 saw a fair pearl shining. He took it with a trembling hand. 
 Rash man, beware ! The pearl is not yet thine. It belongs to 
 the stranger. Till thou hast it in thine own home, boast not." 
 
 Poor little Sybil! she was seventeen, and for the first time 
 verses were written in her praise. Her tears, happy tears, flowed 
 as she read these lines, not once, but again and again. She 
 could scarcely sleep that night for thinking of the blest future 
 before her; and when she slept, it was to dream of it — sweet 
 dreams, full of a troubled joy. 
 
 When she woke the next morning a bright sun shone in at 
 her window. It lit the whole landscape, and had already half 
 dried up the drenched roads. It was a splendid day, and 
 seemed doubly so after the long gloom of the preceding week. 
 
 They could go to the Manor of Raymond at length ! The 
 count early sent a message requesting to know if he should not 
 have the pleasure of their company, and Miss Glyn sent back a 
 stately promise of goiug. 
 
 They went, and the whole way Sybil was in a dream, now 
 wonderful her life had been since the days when she called 
 Saint Vincent a dreary old house ! — how wonderful it would be 
 still ! That old Raymond, who had been a sort of grand pirate 
 in his way, haunted her. She longed to see his portrait, to see, 
 too, that strange old chimney, all covered with quaint carvina', 
 which her lover had described to her; and the tree that grew 
 in one of the old forgotten courts, and which Denise had men- 
 tioned, and even the sober Narcisse admired. She was sure she 
 would like that gray old house, which looked so proud and 
 lonely in the landscape. 
 
 The Manor of Raymond was a gray and turreted abode, stand- 
 ing aloof from other dwellings, it laced the sea to the west, 
 and it Avas sheltered northwisc by a little green wood. It looked
 
 174: SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 quaint and picturesque on that shady background, but, alas ! it 
 was bare and desolate within. Few relics of the past wei'e there 
 in the manor. Poverty had laid her cruel hand on all save the 
 stone walls, and a few portraits which Pride would not part 
 with. Mediaeval treasures had vanished thence, and gone to 
 adorn plebeian homes. Something of this Sybil knew. Denise 
 had told her of the wonderful seven-branched iron candelabra, 
 which once adorned the hall, of the carved oak chairs and cab- 
 inets, relics of a feudal race, which amateurs had keenly striven 
 for; of the wonderful old Limoges enamels, and Palissy ware, 
 and Rouen pottery, which had gone away piecemeal, and some 
 of which had found a home in royal and. imperial museums. 
 All this Sybil knew, and therefore was she not surprised to find 
 an ancient home poorly and shabbily furnished* with modern 
 and commonplace furniture. She cared not. He was poor, she 
 knew it, and her heart only yearned the more toward him, as 
 she entered that old house, the only relic of his ancestral pos- 
 sessions. Whilst he respectfully listened to Miss Glyn on capi- 
 tal, and to Mr. Kennedy on rape-seed, Sybil eagerly looked at 
 the portraits, that stamp of blood and race of which Fate had 
 not deprived him. They were bad paintings, and their worth- 
 lessness had helped to save them ; but they were portraits, and 
 there were five or six faces to remember among them. At once 
 Sybil singled out Raymond. His name was written on the 
 tarnished gilt frame of his portrait, so there was no mistaking 
 him. Sybil had expected a warrior, cruel and stern-looking — 
 for there were deeds of blood in this man's history — and she 
 saw a pale, mild countenance, in which she fancied she could 
 trace some resemblance to her lover ; but harshness, severity, 
 strength even, she saw not. She was disappointed, and grew 
 rather pensive. 
 
 Miss Cains gave the portraits a contemptuous look, pro- 
 nounced them daubs, and led Sybil away. They wandered 
 up-stairs, and got into some of the upper rooms ; these were 
 rather dusty, and almost bare. 
 
 " My poor duck," kindly said Miss Cains, " you come to an 
 empty nest." 
 
 "Ah! but the joy of making it warm!" cried Sybil with 
 sparkling eyes. 
 
 Miss Cains laughed. 
 
 "Give me a ready- feathered nest!" she said gayly ; " what 
 business have women to bestow ? — 'tis their part to receive."
 
 sybil's second lote. 175 
 
 Blanche, there is something royal in giving-." 
 
 " And yon feel a little queen, Jo you ? — well, I was born a 
 subject, I confess. I wonder what there is up that staircase ? " 
 
 "Garrets." 
 
 " Come and see." 
 
 " No— I feel tired." 
 
 " Well, then, I shall go, and report my discoveries to your 
 majesty, if I should make any." 
 
 " Do," a little languidly replied Sybil. 
 
 For once she was not sorry to be alone. She liked to stand 
 in that deep bay-window, and look on the green landscape, above 
 which rose white mists of heat, She liked to lose herself in the 
 fair future, as calm and serene as that aspect of nature. A 
 quiet shining river flowed through the fertile fields ; to Sybil 
 that river seemed the type of her new destiny. How she and 
 Andre de Renneville would read, and study, and talk together, 
 looking at that fertile landscape ! He would be to her what 
 her Uncle Edward had for some time ceased to be — her teacher 
 and her friend. And then he wrote such beautiful verses, and 
 Uncle Edward was prose, as he had told her, so that sbe gained 
 rather than lost by exchanging one for the other. A sort of 
 remorse came to Sybil with the latter thought. It did not seem 
 true to the old friendship, to be thus unfavorably contrasting 
 it with the new love. 
 
 " And yet," thought Sybil, " I asked no better than to keep 
 both — it was uncle who would not. He dislikes Andre, and 
 cannot give the shadow of a reason for it ; and he keeps away 
 on purpose — surely I am not to blame." 
 
 But one false note will break the concord of the sweetest 
 sounds, and that ungracious thought had sent away Sybil's 
 happy young dreams adrift. She now found that she was alone, 
 and, going to the foot of the staircase, called her friend. No 
 one answered. Repeated summonses having produced no more 
 effect than this first appeal, Sybil got uneasy, and ventured up 
 the dark staircase. It took her to a garret, as she had supposed, 
 but an open door, which, some fagots at first concealed from 
 her view, gave her the clue to Blanche's silence and disappear- 
 ance. That door opened on another staircase, down which 
 Sybil went. It led her to the ruined part of the manor, and a 
 sound of voices, talking low, helped to guide her. Ere long 
 Sybil stood in a silent grass-grown court, in the centre of which 
 grew a tall tree, whose spreading branches made a green roof 
 above.
 
 176 Sybil's second love. 
 
 "Blanche!" she called eagerly, "Blanche!" 
 
 At the sound of her voice, Count de Renneville appeared, 
 surprised and smiling. 
 
 " Why, where have you heen ? " he asked. " I have searched 
 the whole house for you; and where is Miss Cains?" 
 
 "Is she not with you?" asked Sybil. "I thought I heard 
 you talking ? " 
 
 " No, I thought she was with you — I shall go and look for 
 her." 
 
 He passed beneath a low doorway, through which shot a 
 gleam of sunshine, and presently came back. 
 
 " Miss Cains has found out the fowls," he said. " She did 
 not see me — do come and detect her." 
 
 He let Sybil pass before him. She stepped on-tiptoe through 
 the dark passage, and soon reached a farmyard, where Miss Cains, 
 gravely sitting on an old broken chair, was engaged in feeding a 
 whole flock of hens and chickens. 
 
 " What a shame ! " cried Sybil ; " why, here we have been 
 hunting for you." 
 
 "Have you?" replied Miss Cains, without turning round. 
 " Well, I have been here for some time, practising my new voca- 
 tion. Fate declared it was teaching music, but, even as you 
 found out awhile ago that you were born with royal inclinations, 
 so have I discovered that to feed hens is my proper duty. You 
 are Sarah, which means princess, I believe ; and I am Agar, 
 which probably means bondswoman." 
 
 Sybil was so surprised at this speech that, instead of answer- 
 ing her friend, she looked at the count, half inquiringly. He 
 seemed equally surprised with herself, and rather confused. 
 
 " It is too bad of Blanche to talk so," thought Sybil. " Of 
 course I do not take it amiss, but strangers must think it odd." 
 
 " There, I have done with you ! " scornfully said Miss Cains, 
 seeming to address the hens, and rising as she spoke ; " you are 
 no doubt delightful company, but, somehow or other, you cannot 
 content me." 
 
 Sybil stayed in the rear to take the arm of Blanche Cains, 
 and whisper : 
 
 " What is it ? — what has happened ? " 
 
 " What is what, you dear little ninny?" ashed Miss Cains, in 
 her grand, disdainful way, for Sybil's mental weakness. 
 
 " But I know there is something," persisted Sybil — " I am 
 cure of it. Has he annoyed you ? "
 
 sybil's second love. 177 
 
 She looked at the count, who was walking before them, clear- 
 ing the stones from their path. 
 
 " How could so perfect a Paladin annoy me ? " asked Miss 
 Cains, gaylv. 
 
 "Well, then, what is it?" 
 
 Blanche laughed, and gave Sybil a kiss, and called her little 
 countess, and, in short, would hear no more on the subject. 
 
 The rest of the day produced nothing, and to Sybil was as a 
 delightful dream. But from that day forth all show of cordiality, 
 kindness, and good-will ceased between Miss Cains and the be- 
 trothed of her friend. With dismay Sybil saw that they jarred 
 and differed almost incessantly — oftener in looks than in words. 
 She spoke first to Blanche, who flatly denied it; then to Count 
 de Renneville, who smiled, and tried to put her off; but Sybil 
 would not be put oft", and with pretty despotism insisted on an 
 answer. He gave it at length, but with evident reluctance. 
 
 " On my word," he said, " I should be too happy to be friends 
 with your friend, if she would let me, but she will not. I have 
 displeased her I am sure, but how I cannot imagine. Has she 
 told you?" 
 
 " No — she denies it." 
 
 " Then how can I explain or apologize, if I do not know my 
 sin?" 
 
 "And are you really willing to apologize ? " asked Sybil, her 
 eyes sparkling. 
 
 " Can you doubt it? — is she not a lady, and your dearest 
 friend ? " 
 
 " Well, then, I shall give you an opportunity to do so." 
 
 "Pray, how do you mean to manage?" 
 
 "I know — I know," merrily replied Sybil, and she would say 
 no more. 
 
 Count dc Renneville seemed struck with a sudden thought. 
 
 " Pray excuse the question I am going to put, he said, " but 
 does not that uncle of yours, whom I never see, admire Miss 
 Cains ? " 
 
 Sybil opened her eyes. 
 
 " Why, he scarcely knows her," she replied — " of course he 
 admires her, but so does every one, she is so handsome ; only, I 
 am sure, his admiration is just as disinterested as yours." 
 
 "Perhaps he would tell you nothing about it," skeptically 
 replied her lover. 
 
 " But Blanche would — besides, why do you put the question . ; " 
 8*
 
 178 sybil's secoxd love. 
 
 " I was so unlucky once as to reflect on the color of that 
 gentleman's hair, and I feared Miss Cains had taken affront." 
 
 "Oh! not at that," sighed Sybil ; "she is always finding 
 fault with his hair and his eyes, and it is a shame." 
 
 " Why so, pray ? " 
 
 "Because Uncle Edward has beautiful hair," said Sybil, 
 warmly — " deep gold." 
 
 " Red gold ? " suggested the count. 
 
 " No, deep gold ; and he has beautifid eyes — gray, brilliant, 
 and clear honest eyes, that look into one's face without shrink- 
 ing, and I do wish Blanche liked him. ' I had set my heart up- 
 on it, and she scorns him. Oh ! no — that is not how you affront- 
 ed her." 
 
 " Then I confess I am at a loss." 
 
 " Never mind. Perhaps she will tell you — I will give you 
 the opportunity, you know." 
 
 He wanted to know again how the opportunity was to be 
 given him, but Sybil was full of mysteries, and woidd tell him 
 nothing. 
 
 The verv next dav, however, Sybil's betrothed learned how 
 that young lady meant to manage. In the very midst of a con- 
 versation between herself, the count, and Miss Cains, she was 
 called away by Denise, who summoned her with a mysterious, 
 " Mademoiselle's poor woman is below." Sybil started up in a 
 sudden hurry, and saying eagerly, "I am coming back very 
 soon," she was gone before Miss Cains could attempt to follow 
 her. 
 
 " Have I not managed it well ? " exultingly thought Sybil, 
 as she skipped down the staircase, and went to the hall, where 
 she found one of her pensioners, a decent widow, whom Sybil 
 had sent for on the count's arrival. 
 
 " Come with me to my room," said Sybil, eagerly — " I have 
 such a parcel for you ! " 
 
 And so she had. Sybil had a generous nature. It was an 
 exquisite pleasure for her to bestow. She had plundered her- 
 self to make the widow's parcel the more acceptable, and though 
 some want of judgment was shown in the selection of a few arti- 
 cles, she had succeeded iu the main. The widow's eyes sparkled 
 as she saw this thing and that; for this w r ould do for Marie, 
 and that would suit Catherine to perfection. 
 
 ' You are pleased — you are glad ! " cried Sybil with spark- 
 ling eyes. " Well, so am I, so am I ! "
 
 sybil's secoxd love. 179 
 
 And she was glad, indeed. She thought that whilst she was 
 gladdening the widow's heart up-stairs, they were making it up 
 below, and that henceforth there would be peace and amity be- 
 tween her lover and her friend. "Whea the widow's transports 
 had subsided, and her parcel was tied up again, she departed 
 with it ; and Sybil, feeling she had left them alone quite long 
 enough, went back to the drawing-room. She found them in 
 friendly converse, looking thoroughly good-humored, and evi- 
 dently on excellent terms. Sybil looked very demure and un- 
 conscious, untU she found an opportunity of saying privately to 
 Count de Renneville, 
 
 " Well, have you made it up ? " 
 
 " I hope so," he replied. " Miss Cains has refused to let me 
 know my offence, but she has magnanimously forgiven it." 
 
 To Blanche Sybil spoke more freely, but got no more out of 
 her. 
 
 " I was not affronted at all," a little impatiently replied Miss 
 Cains ; " but, of course if my manner implied I was, it is all 
 wrong, and I must mend it. I promised the count I would do 
 so, and I began at once, and so there is an end of it ; and good- 
 night." 
 
 " Ah ! but did I not manage cleverly ? " asked Sybil, not 
 willing to lose the glory of her little artifice. " You would 
 have both gone on sulking forever but for me." 
 
 " So you left us alone on purpose ? " 
 
 " To be sure I did ; and did I not do well ? " 
 
 She looked up rather saucily in the face of Blanche Cain?, 
 who smiled abstractedly. She held a light in one hand, and 
 laid her other hand — and though not a small hand, it was a 
 handsome one, with white fingers, slender and firm — on the 
 supple shoulder of her friend. 
 
 " I wish I were like you, Sybil," she said, " I wish I were — 
 and I wish you would not marry Count de Renneville ! " 
 
 " What ! " cried Sybil, rather indignant. 
 
 " Yes, I wish you would not," continued Miss Cains, with 
 perfect tranquillity of look, and tone, and manner; "he is not 
 good enough for you. Now don't mistake me; he is quite 
 gentlemanlike, and accomplished, and delightful, and he would 
 do very well for a girl like me, for instance, and be quite good 
 enough; but you ought to have something better. A finer, 
 larger, greater nature. Pity Green eyes is your uncle ! I should 
 say, ' Have him, by all means ! ' "
 
 180 sybil's second love. 
 
 "Blanche! — Blanche ! " cried Sybil, flushed and angry, 
 " what are you saying ? " 
 
 " Nonsense, I dare say," replied Miss Cains, with a slight 
 yawn ; " don't mind me — but at times I am like the Sybil, 
 child — a voice which is not mine own speaks from within me. 
 And don't mind what I said about the count, he never was like 
 Judas, and it is you, silly little thing, who are not good enough 
 for him — and as for Greeneyes, you know, child, he is my 
 aversion." 
 
 She kissed her, and slowly left the room, and Sybil knelt 
 and said her prayers, and went to bed ; but as she prayed, and 
 undressed, and laid her head on her pillow, a strange vexing 
 thought ever came back. At length she resolutely said it nay, 
 and fell fast asleep. 
 
 --♦-♦*- 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 From that day forward the count and Miss Cains were on 
 much better terms. And yet something was wanting, and Sybil 
 saw it, but not what that something was. She often looked at 
 them in doubt, and like one perplexed. Why was the count 
 so civil to Miss Cains, and yet so silent concerning her when 
 she was not by ? Never could Sybil make him speak on that 
 subject, and Blanche was equally reserved. Was the war still 
 going on, and the truce but a hollow one ? — but why did they 
 both hide from her ?• Often she looked at them wistfully, but 
 neither seemed to read these looks ; and certainly by neither 
 were they answered. 
 
 And thus time passed ; and as it was not to be a long court- 
 ship, the wedding-day was fast coming on. 
 
 Miss Glyn had forgotten capital in the excitement of pro- 
 viding her niece with all that was requisite for a bride and a 
 countess, and Mr. Kennedy having liberally opened the strings 
 of his purse, her task was indeed no light one. Miss Cains was 
 almost as much interested in this part of the proceedings as 
 .Miss Glyn herself, and both helped to worry Sybil. Her only 
 happy moments were those she spent with her lover, far from 
 the cares of dress and bridal state. The sweetness, the tender 
 ness of Count Andre de Renneville were all his mistress could
 
 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 181 
 
 wish, She felt he had taken her to his heart, and that she 
 would lie there secure. 
 
 Her veneration for his high honor, for his gentlemanlike 
 character, increased daily, and with it her reliance on his deep 
 and sincere affection. That he was reserved, that he would 
 write poetry and read with her more to please her than to 
 please himself, Sybil saw ; but she could not help it, and did 
 not care to do so. Such as he was she liked him, and as there 
 had always been a tender compassion in her love, she liked him 
 none the less that he wanted her more. Never had this feeling 
 been stronger upon her than on an autumn evening, when she 
 walked by his side in her father's garden. Count de Renneville 
 was obliged to leave her early, and Sybil was going to let him 
 out by the door at the end of the garden. 
 
 " We shall come this way," said her lover, gently pressing 
 her arm. 
 
 She knew what he meant — this was the path they would 
 follow when they came to see her father, a married pair. 
 
 She had not answered him, but he stooped and looked in 
 her face with a smile. 
 
 " Yes," she said quietly, " we shall walk along this path ; " 
 then she added, " I feel in a dream, Andre — we are to be mar- 
 ried in a few days — it is incredible." 
 
 " Why so ? " 
 
 " Because a few months ago I had heard of you — no more. 
 I had not seen you — and now it is impossible to think of being 
 divided from you." 
 
 "Ay, it is indeed impossible; but for all that I shall not 
 think you safe till I have you fast." 
 
 " You arc jesting." 
 
 " I am not. You do not know how often I have been dis- 
 appointed." 
 
 " What ! have you really been so often near marriage ? " 
 demurely asked Sybil. 
 
 " Why, no — that is to say, not very often." 
 
 " Not very often, sir ! " 
 
 " You do not call half a dozen times often ? " 
 
 And he look round and smiled very composedly. 
 
 " I shall remind you of that some day ! " threateningly ^:ii«l 
 Sybil ; " mind, I say it and I mean it." 
 
 He bowed, and resumed with a half sigh : 
 
 " Mine has been a dreary life, Sybil, and you are my first
 
 182 sybil's second love. 
 
 ray of sunshine ; do not wonder I fear lest a cloud should come 
 between us — suppose your father and your aunt should inter- 
 fere, and say nay, at the eleventh hour ? " 
 
 " But I should never say no ! " cried Sybil, looking up in 
 his face, all ardor and all truth ! " I should be true and say yes 
 forever and ever." 
 
 She shook with emotion. He took her hand, and softly 
 stroked it between his. He looked moved — very much moved, 
 and, with a sigh, he said, 
 
 " How good you are ! " 
 
 " No, I am not good," cried Sybil, " but I am true." 
 
 They had reached the door at which they were to part. He 
 took her hand and kissed it, bade her adieu, and walked away 
 along the solitary road that led to his old manor. Sybil stood 
 and looked after him long. She watched his figure lessening 
 along the road, and she never forgot that sad landscape, and 
 that gray sky, when a pale moon rose in the dim mist. Her 
 heart was full of him and his fears. Why did he so dread los- 
 ing her ? — was she not his as surely as if their marriage vows 
 had been spoken ? 
 
 " I wish I had said more to comfort him," she thought, as 
 she walked back ; " but I am stupid, and so cold." 
 
 She was displeased with herself, and for once she found it 
 pleasant to turn from her own thoughts to the matters which 
 absorbed Miss Glyn and Miss Cains. She found the two ladies 
 engaged in a lively, though by no means unfriendly discussion, 
 concerning the respective merits of red and blue. Miss Glyn 
 was for red — Miss Cains was faithful to her favorite blue ; as the 
 shawl, an Indian one, was for Sybil, that young lady was called 
 upon to decide. Two magnificent specimens of the skill of 
 Cashmere were placed before her. The red was gorgeous, the 
 blue was exquisitely delicate. Miss Glyn held one, Blanche the 
 other, and Sybil sat and looked at either, and knew not how to 
 decide. 
 
 " Now is not that border perfection?" asked Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Now, Sybil, look at these pink flowers creeping up into 
 that field of blue," cried Blanche, eagerly. 
 
 " They are both lovely," said Sybil, much perplexed — " I 
 wish I knew which to choose." 
 
 " My dear, I wonder you do not see how much finer this is," 
 gravely said Miss Glyn. 
 
 "Ah ! but look at the edge of this ! " cried Blanche.
 
 sybil's second love. 183 
 
 Sybil looked, and agreed with both. Yes, the red shawl 
 was tine, and the blue shawl was fine too, and they were too 
 expensive to have both, and she did not know which to take. 
 
 " I wish I had some third person to advise me," she said, a 
 little crossly, and soon getting wearied of the excitement at- 
 tending the selection. 
 
 The door of the drawing-room opened, and her Uncle Ed- 
 ward entered the apartment, as if to answer Sybil's wish. She 
 sat with her back to him, and did not turn round at once, so he 
 had full time to receive Miss Glyn's withering glance, and to 
 answer it by a bow of the greatest composure, before Sybil saw 
 him. She gave a little joyful cry, and started to her feet with a 
 ready exclamation. 
 
 " Uncle, uncle, I am so glad ! — you have a beautiful taste in 
 dress — tell me which of these two shawls to choose." 
 
 " Now, there's an honest welcome ! " replied her uncle, 
 shaking his heavy hair ; " I am invaluable because I return just 
 in time to assist you. Pray am I also to decide between pearls 
 and diamonds ? " he added, looking at the table, on which the 
 costly jewels lay sparkling, " or between Brussels and Honi- 
 ton ? " he continued, glancing at a heap of laces on a chair. 
 
 "Neither," a little disdainfully said Sybil — " I fear, uncle, 
 you are no judge after all." 
 
 " Not of minute details, my dear, certainly." 
 
 " Miss Glyn indignantly threw the red shawl on a chair, and 
 walked out of the room. 
 
 " Have you dined, uncle ? " timidly asked Sybil, for she felt 
 that her reception of her uncle had not been what it should be. 
 
 " Yes, my dear, I have, thank you." 
 
 " What dull weather it is to travel in ! " 
 
 " Yes, very." 
 
 Sybil looked pitifully toward Blanche, as much as to say, 
 " Do help me to carry on this lame conversation," but Miss 
 Cains's flowing skirt was even then vanishing in the closing door. 
 
 " Do not leave me, Sybil," quickly said her uncle. 
 
 " No, uncle." 
 
 " And come here, and sit by me. I wish to talk to you." 
 
 Sybil obeyed, and stood by his side. 
 
 " Are you afraid to sit ? " he asked, gravely ; " we used to 
 be better friends once, Sybil." 
 
 Sybil reddened, and drew a chair near him. 
 
 " I have a good deal to say to you," he began ; " in the
 
 184: sybil's second love. 
 
 first place, why is Miss Cains still here? She does not mean to 
 remain forever, does she ? " 
 
 " What if she did ? " asked Sybil, half angry. 
 " Well, well, it is not of her I mean to speak, so let it be." 
 And he raised his eyes, and looked at her so strangely, that 
 Sybil's heart began to beat, and she felt the coming of a grief. 
 
 " I wonder if the butcher strokes and caresses the lamb he 
 is going to murder ? " he said, with a deep sigh, and a wistful 
 look. " But oh ! Sybil, I do feel such a longing to take you 
 to my heart, and caress you ! — and yet I, too, am going to kill ! " 
 " Uncle, uncle," gasped Sybil, " what is it — what can it be ?" 
 He took her hand, and softly stroking it between his own, 
 he said, 
 
 " Do you love him very much ? " 
 " Yes," answered Sybil, bravely, " I do." 
 " Oh ! Sybil, what a pity ! My poor child ! what a pity, 
 for you must give him up ! " 
 
 " Never ! " cried Sybil. " Never, and I do not believe you ! 
 You never liked him, and I will not believe a word of it ! " 
 She looked defiant and scornful, but he did not seem offended. 
 " Poor child ! " he said, " poor child ! " iind he tried to take 
 again the hand she had indignantly snatched from his. But 
 Sybil withdrew her hand very coldly. 
 " You do not believe me ? " he said. 
 " No." 
 
 " Shall I give you proof that this man is unworthy of your 
 affections, and worthy only of your contempt ? " 
 
 Sybil turned pale as death, and trembled from head to foot. 
 " No," she said, at length. " It is not true — it cannot be ! " 
 " Shall I give you proof, Sybil ? " 
 
 Sybil gave him a piteous, frightened look. Had he proof? 
 could he really lay her girlish idol low, and thus desecrate her 
 first worship in the realm of true love ? 
 
 " 1 will have no proof ! " she cried, impetuously. " I will 
 believe in him ! " 
 
 "And be deceived,. Sybil ? " 
 
 " But I cannot be deceived ! We parted, all trust and af- 
 fection, an hour ago, his only fear that he should lose me. I 
 cannot be deceived ! He is all goodness, all honor, and he 
 loves me." 
 
 " He loves your money, child ! " 
 
 Oh ! cruel words ! He loved her money ! She was young,
 
 Sybil's secoxd love. 185 
 
 pretty, and well brought up, and money was her value ! She 
 gave him an imploring look, which his shunned. 
 
 " Sybil," he said, " I cannot spare you. I am too fond of 
 you to let that man have you. I came back to save you. 
 Your father is blind, your aunt is bent on seeing you a countess, 
 I must appeal to your good sense and your pride. Will you 
 hear me ? " 
 
 " I shall not believe you," deliberately said Sybil ; " but 
 you may speak." 
 
 " You brave and noble little creature ! " he said, with spark- 
 ling eves. " How could he not love you ? " 
 
 Sybil rose and looked at him indignantly. 
 
 "I do not want to hear my praises," she said ; " and I will 
 not hear a word against him. If you have proof, give it, uncle, 
 but do not utter unproved accusations." 
 
 He silently opened his pocket-book, and handed her a scrap 
 of paper, minutely folded. It was in his writing, she knew it. 
 but there was no envelope, yet it was a letter. It was very 
 short, and ran thus : 
 
 "I tell you that I love you, and that I would rather go to 
 ruin with you than to fortune with her. You doubt it 1 Well, 
 then, try me ! " 
 
 These lines were not signed, but Sybil knew the writing, she 
 could have sworn to it. It was the writing of the fond little 
 notes she got every morning, of the graceful verses she kept 
 amongst her choicest treasures. Still she would not confess 
 herself conquered. 
 
 " There is no name to this," she said. " I do not know to 
 whom it is addressed, nor when it was written. I will not con- 
 demn him upon that proof." 
 
 Her uncle Edward took back the letter from her, and 
 looked at it attentively. There was indeed neither name, nor 
 signature, nor date affixed to it, He knit his brows, whilst 
 Sybil looked at him triumphantly. Suddenly he raised the 
 paper, and holding it between him and the light of the lamp, he 
 scanned it attentively. 
 
 "Look at the water-mark," he said. 
 
 Mechanically Sybil did as she was bid. She, too, held the 
 paper up, and there, in pale characters, woven in its texture, she 
 read the date of the year. Nay, more, she recognized _ 1 lie 
 English paper her father used. 'That letter had been written 
 since January, and in that house. It was the contemporary of
 
 186 sybil's second love. 
 
 her letters, of the verses, of her fondest and most tender 
 epistles. 
 
 Sybil felt sick, her brain swam, her lips were parched and 
 dry, then she made one last effort to save her perishing love. 
 
 " It is a forgery ! " she cried ; " it is a forgery ! " 
 
 " Ask him, Sybil," said her uncle in a low tone, " ask lain 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Sybil sank down on a chair, and moaned in her anguish. So 
 he was false, he, a gentleman of ancient descent and spotless 
 honor, the hero of her young dreams ! He was false, false to 
 the heart's core, and her money was all in all to his sordid soul. 
 And he looked so chivalrous and so true ! 
 
 Oh ! Sybil, you do not know poverty and its grim tempta- 
 tions. You do not know man's abhorrence for that cruel tyrant. 
 Eighteen hundred years ago she was j>ronounced blessed, and 
 what has it availed us ? Man goes on worshipping gold in 
 Christian communities, and striving for the prizes of life with 
 heathenish ardor. Oh ! money, yon are beauty, and virtue, and 
 fame, and health, and all good things ! 
 
 For the first time Sybil learned this bitter lesson. It was 
 her money, not herself, that her betrothed wanted, and how 
 could she forgive him the ignoble longing ? She had thought 
 herself beloved, though rich, and now the truth appeared. 
 No fair shining goddess, but a foul witch, hideous and loath- 
 some ! 
 
 " God, help me ! " she moaned again and again ; " how 
 could he do it ! — how could he do it * " 
 
 She did not weep, but sobbed till her whole frame shook. 
 
 "Ay, how could he do it?" echoed her uncle. " I wish 
 you could cry, Sybil." 
 
 She did not heed him. She let him draw her toward him, 
 and caress her with looks full of pity, and still she kept moan- 
 ing, "How could he do it? " At length her head sank on her 
 breast, and her tears flowed, wild, passionate tears, that brought 
 no relief. 
 
 " How you loved that traitor ! " said her uncle a little mood- 
 ily. 
 
 "I believed in him ! " she exclaimed pitifully, "and he was 
 false — false ! Uncle, how did you get that letter ? — to whom 
 did he write it?" 
 
 She fastened on him a look that burned like flame. 
 
 " I got it, Sybil — how, it matters little, I will tell you, if you 
 like, to whom it was written — I mean, if you do not know it."
 
 sybil's second love. 187 
 
 Sybil's lips quivered. 
 
 "Tell ine nothing," she said in alow voice, "I want to know 
 nothing." 
 
 "And you must mention this to no one, Sybil — to no one 
 save M. de Renneville, or you willl cause irreparable mischief." 
 
 " I shall not," she replied apathetically. " I will show it to 
 him to-morrow — and then it will be all over — all over ! " 
 
 "She wrung her hands in her anguish. He had never loved 
 her — never ! He had deceived her all the time — all the time she 
 had been a poor deluded girl, whose fondness wearied him, or 
 whom he secretly laughed at. 
 
 " Ah ! I have been too harsh — too abrupt ! " exclaimed 
 Uncle Edward, with something like remorse in his tone ; " I 
 should have softened the truth." 
 
 " No," she interrupted, " I can bear the truth — it is falsehood 
 that kills, uncle." 
 
 "And suspense," he added in a low tone. "You think 
 yourself wretched, Sybil ; and so you are, but oh ! that I were 
 like you ! " 
 
 For a moment she forgot her grief, and looked hard at him. 
 His eyes were bent on the lire, his cheeks rested on the palm 
 of his hand, his face was rigid and stern. 
 
 " If my trouble could but ease yours," he said, looking round 
 at her, " but it cannot be ; your grief is none the lighter for the 
 burden which I must bear." 
 
 " Is she, too, false ? " asked Sybil, with a bitter smile. 
 
 " No, for if she were, I should be free. Oh ! Sybil, your 
 heart is aching, but how I envy you ! — liberty, any thing for 
 liberty — any thing for the abhorred yoke to be broken ! " 
 
 He spoke with suppressed passion. Sybil shuddered, and 
 drew away from him. 
 
 " How ? — why so ? " he asked, quickly. 
 
 " Because you are like him," she half-whispered — " that is 
 what he feels now when I am by : — ' liberty — any thing for 
 liberty — any thing for the abhorred yoke to be broken ! ' " 
 
 " Sybil," he said, in a tone full of regret, " I wish I had been 
 silent; but, my child, never compare yourself to her — never 
 compare me to that man. There is no likeness. He puts by a 
 rare gem for a false diamond, and I loathe the stone I had 
 chosen, because it is worthless." 
 
 " So speaks all faithlessness, and so, I have no doubt, he 
 speaks too," said Sybil, very bitterly ; " I am no pearl in his
 
 188 Sybil's secoxd love. 
 
 eyes, but a worthless stone — well, uncle, you, too,- have helped 
 to give me a hard lesson. There is no truth in man — he was 
 horn false and faithless ! " 
 
 She spoke with a dreary emphasis that stung him. He sat 
 poking the fire in his old way, his bent face flushed, perhaps 
 with the heat of the blazing logs — perhaps with the feeling her 
 words had called up. 
 
 " Sybil," he said at length, " you will know all some day, 
 and not judge me so severely — " 
 
 "And what do I care ? " she interrupted, with a moan ; " I 
 was happy, and you came and robbed me of my happiness — 
 what is any thing else to me ? Be true, be false, I care not — it 
 is her lookout, not mine." 
 
 " Sybil, I thought you cared for me." 
 
 " I do not ! " she exclaimed passionately — " I do not — I care 
 but for my own sorrow ; be wretched, blest, is not all over for 
 me — forever and forever ? " 
 
 She looked up, as if appealing to Heaven in the anguish of 
 her heart ; he looked at her, and forgot the bitterness of her 
 words in pity for her grief. Uncle Edward's gray eyes flashed ; 
 he bit his lip, and the blood rushed to his pale face. He hated 
 her wronger then with man's fierce, revengeful hate, and longed 
 to crush and destroy him. 
 
 " My darling ! — my poor lamb ! " he said, softly. 
 
 She turned round, flung her arms around his neck, and cried 
 as if her heart would break. "When her tears ceased, and she 
 raised her flushed face from his shoulder, and met his grave look 
 full of tender pity, a sort of peace came over her poor bruised 
 heart. 
 
 " Ah ! how good — how kind you are ! " she said — " why 
 was he not true like you ? " 
 
 " "Wipe your tears, Sybil," he Avhispered — " some one is 
 coming." 
 
 But Sybil could face no one then. She rose, and left the 
 drawing-room by one door as Miss Glyn entered it by another. 
 She met no one on the way, and could rush to her girlish sanc- 
 tuary, and lock herself into it, and feel safe against intrusion. 
 She threw herself in a deep arm-chair, and buried her face on 
 the pillow, and sat thus till the dinner-bell rang; she then sent 
 down word that she had a bad headache, and could not come. 
 
 When Denise delivered the message, Miss Glyn <zn\o Sybil's 
 uncle an indignant look, as if taxing him w ith Sybil's headache ;
 
 stbil's second love. 189 
 
 he returned the look with one tolerably cold and severe. Miss 
 Cains watched them curiously, but Mr. Kennedy saw nothing. 
 He was full of concern at his darling's headache. 
 
 "What can have given Pussy that headache?" he said — 
 " sbe was as gay and as light as a lark this afternoon. You are 
 half a doctor, Edward ; go up and prescribe to her." 
 
 " Sybil would not follow my prescription," was the cold 
 reply. 
 
 " But tbe child must dine," said Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 " Shall I try and persuade her to come down ? " asked 
 Blanche, half rising. 
 
 " Ay, do, pray, Miss Cains. Tell Pussy I want her." 
 
 Miss Cains rose and went, but sbe soon returned, Sybil had 
 refused to let her in. Mr. Kennedy looked perplexed, and Miss 
 Glyn half angry. 
 
 "I shall go," she said. 
 
 " Why tease the poor girl ? " 
 
 " Sir," remarked Miss Glyn, giving tbe speaker a cold, fixed 
 look, " I know what to do in this case — and I may know what 
 to do in some other case, too." 
 
 The person whom she thus addressed looked undisturbed, 
 but Mr. Kennedy was evidently uneasy. Miss Cains, who was 
 still watching, saw there was something beside Sybil and her 
 beadache in their minds, and, may be, there was something else 
 in her mind, too, for she looked at her plate, and preserved a 
 demure silence. Miss Glyn went up to Sybil's room. She soon 
 came down, saying her niece bad so violent a beadache, she 
 could not bear the light, and must stay very quiet. 
 
 " Poor little Pussy ! " sighed Mr. Kennedy, after dinner. 
 
 He was half addressing Blanche, but she did not heed him. 
 She stood looking intently at his brother's clouded face and 
 downcast eyes. Mr. Kennedy gave bera quick, keen look, then 
 turned to Miss Glyn. She was reading the newspaper, and every 
 now and then she glanced up angrily at his brother.
 
 190 sybil's second love. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Every one wondered at Sybil's pale face and heavy eves the 
 next morning. How severe must have been the headache 
 which could work such a change in her appearance ! Sybil 
 said it was very severe, but that she felt better now, and she 
 shunned all explanation. After breakfast Mr. Kennedy said, 
 
 "By what train do you leave, Edward ? " 
 
 " By the next. I shall bid you good-by now." 
 
 He rose as he spoke. He exchanged a polite adieu with 
 Miss Cains, a cold and formal one with Miss Glyn, and finally 
 came to Sybil with extended hand. But Miss Kennedy's hands 
 remained clasped in her lap, and her look shunned his. 
 
 " What, Pussy, have you and Ned quarrelled ? " asked her 
 father, surprised. 
 
 Miss Glyn said nothing, but looked hard at her niece, and 
 seemed rather glad at her coldness. Miss Cains went to the 
 window and looked out. 
 
 " Good-by, Sybil," said a voice near her. 
 
 He was stooping over her chair as he spoke almost in her ear. 
 
 Sybil looked round; then, suddenly flinging her arms 
 aiound his neck, she burst into tears, and laid her head on his 
 shoulder. He had killed her young love in her heart, he had 
 been pitiless, oh ! very pitiless, but he had been true ; and 
 when she thought of her lover's treachery, her whole heart 
 yearned back toward this faithful friend, who would rather risk 
 her hatred than not save her. 
 
 Miss Glyn looked on indignant; Mr. Kennedy whistled 
 amazed; even Miss Cains had a look of surprise ; but without 
 heeding them, Sybil's friend sat down by her side, wiped away 
 her tears with his haudkerchief, and, bending over her whis- 
 pered softly, 
 
 " Be brave, my noble little Sybil — be brave ! " 
 
 Her look met his, and flashed brightly, for it read there 
 truth, affection, and infinite pity. She raised herself up, and 
 almost smiled. She gave him her hand, and, pressing it with 
 feverish ardor, she said, 
 
 " Good-by, uncle," in a tone that implied, " rely upon me." 
 
 He was late, and left the room at once ; but the door had 
 scarcely closed upon him, when it opened again, and he saw 
 Sybil, her face still wet with tears.
 
 sybil's second love. 191 
 
 " Uncle, write to me," she entreated, a little vehemently. 
 
 " Yes, Sybil, I will — good-by, God bless you ! " 
 
 He was gone, and Sybil's heart ached : with him seemed to 
 go strength and consolation. Ah ! how hard it was to remain 
 alone with an unspoken grief! It was very hard indeed ! 
 
 " Sybil," gravely asked her aunt when she reentered the 
 drawing-room, " what ailed you ? " 
 
 " I was hysterical," replied Sybil very quietly. 
 
 " And why were you hysterical ? " persisted Miss Glyn. 
 
 Sybil shook her head rather sadly, but made no other answer, 
 and somehow or other Miss Glyn felt silenced. Several times 
 during the course of the morning she looked at her niece, and 
 felt more puzzled every time she looked. Sybil sat bending 
 over a pretty little frame, embroidering a pair of slippers she 
 had begun for her future husband. The pattern, of his design- 
 ing, was elegant and rich ; the task was one in which Sybil had, 
 up to the present, delighted, but her face was now both rigid 
 and pale, and there was a soil of sternness in the regular motion 
 of her little white hand. Once, however, she paused, and her 
 dark eyes dilated, whilst her pale lips parted, for as eleven 
 struck, the door opened, and Count de Renneville entered. It 
 was his hour, and just as usual he looked — smiling, pleasant, 
 courteous, and happy. He went up to Sybil ; he took her list- 
 less hand and kissed it : he noticed her altered looks, and, witli 
 tender anxiety, he inquired into the cause. 
 
 " I have a headache," she answered. 
 
 " I am concerned, truly concerned. Does not this work 
 fatigue you ? Pray put it by — pray do." 
 
 And suiting the action to the word, he gently removed the 
 frame from before her. Sybil leaned back in her chair, and 
 looked and listened, and felt in a dream. His voice was the 
 same as ever. No false note in these pleasant tones gave token 
 of the perfidy within. Was it, then, so easy to deceive? 
 Could treachery look so like truth ? 
 
 " I shall take a lesson from him,'' thought Sybil, and she 
 schooled herself to show him no change of manner. Her head- 
 ache accounted for its gravity. 
 
 It had never been the custom to leave these lovers much 
 alone ; Miss Glyn thought they would have plenty of time after 
 marriage, and Mr. Kennedy objected to it, as a violation of the 
 customs of the country. Such tetcs-a-ietcs as the size of the 
 drawing-room afforded, they had, and it was recognized as
 
 192 sybil's second love. 
 
 Sybil's right to walk down the garden with her betrothed when 
 he left. Thus, when the count rose, after spending an hour 
 with the family, Sybil rose too, and, without saying a word, 
 went up to her room to put on her hood and cloak. Count de 
 Renneville waited till she returned, talking gayly the while with 
 Miss Glyn, who stood with her hands behind her back, holding 
 forth on capital. 
 
 " Of course you will come to-night ? " graciously said his fu- 
 ture aunt. 
 
 Count de Renneville bowed, and said he should have that 
 pleasure. Sybil was entering the room at that moment. She 
 heard the invitation, and she also heard the reply. A smile 
 passed across her pale face, but a smile so stern that Blanche, 
 who was looking at her, rose, startled, and came up to her. 
 
 " You little Judith," she whispered, " what is the matter ? " 
 
 Sybil held up a warning forefinger, enjoining silence, and 
 informed Count de Renneville that she was ready. lie came to 
 her with a joyful start, and passing his arm within hers, led her 
 away. 
 
 The young man was very cheerful that morning, he was 
 very full, too, of his coming happiness. He had no doubts, no 
 misgivings, as on the preceding day. 
 
 "Another week, dearest Miss Kennedy," he said, fondly, 
 " and all will be over." 
 
 Sybil gave him a moody look, then tore a leaf out of his 
 own book. 
 
 " You know," she said, " that Blanche is not to leave me ! " 
 
 Count de Renneville sighed. 
 
 " You know I must please you," he replied ; " but I must be 
 frank — I cannot sympathize with that young lady." 
 
 " Why so ? " 
 
 " I have no good reason to give — a secret antipathy. I am 
 sure she is a delightful person, but I cannot like her." 
 
 " Why, it snowed last night," said Sybil, suddenly stopping 
 shoi-t. 
 
 Count de Renneville looked surprised, and well he might. 
 The snow lay thick and deep on the ground, the trees were 
 laden with it, the whole landscape was buried in a white pall, 
 and Sybil spoke of the snow as one who has but just per- 
 ceived it. 
 
 " Surely you knew it ? " he said, half incredulous. 
 
 " No, I did not."
 
 sybil's second love. 193 
 
 Nor had she known it, indeed. One absorbing thought 
 had made the external world vanish from before her eyes. 
 
 Count de Renneville looked at her, and began to perceive 
 that something was the matter. They stood near a small 
 thatched summer-house at the end of the garden. Sybil made 
 a sign, he opened the door, let her pass, and followed her in. 
 She sat down, he remained standing. Sybil gave a little shiver, 
 and drew her cloak closer around her. The place was damp, 
 dark, and deadly chill. 
 
 " You will take cold," said the count, who was very pale. 
 
 Sybil raised her eyes to his. 
 
 " I shall not stay long," she said. 
 
 He bowed; she resumed, 
 
 " I have been reading the story of Camiola Turinga this 
 morning. You know it, of course? " 
 
 " I do not." 
 
 " She was rich, and Orlando of Arragon was poor, and a 
 captive. She promised to ransom him if he would promise to 
 marry her. She kept her word, and he broke his. More 
 passed between them, but in the end they parted, and Camiola, 
 out of very scorn, gave him that money he prized so highly. 
 If I could, so would I do," added Sybil, rising, and looking at 
 her lover with eyes that burned like a clear flame. " I would 
 give you freely that money which was all you prized in me. I 
 would," she continued, opening her hands as if they were pour- 
 ing out gold before him, " but I am not my own mistress, and 
 therefore I must be satisfied with returning you all that is 
 yours." 
 
 She placed on the table, as she spoke, the pearls, the dia- 
 monds, and the three lines in the count's writing which she had 
 received the night before. 
 
 " You wrong me," said the count, looking pale and sullen ; 
 " but I will say nothing." 
 
 "You do well. Mind me, I could forgive your infidelity, 
 for I suppose such things are involuntary ; but I cannot your 
 treachery. You scorned her to me, awhile ago you did it 
 again, and it was she whom you loved after all. Worse still, 
 loving her, you could still wish to marry me. It was the money, 
 the miserable money ! I need say no more — you know all I 
 think of you." 
 
 Count de Renneville trembled with anger and shame. The 
 quiet scorn of Sybil's manner was not meant indeed to draw 
 9
 
 194 sybil's second love. 
 
 forth a lover's penitence. Yet when lie saw her turning to the 
 door, be could not bear to let her go thus from him. 
 
 " Miss Kennedy," he said, " you cannot mean this. Let me 
 explain — let me speak to your aunt — " 
 
 "I am the person to be spoken to," interrupted Sybil; 
 " my consent was that last given, but is the first to be retracted. 
 Prove that I have judged you falsely if you can." 
 
 But Count de Renneville could not do this. He was too 
 much of a gentleman, after all, to deny his own handwriting, 
 and his baseness did not go to the extent of a barefaced lie. 
 He knit his brows, and said a little sullenly, 
 
 " Young ladies are severe judges of human nature, I know 
 — they expect rather more than man's imperfection can always 
 yield ; but I had hoped you had some trust in me, some faith 
 in my honor — " 
 
 " That will do," interrupted Sybil, with a little wave of her 
 hand ; " that will do, sir." 
 
 And she walked out of the summer-house, looking so cool 
 and haughty, that if ever Andre de Renneville felt inclined to 
 hate a woman, it was then. 
 
 Sybil went on to the house without ever looking back, and 
 he made no attempt to follow her. In this he did well. All 
 was lost, and it was useless, worse than useless, to humble his 
 pride to that scornful girl. Since they were to part, let that 
 last image of him she should carry away with her show him 
 standing there, pale, defiant, neither confessing nor denying. 
 
 " It is all over," thought Sybil, entering the house ; " all 
 over forever. I am glad he was not mean, and bore it well." 
 
 " Sybil, where are the diamonds ? " agitatedly asked Miss 
 Glyn, meeting her niece in the hall. 
 
 " I left them in the summer-house," replied Sybil. 
 
 Miss Glvn was struck dumb. 
 
 "I left them in the summerdiouse," said Sybil again, " for 
 Count de Renneville to take away." 
 
 Miss Glvn so far recovered her breath as to sav : 
 
 " And why should he take them away, child ? " 
 
 Sybil raised her steady eyes to Miss Glyn's face, and said 
 calmly : 
 
 " Because we have parted — every thing is over." 
 
 " You have quarrelled ? " said Miss Glyn, faintly. 
 
 " Oh ! no," very calmly replied Sybil ; " we did not quarrel 
 —there was no need for that; but I learned something which
 
 sybil's second love. 195 
 
 made me think it would be better for us two to part — and we 
 have done so." 
 
 " Come with me," said Miss Glyn, feeling the hall was no 
 place for this conversation. She took the hand of her unresist- 
 ing niece, and led her into the study, where they found Mr. 
 Kennedy writing. 
 
 " Well, Pussy," said he, looking up, " how is your headache ? " 
 
 " She has been and jilted the count ! " cried Miss Glyn, who 
 had had time to get angry ; " her banns published and all ! " 
 
 " Sybil ! " cried Mr. Kennedy, with a start and a heightened 
 color. He thought she would deny it, but she did not. " Why 
 did you do this ? " he asked, anxiously ; " do you know what 
 you have done ? " 
 
 " I cannot help it," sadly said Sybil. " I learned that he 
 liked another girl, he did not deny it, and so we parted." 
 
 " What girl ? " angrily asked Miss Glyn. 
 
 " I was not told her name," answered Sybil ; " but he was 
 false, and could not deny it, and so we parted." She spoke in 
 a monotonous, mechanical tone, but resolute and low. 
 
 u . And so you took it on yourself to do all this without con- 
 sulting any one ? " said Miss Glyn, very warmly. 
 
 " You have been hasty," gravely remarked Mr. Kennedy. 
 He was bitterly disappointed, and looked as he felt. 
 
 " I could not marry a man who only wanted my money," 
 said Sybil. 
 
 " How do you know that ?" sharply asked her aunt. 
 
 " He did not deny it." 
 
 There was no answering this, so Miss Glvn turned her wrath 
 in another quarter. 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy," she said angrily, " that man is at the root 
 of all this." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy bit his pen, and frowned, but said nothing ; 
 and Sybil, wearied of all, softly stole out of the room, and went 
 up-stairs. She met Blanche at her door. She went up to her, 
 took her in her arms, and said a little passionately, 
 
 " Blanche, I love you more than ever — more than ever! " 
 
 "AVhathas happened?" asked Miss Cains, looking rather 
 startled. 
 
 " We have parted, it is all over, but I love you more than 
 ever — more than ever."
 
 196 sybil's second love. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 There is always imagination in a young girl's first love. It 
 was not merely Andre de Renneville who had won Sybil's affec- 
 tions, it was the gentleman of noble birth, of refined feelings, of 
 stainless honor, and of many heavy troubles. Had be been a 
 gay and rich young man, she might not have cared for him ; or 
 if she had liked him, it would assuredly have been on different 
 grounds, and in a different way. He had conquered her by his 
 sorrows, and the supposed greatness and goodness of his nature. 
 But his griefs now wore a sordid look, and his very virtues were 
 unreal — the mere creatures of her brain. Sybil had sense 
 enough to see this, and as pity and esteem had helped the birth 
 of love, so contempt now helped to kill it, surely and very 
 swiftly. She would not go on lamenting a man who had de- 
 ceived her so basely, and sold himself more basely still. But our 
 heart is a complex being after all — a world within a world, 
 which baffles all explanation. If Sybil grieved little for her lost 
 lover, she grieved keenly, bitterly, for her lost love — for the faith 
 and the trust she could have no more. It is very cruel to youth, 
 is this first wakening to 4;he possibility of treachery and false- 
 hood. Of course we all know that there are great treasons in 
 this life of ours ; we know of them, for we have read history, 
 but remote and vague is the knowledge. It is like death — seen 
 daily, but scarcely believed in till it comes home to us, and 
 makes a place vacant around our own hearth. Sybil had learned 
 that men do betray, that girls can be deceived, but she could 
 not connect these sad truths with herself, or think them woven 
 in her destiny. Her lover was to be great, and good, and true, 
 and the very soul of honor; her love was to be faithful and 
 eternal. There might be trouble in store for her, partings bitter 
 as death, calamities, too, but not treachery — not falsehood! 
 And now she was called upon to realize these cruel things. She 
 had to remember not what that loved one had seemed to be, but 
 what he had been all along. There arose a great hatred in her 
 heart, not for hira — she scarcely deigned to hate him — but for 
 that illusion which had nearly made her its victim. Oh ! how 
 she scorned her blindness, how she loathed every tender and 
 trusting word she had bestowed on the ingrate ! How she 
 would have annihilated that past if she could ; burned it out of 
 her life, and scared its verv traces !
 
 Sybil's second love. 197 
 
 Something of all this was in her face -when she clasped 
 Blanche in her arms, and told her that she loved her more than 
 ever. Miss Cains rarely changed color, but her eyes often took 
 a look of sudden quickness, which showed her consciousness of 
 what passed around her. That look now passed through them 
 swiftly. She placed her hand on Sybil's shoulder, and gently 
 made her enter her own room. When the door was closed 
 upon them, she said, 
 
 " What has happened? Why do you look so ? It is rather 
 dreadful, young lady." 
 
 " I look as I feel," moodily replied Sybil ; " but I love you 
 more than ever, for you are good and true, and he — well, I will 
 not quarrel with him for preferring you. Only, why had he not 
 the manliness to give me up? You would not have had him — 
 but he might have tried. I suppose he was too sordid." 
 
 Miss Cains frowned. 
 
 " I do not understand you," she said, dryly. 
 
 " You do, Blanche, but you want to screen him, and it is too 
 late ; all is over between us." 
 
 " But I am not the cause," said Blanche, very gravely. 
 
 " No, his own baseness is ; and, Blanche, your name has not 
 been mentioned. 1 have not mentioned it even to him, much 
 less to my aunt, or even to my father. You are not to blame, 
 but they might not like it." 
 
 "You are a darling!" said Blanche, evidently ranch re- 
 lieved ; " but, my dear child, do not speak in those tragic tones. 
 It is a quarrel, but your banns are published, and you will be 
 the little countess after all ! " 
 
 Sybil got a little indignant. 
 
 "Do you think I will marry a man who loves you?" she 
 asked, her eyes flashing. 
 
 " But, my darling, how do you know he loves me?" gayly 
 asked Blanche. 
 
 " I taxed him with it — he did not deny it." 
 
 Miss Cains looked down on the floor, and knit her smooth 
 brows. 
 
 " Well," she said, looking up with a scornful smile, "I sup- 
 pose that, being poor and handsome, I am made for that sort of 
 thing — to be insolently liked, I mean ; but, after all, Sybil, you 
 know it was you whom he preferred. You were to be the 
 countess, the mother of his children, the honored restorer of the 
 family ; and I must hope he kept no place for me, since there 
 was none left I could fill decently."
 
 198 Sybil's second love. 
 
 Sybil smiled drearily. 
 
 "You mean kindly, Blanche," she said, "but that will not 
 do. "Besides," she added, with a significant compression of 
 her lips, " you do not understand me, nor why I must for ever- 
 more hate the man: he w r as not true." 
 
 She looked very stern and severe. 
 
 " You little Puritan ! " said Miss Cains. " He was, like all 
 jfien, faithless. What of that ? I suppose they cannot help it," 
 she composedly added. 
 
 "But I can help being betrayed ! " replied Sybil, with alight 
 in her dark eyes which, spite her paleness, gave her such sud- 
 den beauty that her friend was dazzled. 
 
 " He was a contemptible wretch ! " she exclaimed, scornfully. 
 " You look divine just now, Sybil. A little spirit, all pure pale 
 flame; but I suppose he liked substance, too!" she said, tap- 
 ping her foot angrily on the floor. " You do well to discard 
 him ; but, for all that, you had his better liking. I have seen it 
 a hundred times. The baser part he gave to me, and, T will be 
 honest, I saw that too, and I hated him for it," she added, 
 clinching her hands; "and I will live to be avenged on mon- 
 sieur le comte ! " 
 
 " Avenged ! " echoed Sybil, relapsing into languor. " Who 
 cares for revenge on the base ? Contempt will do ! " 
 
 " I have no patience with you," cried Miss Cains, impa- 
 tiently. " You are a great deal too magnanimous for me. If I 
 had him under my foot, so, I would crush him ! How dare he 
 betray you, and insult me ! " 
 
 " Let us think no more about him," composedly said Sybil. 
 " What ought we to wear this evening ? You know we are go- 
 ing to Mrs. Ronald's." 
 
 " No, Sybil, do not try that— do not, you will break down." 
 
 "Well, Blanche, I say it again, you do not know me. 
 Break down, and for him — never ! I say again, what ouo-ht we 
 to wear this evening 2." 
 
 • Miss Cains again attempted to dissuade her from c;oing out . 
 Sybil was resolute. She would not stay at home and mourn, 
 she would not grieve for him. She would show the traitor it 
 was not in his power to rob her of life's joys. She was so de- 
 termined, and so inexorable in her resolve, that Miss Cains be- 
 gan to think she did not know much of Sybil, after all. 
 " There is iron in her," she thought, watching her pale, reso- 
 lute face and tearless eyes. There was iron, and there was fever 
 too. So her friend gave in, and humored her.
 
 sybil's second love. 199 
 
 " You are pale," she said, " so I shall deck you with roses, 
 which will give you a color. White will do for your dress — 
 aud then you will be a little victim ready for the sacrifice ! But 
 no, he will be there, and he praised you in white, with roses, so 
 he will think—" 
 
 " It is not he," interrupted Sybil, " it is uncle who likes me 
 in white, and I will wear that, and nothing else. What will 
 you put on ? " 
 
 " Blue ! — eternal blue ! " sighed Blanche, with mock grav- 
 ity. " I, too, have your uncle's authority for it, for he is the 
 great lawgiver in matters of dress here, I believe." 
 
 Miss Glyn was little inclined for the party, and spoke of 
 sending in an apology. But Sybil was resolute, and as her 
 father was compelled to stay within, she insisted on having her 
 aunt for a chaperon. Spite the bitterness of her disappointment, 
 Miss Glyn yielded. She hoped to soften Sybil by this conces- 
 sion, and to get at the truth of the morning's quarrel, as she 
 persisted in calling it. Suspicions she had, and these she chose 
 to express in private hints to Miss Cains, when they happened 
 to remain alone together after dinner. 
 
 " T trust, Miss Cains, you are coming with us ? " she said, 
 with kind patronage. 
 
 " Yes — Mrs. Ronald has asked me," was the quiet reply. 
 
 " Mrs. Ronald could not do less than to ask our visitor," 
 said Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Oh ! I do not claim being invited on my own merits, Miss 
 Glyn. I know my value too well for that." 
 
 " Now, Miss Cains, don't be humble," dryly answered the 
 elder lady — " it won't do. You have been thoroughly appreci- 
 ated, and you know it." 
 
 Miss Cains rose, drew herself up, and said, gravely : 
 
 " I will not pretend to misunderstand you — I shall not go 
 to Mrs. Ronald's to-night." 
 
 She left the apartment as she uttered this speech, and went 
 up to her own room. There Sybil, when she was dressed, came 
 aud found her. 
 
 " You are not getting ready ! " she said, surprised. 
 
 " I am not going, my dear ; your aunt has chosen to ex- 
 press suspicions which I could not avcII deny. The count will 
 probably be at Mrs. Ronald's to-night, and if Miss Glyn began 
 watching me, I should feel exasperated. Better stay within; 
 believe me, Sybil, I am sick of the world — it is no punishment 
 to me."
 
 200 
 
 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 Sybil insisted, but rather languidly. Her heart was in 
 nothing now — not even in the presence of her friend ; besides, 
 Miss Cains seemed bent on remaining at home, and repeatedly 
 declared she was sick of parties. Sybil felt in a mood to be 
 lieve her — how empty was the world — how burdensome were 
 its pleasures to her now ! As she went down to join her aunt, 
 her father called her into his study. 
 
 " Sybil," he said, " is this matter really over ? Is there no 
 mending of it ? " 
 
 " None," apathetically said Sybil ; " he would come back 
 to me, I dare say, if I wished it, but' I do not, and he must stay 
 away." 
 
 " Let it be, then," a little sulkily said her father ; " here is 
 a letter of Ned for you," and be threw on the table a large 
 square letter, securely sealed with bright red wax. 
 
 Sybil took it, and her heart beat with something like joy as 
 it lay in her hand. Here was a friend — a true friend — speak- 
 ing to her at last. All the others had been blind, but he, clear- 
 sighted, because unselfish, had warned her from the first. She 
 would not read his letter now, but she would take it with her ; 
 the sense that she had it would calm her, and give her strength 
 to go through the self-inflicted trial of Mrs. Ronald's party. 
 
 " I shall read it when I come back," she said to her father. 
 
 " Read it when you please," he replied, carelessly. 
 
 He was vexed with her, and he showed it plainly. Tears 
 stood in Sybil's eyes. Then her happiness was not her father's 
 first thought, after all ! But she felt intuitively this matter was 
 best left unargued, and with affected cheerfulness she left Mr. 
 Kennedy's study. 
 
 Sybil was beautifully dressed this evening, and Mrs. Ronald's 
 party was one of the most brilliant which that lady had given 
 yet. Sybil was the belle of the night, aud Miss Glyn's ears 
 rang with her praises ; but that lady's brow remained clouded. 
 Her niece had never looked so handsome, had never been in 
 such high spirits, being rather quiet in society, had never been 
 so much courted and admired ; but for all that Miss Glyn was 
 miserable. She had half hoped that the same feeling of pride 
 which had taken Sybil to the ball would have taken her false 
 lover too ; not only, however, did she not sec him, but she 
 beard the most unpleasant news — Count dc Renneville was gone 
 to Paris. He had taken the train that very afternoon. 
 
 Madame de Lonville was her informant, and much puzzled 
 that lady looked as she imparted the tidings to Miss Glyn.
 
 sybil's second love. 201 
 
 Sybil's aunt had a sense of dignity which overbalanced 
 every otber consideration. She saw that Sybil had so man- 
 aged as to make reconciliation impossible, and bitter though 
 her disappointment was, she scorned to show it. She was wise 
 enough, too, to feel that to delay in telling the truth could in- 
 jure Sybil, and serve no other purpose, so she replied deliber- 
 ately, 
 
 " It is my niece's doing. They have parted — I approve 
 Sybil entirely." 
 
 Madame de Lonville's babyish face showed unfeigned amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " Why, the banns were published! " she said. 
 
 " They were — but it is never too late to repent an ern >r, 
 and it was not too late to repair this, luckily for my niece. You 
 were mistaken in that gentleman, Madame de Lonville." 
 
 " What is it ?— what did he do ? " asked that lady with un- 
 feigned curiosity. 
 
 " I have no wish, and, indeed, no right to injure him — he 
 is punished enough as it is," was Miss Glyn's magnanimous reply. 
 
 More than this Madame de Lonville could not extract from 
 her, and Sybil she could not get at. The young lady was en- 
 gaged for every dance, and in the interval was too much sur- 
 rounded by her partners to be accessible. Madame de Lon- 
 ville thought to wait until they were going, but Sybil was 
 determined to be the last at the ball, and Madame de Lonville 
 got tired and went away. 
 
 Miss Glyn bided her niece's time with heroic patience. She 
 was very angry with Sybil, but she admired her spirit. " She 
 got it from the Glyns," she thought proudly. It was provok- 
 ing in Sybil to have thrown away such an opportunity of be- 
 coming a countess, but having done so, it was but right to carry 
 it through, and dance as gayly as if no count had ever existed 
 
 " I Avould have done it," thought Miss Glyn. 
 
 So she waited Sybil's pleasure, and never complained that 
 she had stayed late as they rode home. She intended, how- 
 ever, catechising her ere they parted that night, or rather that 
 morning ; but when they entered the house together, and she 
 saw Sybil's pale and haggard face, her purpose melted from 
 her. She bade her good-night, and put off her questioning till 
 the morning. 
 
 9*
 
 202 sybil's second love. 
 
 CHAPTER XX VII. 
 
 " Oh ! what an evening ! — what an evening ! " moaned Sybil, 
 as she entered her cold room. She had told Denise not to sit 
 up for her, and the poor girl, tired with housework, obeyed 
 very willingly. So Sybil undressed alone. Her heart was lull 
 of anguish. She had acted a part beyond her strength, and 
 not in her nature. What did she care for the world, and for 
 pride? It w r as all her lost love, his treachery, her misplaced 
 faith, her bright illusions turned into cold and ghastly spectres. 
 Slie wrung her hands; she could have cried aloud in the excess 
 of her misery. Suddenly she remembered her uncle's letter. 
 With eager hands she broke the seal, and read :_ 
 
 " Sybil, dearest Sybil," he wrote, " I have no comfort to 
 give you, I fear — expect none from me. I am no magician, to 
 do the work of Time, and I have no right to forestall the bitter 
 knowledge which Time alone will give you. Your grief will 
 end — it will end sooner than you think, for man's grief is like 
 man himself — brief and mortal ; for eternal sorrows we want 
 immortal sufferers. Let one thought, however, strengthen you 
 in your trial — you have come forth a conqueror, you have not 
 been weak and foolishly fond, and there is no blot of folly on 
 your little victory. Happy are you in this, Sybil ; for which is 
 the most perilous and profaned of all our human feelings, if not 
 Love ? Even in Paradise, even iu the union which God Him- 
 self had blessed, there was danger, and through love the first 
 man fell, and brought on his hapless seed the inheritance of sin 
 and death. It is something, Sybil, to pass freely through this 
 ordeal, and to look back, in sorrow indeed, but not in shame, 
 on the past. It matters little to have bestowed love uuworthily, 
 provided love was not born of unworthy motives. 
 
 " To be wrecked on that sea is a common lot ; but to have 
 gone forth, not with a brave and earnest heart, but in idle 
 pleasure-seeking quest, is bitter humiliation added to the sor- 
 row of shipwreck. My pride has had such a fall, Sybil. Beauty 
 lured me; I had the knowledge and experience which failed 
 you, and yet I rushed upon my fate in very folly. There was 
 as much to warn me as there was to deceive you. For you 
 were right to trust, Sybil. Always lay that comfort and sooth- 
 ing unction to your soul. You were right to trust him. He 
 was false through temptation and weakness, not through habit,
 
 sybil's second love. 203 
 
 or, worse still, through nature. Out of your great wreck you 
 have saved self-respect. Some, Sybil, reach the shore, and leave 
 all they once had in that great, deep, pitiless sea, and must be- 
 gin life on a fresh score — happy when they are free, and can 
 do so. 
 
 " It is late, and I can write no more to-night. I am sitting 
 up in a little village inn by the kitchen fire, and a drowsy girl 
 is nodding over her knitting till I have done. She is red- 
 cheeked and red-armed — health and labor have been with her 
 from her childhood. I doubt if her heart will ever ache as 
 yours aches to-night, Sybil, though you are both one flesh. 
 But provident Nature has endowed this suffering child of hers 
 with a thick coating. Endurance is the badge of her tribe, 
 and had need be. The tired and surly traveller, the coarse 
 dropper-in of the village tavern, have had her for their butt, 
 and inured her. The faithless lover, the ill-tempered husband, 
 will find their match in her.- She will be blunt to the infidelity 
 of the one, and ready to rail and scold at the brutality of the 
 other. And is she really of the same race with you, my little 
 proud Sybil, so quick, so keen, so sensitive, so broken down 
 because faithlessness has come near you ? Can habit and rear- 
 ing, that second nature, place such great difference where Nature 
 herself has, as a rule, placed so little ? 
 
 u I would say more, but the poor wearied drudge has wak- 
 ened up, and looked at me with her drowsy eyes. I, too, am 
 tired, so good-night, Sybil. I have been out in this dreary 
 weather, and got wet, and sat here to get rid of the damp chill. 
 I shall sleep well to-night, but, my poor little Sybil, will you ? " 
 
 " Sleep ! " thought Sybil, as she closed the letter ; " no, I 
 cannot sleep ; shall I ever sleep again T" 
 
 She looked very ill and worn when she came down the next 
 morning. Nevertheless she would go to a party to which both 
 Miss Cains and she had been asked for some time, and which 
 fell on that very night. And Miss Glyn, though she scarcely 
 approved, accompanied her. She still admired her niece's 
 spirit, and thought it best to show the world they could bear 
 parting from the count. Miss Cains shook her head when 
 Sybil asked her to go with them. 
 
 "No, my dear," she said, "I am sick of parties, and love 
 home best. I shall dress you, however, for you must be made 
 lovely ! " 
 
 The word "home" made Miss Glyn frown. Did Miss
 
 204 sybil's second love. 
 
 Cains mean to stay forever ? She put the question to Sybil, 
 as they drove away. 
 
 " I do not know, aunt," was the apathetic reply. " She is 
 very unfortunate. She cannot get an engagement, and that 
 preys upon her spirits." 
 
 " But does not make her thin. Your father remarked to me 
 how stout she is getting." 
 
 " Why does he not like her? Why does no one like her ? " 
 almost angrily asked Sybil. " She is goodness itself, and no 
 one will acknowledge it." 
 
 "Oh, yes ! I know one who saw Miss Cains's merits," sharp- 
 ly said Miss Glyn ; " and I dare say so do you ! " 
 
 Sybil did not answer the taunt. Partly through prudence, 
 partly because she did not care about it. She cared about noth- 
 ing just then, and, saddest of all, she felt as if she would care 
 about nothing more forever and ever. Perhaps she had loved 
 the count better than she thought, after all. Perhaps first 
 wounds, though not always the deepest, must ever create this 
 feeling of desolation. Later we feel the blow as keenly, but we 
 know that we shall recover. In youth we rarely suspect this. 
 It is all over forever and ever, as Svbil thought. Life is a blank, 
 a waste, and we walk on to the goal with the ruins around us. 
 
 In that mood Sybil bore her grief, and night after night 
 went into the world pale and defiant, and, as she thought, broken- 
 hearted. Miss Glyn accompanied her, for Mr. Kennedy was 
 just then deep in troublesome accounts, and Miss Cains had 
 given up the world, as she told Sybil. This lasted a week. 
 
 A.s the two ladies came home one evening earlier than 
 usual, Miss Glyn exclaimed suddenly, 
 
 " Why, there's a light in the drawing-room !" 
 
 Sybil looked through the carriage window, and saw the 
 light too. 
 
 " I wonder who authorizes Miss Cains to keep state in the 
 draAving-room of Saint Vinceut ? " continued Miss Glyn with 
 considerable asperity. 
 
 A shadow was even then moving across the blind, but if 
 Miss Glyn's eyesight was not keen enough to know male from 
 female shadows, Sybil's was. Had her uncle come back? — she 
 did uot dare to say so to her aunt. Miss Glyn did not like Mr. 
 Kennedy's brother, and Sybil knew it. Besides, she was not 
 bound to speak, for another shadow suddenly appeared, and 
 this time she recognized Blanche's figure. For a few seconds
 
 sybil's second love. 205 
 
 the two shadows stood close to each other, as if talking, then they 
 seemed to blend into one as they crossed, and, parting, they 
 left the window a plain blank square of light. 
 
 " Is it he ? " thought Sybil, with a beating heart — " is it he ? 
 Oh ! if he could but comfort me ! " 
 
 She preceded her aunt when the carriage stopped, and ran 
 up to the drawing-room with a sort of eagerness. She looked 
 round quickly on entering the room, but Miss Cains sat alone, 
 and on seeing her, put down her book with a little yawn. 
 
 " So soon ? " she said. 
 
 " Yes — was that uncle who was with you ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," composedly replied Miss Cains ; " some one 
 entered this room, looked in, and walked out, and I suppose it 
 was Greeneyes." 
 
 "Did you not see, Blanche?" 
 
 "My dear, I never see what I do not like to look at," was 
 the scornful reply, " and I may add, what does not like to look 
 at me." 
 
 Sybil did not answer this, for Miss Glyn now made her ap- 
 pearance, and with some asperity hoped that Miss Cains was 
 careful about fire and waxlight — it was so easy to set a house 
 on fire. 
 
 " Deplorably easy ! " composedly said Miss Cains. 
 
 Miss Glyn tightened her lips, not to say something inhospi- 
 table, and Sybil lingered in the room, hoping her uncle would re- 
 turn, but he did not. They did not meet till the next morning, 
 and then, without seeking it, Sybil came upon her uncle as he 
 was smoking in his cloister. He looked rather earnestly at her 
 pale w r orn face, but made no comment. He only said : 
 
 " Where were you last night ? — at a party, Sybil ? — why do 
 you do that ? — you cannot cheat yourself. Is it worth while 
 cheating others ? " 
 
 " No," she answered, " and I am tired of it. I will go out 
 no more. Onlv, uncle, do go on writing to me — oh ! pray 
 do ! " 
 
 He was struck with the imploring earnestness of her tone. 
 He had written to her almost daily, and these letters had 
 yielded her a bitter consolation. Sybil would talk of her grief 
 to none; she would not tease her father and her aunt — pcrli:q»s 
 because she would not hear their questions, and she would not 
 trouble Blanche with a sorroAv she had caused. But she 
 wanted some one to remember her, and bear a part of bet
 
 206 Sybil's second love. 
 
 burden, and this her uncle's letters did for her. He did uot 
 make light of her grief ; he wearied her with no commonplace 
 consolation ; he acknowledged her sorrow. It was rather all 
 human lamenting that he sounded and found shallow, than her 
 own particular trouble, which he derided. That craving rest- 
 lessness which is at the root of all grief, he soothed, and Sybil 
 longed for this silent speech, as the weary long for repose. 
 
 " Very well," he answered, after a brief pause — " I will 
 wiite to you still." 
 
 " I ought not to ask it, I know," said Sybil, sadly, " for you 
 are very busy ; but grief makes me selfish." 
 
 " Selfish, Sybil ! — I wonder when it will do that to you ? 
 Never ! — never ! As to my being busy, it is gentle hypocrisy 
 in you to mind it, you know. But why do you want me to 
 write ? — will not speech do ? " 
 
 " No. I read a letter again and again, and when should I 
 see you alone ? It is just a chance that we are here five min- 
 utes together. Besides, I like your letters, uncle." 
 
 " Very well, your ladyship shall get one this evening." 
 
 " Thank you — thank you. Oh ! you are so good ! " 
 
 " Am I ! Poor little bruised reed, who would not be good 
 to you ? " 
 
 He laid his hand on her shoulder, and looked down at her 
 upraised face with sorrowful compassion. 
 
 " Sybil ! " called Miss Glyn, from a window. 
 
 Sybil looked up, and saw her aunt frowning ; but she 
 obeyed the summons, and left her uncle, who remained in the 
 cloister smoking. 
 
 " Ah ! how selfish I am ! " thought Sybil. " I now wish I 
 were alone in this house, with my father and him He is the 
 only one who knows how to comfort rae." 
 
 It is awkward to be angry, and not to be able to give cause 
 for such anger. In this predicament was Miss Glyn when Sybil 
 joined her. It had incensed her to see the familiar attitude of 
 " the impostoj," as she called him, with his hand laid on the 
 shoulder of her niece, but she would not tell Sybil so. So she 
 was sharp and cross about Sybil's looks, and Sybil heard her in 
 provoking passive silence, and answered not one word. 
 
 Languor was on her, and claimed her for her own. Nothing 
 and no one could rouse her. Only as evening came on, and she 
 thought of the promised letter, she brightened a little. The 
 whole family sat in the drawing-room, and she thought her uncle
 
 Sybil's second love. 207 
 
 would come to her, and take the first opportunity of putting it 
 into her hand, hut he did not. He stayed at the other end of 
 the room, talking to her father. Had he forgotten his promise? 
 Still she did not think so, for when Mr. Keunedy rose, and went 
 up to Miss Glyn, she noticed that his brother put his hands into 
 his pocket. In a moment Sybil was by his side, and showing 
 him her open book, she said, 
 
 " Do look at that, uncle ! " 
 
 He took the volume from her hand, and looked at her. Ex- 
 pectation and desire were in her eyes, and in her parted lips, 
 and as he put the letter into the open volume and, after glan- 
 cing at the page, returned it to her, he thought that if he were a 
 lover, such a look from those dark eyes might lead him far, veiy 
 far indeed. With a joyful flush Sybil went back to her seat, 
 heedless of two looks which her uncle got — one from Miss Cains, 
 light and mocking ; the other from Miss Glyn, flashing and in- 
 dignant. Of that look Mr. Kennedy's brother, however, was 
 quite aware ; he returned it with another of haughty defiance, 
 but he resolved to write no more to Sybil. 
 
 If Miss Cains had seen any thing, she showed no token of it 
 to her friend, and Sybil could read her letter alone and undis- 
 turbed. It was kind, though not without severity. It pitied 
 her, yet it forbade her the indulgence of useless grief. Sybil's 
 tears flowed as she read it. 
 
 " He, too," she thought, " is he tired of me ? But no, that 
 is not it. He wants to cure me. He is the kind though severe 
 physician, and I must obey him. I must, and I will ! " 
 
 When Sybil thought of obedience, she also thought of an- 
 other letter. But though she expected it the next evening it 
 came not, nor the next again. In vain she looked at her uncle, 
 he did not seem to understand the meaning of her looks. Had 
 she offended him ? Sybil could not bear the thought, and re- 
 solved to learn the truth. 
 
 On the fourth day which followed her uncle's return, she 
 saw him going out into the garden, and crossing the grounds in 
 the direction of the sea. The day was nearly over, but, though 
 cold, it was still and bright. Sybil stole out from the drawing- 
 room, and walking fast, soon overtook her uncle. She found 
 him sitting on a wooden bench which faced the west, and 
 whence the eye wandered over a vast expanse of beach and sea. 
 The tide was out, and the sun was near its setting. The brown 
 shore, with its glistening pools and shining patches of sand.
 
 208 sybil's second love. 
 
 looked like a vast map. Continents, islands, seas, mountain 
 ridges, spread there in endless variety. Her uncle seemed ab- 
 sorbed in contemplation, and scarcely heeded her approach. 
 
 " Uncle," she said impetuously, " why will you not write to 
 me ? Have I offended you ? Ah ! if you hut knew how I long 
 for those letters of yours ! They seem to draw the sting from 
 the pain." 
 
 " Does not Miss Cains comfort you ? " he asked. 
 
 « No— no," re P ue( l Sybil, with an impatient sigh. " She 
 does her best, but she does not know how to do it." 
 
 " And your father, and your aunt— have they no comfort to 
 give you? " 
 
 "They are too angry to pity me. Besides, you alone" know 
 all. But, uncle, I fear you grudge me your kindness. I dare 
 say I bore you ? " - _ 
 
 " I grudge you nothing, Sybil ; but I have something to tell 
 you." 
 
 " Something," she mechanically repeated, " what some- 
 thing ? " 
 
 . " Sybil," he said, after a pause, " look at that field of flame, 
 and that other field of blue ; look at those clouds that ripple 
 along the sky like the waves of a fiery ocean, and say is it not all 
 divine ? What Greek poet was it who vowed that to behold the 
 glory of this wonderful universe, and die, was bliss enough for 
 man? Why are we not as wise as this? Why can we not be 
 satisfied with beauty, but must needs have more — love, ambition, 
 glory, fame, and what not? The pleasures of the eye are the 
 first and the truest ; God gave them to all, and they need never 
 fail us. Is it daily use that palls, or are our hearts too covetous 
 or too frail to feed on food so pure and ethereal ? God knows 
 — but you need not give me that reproachful look, Sybil. I 
 have not lived on sunsets, and could not do it. I require more 
 human food, and am not so far severed from my kind as to pre- 
 fer the most glorious sky to a friendly face ; and if I had not 
 that touch of human kindness, I could not give you comfort, 
 could T, Sybil?" 
 
 " No," replied Sybil, " nor would I like you as I do, uncle. 
 But you said you had something to tell me?" 
 
 " True — I wish it were easier to tell. Well, Sybil, do yon 
 remember once opening a letter directed to me? " 
 
 Sybil remembered it. 
 
 " I left Saint Vincent that same night, Did you question 
 your father after I was gone?"
 
 sybil's second love. 209 
 
 " No." 
 
 " And he gave you no explanation — lie made no comment ? '' 
 
 " He did not." 
 
 "But, Sybil, did it not seem strange to you that your 
 father's surname and mine should be different ? " 
 
 " Well, it did," hesitatingly replied Sybil. 
 
 " And yet you believe I am your father's brother ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " And you have never doubted it ? " 
 
 " Never ! " replied Sybil, blushing in her very earnestness. 
 
 " But how did you explain it ? " 
 
 " I thought you were my father's half brother." 
 
 " No, Sybil, that is not it ; you must find something else." 
 
 Sybil looked bewildered. 
 
 " Then it is not your real name ? " she asked. 
 
 " Dermot ? Oh ! yes, Dermot is my name," he quietly re- 
 plied, "Edward Dermot." 
 
 " Uncle, I do not understand it." 
 
 "Because you are the soul of truth, Sybil, and have no con- 
 ception of disguise," he answered, looking at her kindly ; " and 
 yet the riddle is so clear that a child could read it. Why, the 
 plain truth is, that I am not your father's brother." 
 
 Sybil never forgot the shock these words gave her, it was so 
 cruel and so keen, like the sudden severing of a limb. She 
 clung to the relationship even more than to the friendship, or 
 rather she had built up the friendship on that imaginary tie of 
 blood. Take away the foundation, and the whole fabric 
 crumbled and perished. She gazed on this stranger, who had 
 usurped so long a share of her affection, with mingled grief and 
 indignation ; but wrath quickly followed on sorrow. She re- 
 membered how she trusted and obeyed him, she remembered 
 her filial freedom and tenderness; and young and inexperienced 
 though she was, she was woman enough to kuow and resent her 
 wrong. 
 
 " Why, then, did you ever tell me you were my uncle ? " 
 she cried, rising from his side, and her eyes flashing. 
 
 " I never did," he sharply answered. 
 
 Sybil's memory could not indeed bring back one instance 
 in which he had asserted that falsehood. 
 
 " But you implied it," she said — " you implied it." 
 
 " Never ! " he said flatly. 
 
 His cool look and tone exasperated her. The blood rushed 
 up to her face.
 
 210 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 " You cannot say you did not know that I believed it," she 
 said — " you cannot say that, Mr. Dermot ! " 
 
 " If I had not known it, need I now undeceive you ? " 
 
 Sybil could not answer this. She felt in a tumult of anger 
 and grief. She would not tax her father with the falsehood, 
 though she knew he was the guilty one, and with all her wrath 
 she saw that Mr. Dennot disdained justifying himself at Mr. 
 Kennedy's expense. 
 
 " And why do you tell it to me now ? " she asked, with the 
 unreasonableness of anger — " I had no doubt — I put no ques- 
 tions — why do you tell it to me now ? " 
 
 Spite the twilight, she saw the flush on his face deepen into 
 crimson. Mr. Dermot had strong and good reasons for telling 
 Svbil, but he did not choose to state such reasons to her. He 
 kuew T in what channel Miss Glyn's suspicion flowed ; but though 
 he scorned it, he could not, and would not, mention it to her 
 niece. There are violations of friendship from which the mind 
 recoils with a sort of abhorrence. Doubt becomes a wrong, and 
 had best be left unspoken. Something of this Sybil guessed, 
 but not all, for Miss Glyn had been more watchful than com- 
 municative, and what she did guess, confirmed by Mr. Dermot's 
 silence, only incensed her more deeply against him. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot — " she began. 
 
 " Excuse me," he interrupted, "but until your father chooses 
 to tell you so, you must not call me Mr. Dermot. You must 
 call me Uncle Edward, as he bade you. It is to you, not to 
 the world, that I have acknowledged the want of relationship." 
 
 " The world is not here," impetuously cried Sybil ; " you 
 need not fear sea or sky, Mr. Dennot, and Mr. Dermot I will 
 call you, and I will tell you how I detest the deceit you have 
 practised upon a credulous girl. I could forgive him" she 
 added, in a broken voice ; " he began with truth ; he intended 
 nothing ; he was led away by passion for one better, hand- 
 somer, more seducing by far than I am, but you deliberately 
 made a jest of me. Deliberately you drew me out w T ith the 
 false seeming of an affection you could not feel ; you have 
 wronged me, Mr. Dermot — you have wronged me ! " 
 
 Her voice was broken by tears. He looked much moved, 
 and went up to her with extended hand ; but Sybil drew her- 
 self up, looked two inches taller, and put her hands behind her 
 back. 
 
 " I cannot," she said — " for my father's sake I will act a
 
 Sybil's second love. 211 
 
 part ; but, as I said, the world is not here, and I cannot. Good- 
 night, Mr. Dermot." 
 
 He did not answer her ; he looted displeased, and cold 
 enough, and let her wait away. Sybil did not go far. She 
 stopped to think over this new wrong. Oh ! its bitterness was 
 unutterable ! How she had loved and trusted that second de- 
 ceiver ! 
 
 " Oh ! why was he not true ? " she moaned — " why was he 
 not true ? " 
 
 She heard a step quick and firm — it was his ; she shrank 
 back, and stood concealed, thinking perhaps he was seeking 
 her, but Mr. Dermot had no such thought. He probably saw 
 her, but looked neither right nor left, and walked straight on, 
 composedly smoking a cigar. Sybil's look followed him with 
 anger, sorrow, and regret. Spite all her wrath, she admired 
 him — spite all her grief, she thought, with a sort of joy, "I am 
 sure he liked me," and with the regret there blended a remorse- 
 ful hope, which pride checked quickly. 
 
 " He saw me, and he passed on," she thought — " let him ! — 
 let him ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 " The world is not here," Sybil had said, but Sybil was mis- 
 taken. The world was there, though neither she nor Mr. Dermot 
 knew it. Within ten paces of them, but half concealed by an 
 elder-tree, sat Miss Cains, as calm and still in her garden chair 
 as the lady in Comus. She had not come there to listen, for 
 she was there before them ; but though they came she stayed, 
 and after they w r ere gone she remained. She, too, saw the sun- 
 set and the flaming sky, and the glow that for a moment wrapped 
 the brown shore and receding sea; and now she saw the stars 
 that shone faintly in the twilight, and a full moon that seemed 
 to come forth from some hidden chamber of the west, all pale 
 and languid, and the gray cliffs that faded away, spectre-like, in 
 the chilly-white sea-mist. 
 
 She saw them all, but not with the mind's eye. This was 
 fastened intently on other scenes. Warm rooms, luxurious and 
 brilliant ; gay faces of pleasure-seekers were there, and music 
 and soft worldly voices —
 
 212 sybil's second love. 
 
 Suddenly the vision vanished, for Miss Cains heard a step 
 coming toward her, then stopping short. She knew it, and, 
 without turning round, she said calmly, 
 
 " Sybil is gone, Miss Glyn." 
 
 " Was she with you, Miss Cains ? " quickly asked Sybil's 
 aunt. 
 
 " No, but she was here." 
 
 " Alone % " 
 
 " Oh, no — not alone." 
 
 There was a pause ; then Miss Glyn resumed. 
 
 "May I ask with whom, Miss Cains?" 
 
 " It was dark — besides, I did not look." 
 
 " But I suppose you heard them, Miss Cains ? " 
 
 Blanche was silent awhile. At length she turned round 
 slowly, and said in an even, measured voice — 
 
 " I did ; but they did not know I was here. They spoke as 
 freely as if they were alone ; and I will forget every word they 
 uttered — besides, they spoke of that which concerns themselves 
 only." 
 
 She turned back from Miss Glyn, as if she had nothing more 
 to say to her. Miss Glyn felt troubled to the very heart. She 
 had seen Mr. Dermot crossing the grounds, and Sybil going out 
 soon after him ; and just as she was preparing to follow her 
 niece, Mrs. Ronald had driven up to the door, and paid her a 
 short visit, which seemed endless to Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Miss Cains," she said, a little agitatedly, " far be it from 
 me to tempt you to do wrong, but you are in Sybil's confi- 
 dence — " 
 
 " No," interrupted Miss Cains, rather moodily; " I was once, 
 or thought I was so, but I have learned to-night that my place 
 is filled!" 
 
 This speech only added to Miss Glyn's emotion and perplex- 
 ity. She stooped to entreaty. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, Miss Cains ! " she implored, " if you 
 know any thing — " 
 
 "And what should I know that you do not know ten times 
 better ? " interrupted Miss Cains. " What can I, a stranger, 
 know of family affairs and secrets, Miss Glyn ? " 
 
 Her tone was aggressive and defiant. 
 
 " And who says there are family secrets ? " asked Miss Glyn, 
 rather incensed. " It is you, Miss Cains, who make mysteries 
 out of nothing. I only ask to know who was with my niece."
 
 sybil's second love. 213 
 
 "And why do you question me, Miss Glyn? They did not 
 know I was here, and I dare say I should have gone away, or 
 shown myself. I did neither, but I need not turn tale-bearer for 
 
 that." 
 
 Miss Glyn lost her temper. 
 
 " Tale-bearer ! and who asked you to be a tale-bearer ? " she 
 ciied, very angrily. 
 
 " Why, then, if you do not, do you want to know what passed 
 between them ? " retorted Miss Cains. " What can there be," 
 she added, with a scornful emphasis, " in a conversation between 
 uncle and niece ? " 
 
 " He is not her uncle ! " cried Miss Glyn, trembling with 
 passion ; " he is an impostor — a vile impostor — and your very 
 tone tells me that you know it, Miss Cains, and my belief is that 
 you abet them." 
 
 Miss Cains laughed and rose. 
 
 " Thank you," she said ; " you may think so if you please, 
 but you wrong him. Miss Glyn, he is no impostor. Impostors 
 deceive ; he does not. He was very plain-spoken this evening, 
 I can tell you." 
 
 She walked leisurely away, leaving Miss Glyn angry with 
 her indeed, but exasperated against " the impostor." Her re- 
 sentment against that unfortunate gentleman had begun with 
 her first knowledge of him, but had risen to its height since his 
 return to Saint Vincent. That he had broken off her niece's 
 match with the count she felt sure ; and not knowing, and not 
 wishing even to guess the excellent reasons he had for doing so, 
 the good lady hated him as cordially as if he had inflicted some 
 mortal wrong on Sybil. This feeling of anger Miss Glyn had 
 now nursed up for some time, and she had nursed it all the 
 more fondly that she had kept it strictly to herself. She had 
 watched, and suspected, and drawn conclusions, but she had 
 not breathed a word, she had not even dropped a hint. Now, 
 Miss Glyn was a practical woman. She never cherished useless 
 feelings, and revenge — practical revenge, not the theory of that 
 unamiable feeling — had been in her mind all along. As she now 
 walked back toward the house, she felt that her opportunity 
 was at hand, and she entered the drawing-room ready for action. 
 Every thing was as Miss Glyn could have wished it to be. 
 Mr. Dermot stood talking to Miss Cains, who had just come in, 
 and Sybil sat apart near the farthest table, with an open book 
 lying on it before her.
 
 214 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Sybil, where have you been ? " asked Miss Glyn. 
 
 " I was in the grounds, aunt." 
 
 "And with whom, pray?" 
 
 " With — with uncle," hesitatingly answered Sybil. 
 
 This was the very word Miss Glyn wanted. 
 
 " Sybil," she said, " you will oblige me by not calling that 
 person your uncle." 
 
 Sybil gave her a startled look, but Mr. Dermot took up the 
 glove which Miss Glyn had thus thrown down. 
 
 " May I know why Sybil is not to call me uncle ? " he asked 
 coolly. 
 
 " Because you are not her uncle, sir," impetuously cried Miss 
 Glyn ; " because you are an intruder on the privacy of this fam- 
 ily, and because, though James Kennedy is the-father of Sybil, 
 and the master of the house, he has no right to deceive his 
 child with false relationships." 
 
 "Then scold him, Miss Glyn," very coolly said Mr. Dermot. 
 
 Now the word " scold" greatly exasperated Miss Glyn, who 
 was conscious that her voice had risen above the pitch of lady- 
 like decorum. Her eyes flashed, her lips quivered. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," she said, " thank you, Mr. — excuse me if 
 I do not add your name — but I do not know it." 
 
 " You are welcome to it, Miss Glyn," he answered ; " and I 
 have no doubt that if my brother, James Kennedy — " 
 
 " Your brother, sir ? " she interrupted indignantly, " how 
 dare you call him your brother ! " 
 
 "My brother-in-law if you like," he composedly replied. 
 "You are doubtless aware that James Kennedy's second wife 
 was my sister ? " 
 
 Now Miss Glyn was aware of no such thing, Mr. Kennedy's 
 second marriage being one of those trifling circumstances of his 
 life he had nut mentioned to his first wife's family. Her sur- 
 prise was almost ludicrous, and for a while placed her at the 
 mercy of her opponent. She rallied at length, and boldly de- 
 nied all. 
 
 " I do not believe it," she said, drawing a deep breath, " I 
 do not believe it. James Kennedy was married but once, and 
 that to Sybil's mother." 
 
 " He was married twice, and my sister, though she lived but 
 a few months, brought him those means of fortune which he 
 enjoys to-day, Miss Glyn." 
 
 Miss Glyn was convinced, spite of herself, but the conviction 
 rather exasperated than mollified her.
 
 sybil's second love. 215 
 
 " "What about all that ! " she cried "with vehement indisjna- 
 tion. " Were you ten times his brother-in-law, you were none 
 the less here under an assumed character, and I call that dis- 
 graceful." 
 
 " He has green eyes," thought Sybil, as she saw the angry 
 light which passed in Mr. Derinot's eyes when he heard this in- 
 sulting address, but it only passed there like a flash, and left 
 him cool as before. He drew himself up slightly, however, and 
 his tone and manner had considerable dignity as he replied, 
 
 " Miss Glyn, if you had chosen to attack me privately, I 
 should not have condescended to justify myself; but you have 
 done so in the presence of witnesses whose esteem I do not 
 wish to forfeit. "Wonder not if I now say that which you will 
 repent hearing spoken." 
 
 " And pray what can that be ? " scornfully asked Miss Glyn. 
 
 " My name, if you like it ? " 
 
 " I confess to you, sir, I should like it of all things. It is 
 so awkward to address a person whose name you do not know. 
 And I cannot help thinking you must have found it awkward 
 in this house. You certainly did very well not to go to par- 
 ties, for how could you have been introduced ? It would not do." 
 
 " My name," he deliberately replied, " is Edward Dermot." 
 
 On hearing this name, Miss Glyn looked fairly thunder- 
 struck. She stared at her enemy, and opened her mouth, but 
 said nothing. 
 
 "Are you satisfied?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes," she vaguely replied ; but she sat down with a thor- 
 oughly confused look. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot, however, maintained his composure. He had 
 spoken in a low, even tone, deliberate and clear ; calm, but not 
 without scorn. And he now looked at Miss Glyn, with a 
 steady light shining in his gray eyes, which that lady did not 
 seem well able to withstand. Perhaps she felt conquered by a 
 will, a mind, and a nature, too, greater than her own ; perhaps 
 his cold repulse of her ungenerous attacks silenced her, or some 
 other reason equally potent kept her mute. However this 
 might be, Miss Glyn, who was good, but by no means great, 
 would not repent, would not retract, would not utter a soft, 
 atoning word, but remained forbidding and stern. She took up 
 her work, and tightened her lips ; Sybil returned to her book, 
 and Miss Cains quietly rose and left the room. She had not 
 long been gone when the door opened and gave admittance to
 
 216 STBIL S SECOND LOYE. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy. From the threshold he looted at the three. At 
 once he felt that peculiar atmosphere which marks domestic 
 storms. Mr. Dermot stood hy the fireplace, glancing^ over a 
 newspaper, Miss Glyn was stitching with close assiduity, and 
 Sybil sat apart, with her cheek resting on her hand. 
 
 " A headache, Pussy ? " said Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 Sybil assented. Yes, her head was very bad. She said no 
 more. It was plain that within that fortress she meant to re- 
 trench herself, and keep fast. 
 
 " But you have no headache, Miss Glyn ? " 
 
 Miss Glyn put down her work, and Mr. Dermot looked up 
 from his paper. 
 
 " No, Mr. Kennedy, I have no headache, and therefore we 
 can have some talk together, if you please." 
 
 " Just so," answered Mr. Kennedy, stretching himself at 
 full length in an easv-chair, and folding his hands before him, 
 with a look as careless as civility allowed. 
 
 "Mr. Dermot," began Miss Glyn. Mr. Kennedy gave a 
 little start. " Mr. Dermot tells me" he is your brother-iu-law. 
 Of course I believe him." 
 
 " Of course," calmly assented Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 " But pray why did you not tell us you married again ? " 
 
 " And pray where was the need to tell you ? It would not 
 have added to your happiness, prosperity, or comfort, that I 
 know of." 
 
 The cool audacity of his tone exasperated Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy," she said very warmly, " you have no right 
 to deceive the family you entered." 
 
 " That is an open question ; but, at all events, a very old 
 one. I was married to Dermot's sister, let me see, yes, it is 
 fourteen years ago." 
 
 Miss Glyn compelled herself to be calm, and to say, very 
 calmly, 
 
 " Why did you tell me that Mr. Dermot was your brother?" 
 
 " Well, because he is my brother, to be sure," replied Mr. 
 Kennedy, composedly ; " and, since you know who he is, Miss 
 Glyn, you surely remember that he has stood twice between 
 ruin and me, and once saved your fortune as well as mine. I 
 think the name of Dermot is not one we are likely to forget." 
 
 " No, Mr. Kennedy, it is not," replied Miss Glyn, drawing 
 herself up ; " but you must allow me to wonder that it was 
 suppressed, and made a mystery to mc."
 
 SYBIL'S SECttSTD LOYE. 217 
 
 Mr. Kennedy looked the picture of amazement. 
 
 " My dear Miss Glyn, you cannot be serious ! Who ever 
 made a mystery of it ? " 
 
 Miss Glyn felt silenced. Unknown though he was to her in 
 person, Mr. Dermot was very well known to her by name. He 
 was wealthy and generous, and Mr. Kennedy's fast friend. Twice 
 he had come to his help when ruin seemed imminent, and once 
 his intervention had thus saved Miss Glyn's little fortune. It 
 was very awkward, therefore, for Miss Glyn to contradict Mr. 
 Kennedy when he asserted, in Mr. Dennot's presence, that this 
 gentleman's name had never been made a mystery of in Saint 
 Vincent ; at the same time, she would not assent even tacitly to 
 so barefaced a falsehood. So she rose, and said shortly: 
 
 " We shall speak of this again to-morrow, Mr. Kennedy." 
 
 " Whenever you please, Mary," he blandly replied, and ris- 
 ing, he saw her out with his usual courtesy. 
 
 As he came back to his seat, he said to Mr. Dermot : 
 
 " I suppose those papers are all right ? " 
 
 Mr. Dermot, who had remained silent and grave till then, 
 looked up, and replied — 
 
 " I suppose so, but I shall see." 
 
 He left the room as he spoke. Mr. Kennedy stretched him- 
 self, yawned, looked round, and saw Sybil, who still sat apart, 
 with her cheek on her hand. 
 
 " Pussy, come here," he said. 
 
 Sybil obeyed, and came up to him. Mr. Kennedy drew her 
 on his knee, and kissed her. For the first time since she had 
 rejected the count, he seemed friendly and kind. 
 
 " How did all this come about, Pussy ? " he asked, smiliug. 
 
 " I called Mr. Dermot uncle, and aunt o:ot ano-rv." 
 
 " Well, well, let her — you need not tell Miss Cains, Pussy." 
 
 " She was here, papa." 
 
 " Was she ? Well, no matter ; it is very absurd of Miss 
 Glyn to go on so. She knew — every one knew — I have no 
 brother." 
 
 " Papa, who is he ? " 
 
 " Why, Pussy, surely you can see — a good, handsome, and 
 accomplished gentleman — a rich one, too." 
 
 " And he is the Mr. Dermot of whom Mr. Smith spoke ? " 
 
 Mr. Kennedy laughed. 
 
 " Mr. Smith again ? — you are smitten with him, I believe. 
 By the way, Pussv, you and Dermot must be good friends. 
 10*
 
 218 sybil's second love. 
 
 You looked rather unkindly at him this evening. "What was 
 the cause of quarrel, pray ? " 
 
 " No cause, but he is not my uncle," replied Sybil, looking 
 indignant. 
 
 Her father laughed. 
 
 " My dear, he cannot help that. Besides, call him uncle, 
 if you like. It is affectionate, and not formal, like Mr. Der- 
 mot. And so I always meant it. And please to make it up 
 with him,': he added, rising — " I shall send him in to you." 
 
 " No — pray do not ! " cried Sybil, looking distressed. 
 
 "Yes, Pussy, I will; and receive him kindly, if you please 
 — I know what I am about." 
 
 Sybil could have cried with vexation, but her father would 
 not see it. He was a man who never neglected one of life's 
 chances. Mr. Dermot was a stanch friend, and any one 
 could see that he liked Sybil very much. That liking Mr. Ken- 
 nedy would not allow to cool, or to grow estranged, lest the 
 friendship should suffer thereby, and as he closed the drawing- 
 room door he said again : 
 
 " Mind you receive him kindly, Sybil." 
 
 When Mr. Kennedy called his daughter Sybil, he meant to 
 be obeyed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Sybil sat and waited, but in no placable mood. AVho and 
 what was that Mr. Dermot, that she should be friends with him, 
 whether she liked it or not ? He would come and forgive her, 
 and she did not want to be forgiven. She detested him, and 
 nothing, and no one, should make her like him. 
 
 But Mr. Dermot seemed in no hurry to come and make it 
 up with her. A full quarter of an hour elapsed before he en- 
 tered the drawing-room, and then he went and sat by the 
 chimney, poking the fire in his restless way, and not even look- 
 ing toward her. Sybil got almost angry. Was she going to 
 beg his forgiveness ? Did he expect that ? 
 
 "Sybil," at length said Mr. Dermot, "pray come here, and 
 sit by me." 
 
 He spoke very gently, and drew a chair for her close to his,
 
 Sybil's second love. 219 
 
 but Sybil complied with an ill grace, and looked by no means 
 charmed to be so near him. He gazed at her for a few seconds, 
 then smiled a grave, reproachful smile, and said : 
 
 " So your father's friend cannot be yours, Sybil ? " 
 
 " If you were Uncle Edward," she began — 
 
 "My dear," he interrupted, "let Uncle Edward rest — he is 
 dead and gone ; and Edward Dermot, who is alive and well, 
 thank God! " — here he shook his hair a little defiantly, as if he 
 meant, " no thanks to man for it ! " — " Edward Dermot has only 
 this to say, if you can give him some share of your liking he will 
 be glad ; if you cannot, he will bear the loss with patience ; but 
 whatever you do, he will expect civility from the mistress of the 
 house." 
 
 As he uttered the last words, Mr. Dermot gently laid his 
 hand on Sybil's, and bent the look of his keen gray eyes full 
 upon hers. Sybil tried to brave that look, but she could not. 
 Her lids fell, her color rose, her lips quivered, and pride alone 
 prevented her tears from falling. In a moment his look, his 
 tone, altered completely. 
 
 " "What ! am I making you cry ? " he said with concern. 
 "Svbil, I did not intend it — vou have had trouble enough. 
 God forbid I should add even a feather's weight to your 
 burden ! " 
 
 All Sybil's wrath seemed to melt away as she heard and saw 
 him. In vain she tried to keep it — in vain she wanted to be 
 haughty, defiant, and cold; her old liking was still strong within 
 her, and rose uppermost and ruled her in that hour." 
 
 " Uncle, Mr. Dermot, I mean," said Sybil, looking up, half- 
 frankly, half-shyly, "I am sorry I w r as so rude this evening." 
 
 " You were not rude, my dear, but — well, I will not say 
 what you were. I am of a placable nature when I like, and will 
 bear much. Still, I am touchy, and if you care for me — do not 
 try me too far." 
 
 " I will not — indeed I will not ! " penitently replied Sybil. 
 
 " There's a good little girl ! " he rejoined, with a smile ; 
 " and now let the matter drop. What shall we talk of, Sybil \ 
 Philosophy, new books, our friends, etc." 
 
 "Mr. Dermot," said Sybil, .gathering courage as she spoke, 
 " may I put a question ? " 
 
 " Assuredly, seeing that I am always free not to answer it." 
 
 " Well, then," she half- whispered, " who are you \ " 
 
 Mr. Dermot reddened; but he laughed carelessly.
 
 220 sybil's second love. 
 
 " My dear," he replied, " my biography is a short one. I 
 am a gentleman by birth and education, and Edward Dermot i3 
 my name. I could hang up my hat if I chose, Heaven having 
 blessed me with a fair portion of these," he added, taking a 
 handful of gold pieces out of his pocket, and thrusting it back 
 carelessly; "but I like work, and, therefore, have come here to 
 help your father." 
 
 " And your sister was his wife ? " asked Sybil, looking dis- 
 appointed at so meagre and uninteresting a history. 
 
 "Yes, she was an heiress, and when I was twelve or so I 
 helped her to run away with James Kennedy." 
 
 Sybil brightened, but thought herself bound to say rather 
 severely, 
 
 " That was very wrong." 
 
 " Of course it was, but we were both orphans, and not kindly 
 used. Besides, she liked your father, and, boy-like, I fancied 
 him because he was handsome and manly. So I helped their 
 flight, and got into a world of trouble thereby. Never mind, 
 James Kennedy gave me no cause to repent it. If my sister 
 lived but a few months she was a happy wife, and for years he 
 was brother, father, and guardian to me, Sybil. If I had the 
 education of a gentleman — if I travelled and enjoyed myself 
 whilst he toiled — if when the hour for labor came, the means of 
 wealth were laid at my command, I owe it all to your father. 
 And, now, little girl," he added, looking down at her with a 
 smile, " will you wonder if that man's child is more than a young 
 lady to me ? — will you wonder if I bear with her caprices — nay, 
 with her scolding — " 
 
 "Pray don't," interrupted Sybil, looking remorseful. "I 
 am so sorry — indeed I am." 
 
 " And satisfied, Sybil?" 
 
 " Yes, but—" 
 
 She paused and hesitated. 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 His eyes were again upon her — keen, grave, and watchful. 
 
 " I mean are you really Mr. Dermot ? " 
 
 " Sybil ! " 
 
 " Mr. Smith's Mr. Dermot ? " 
 
 Mr. Dermot poked the fire with the tongs, and slowly 
 thrust them midst the burning logs. 
 
 "Mr. Smith's Mr. Dermot!" he said at length. "You are 
 no flatterer, Sybil. I am my own, and no one else's."
 
 sybil's second love. 221 
 
 "Uncle, I did not mean that," she said eagerly, 
 " Mean what ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I do not mean any thing that could offend you." 
 " Oh, I am not offended," lie carelessly replied — " only I 
 once placed a seal on your lips, and you seem to have forgotten 
 it." 
 
 Sybil hung her head abashed. 
 
 "I thought," she stammered, "that as your name was made 
 a secret of — " / 
 
 "A secret ! " he interrupted with a frown. " You read it on 
 my letter, and therefore the postman knew it; do you call that 
 a secret ? " 
 
 " Well, hut it was never mentioned," persisted Sybil. 
 
 " What is not spoken is not therefore concealed," he replied 
 dryly. " Besides," he added, giving his heavy hair a toss that 
 threw it back, and looking at Sybil with a slightly mocking 
 smile, " when your father ran away with my sister, he went to 
 an out-of-the-way place and stayed there. Suppose I too have 
 run away with some fair lady, or princess, for all you know; 
 and that fearing the displeasure of his majesty her papa the 
 king, I wait in this old abbey till I can proclaim my marriage 
 to the world ? " 
 
 " I do not believe that," said Sybil, not looking well pleased ; 
 " there is no princess to begin with." 
 
 " Yes, Sybil, thefe is," he said, looking rather moody, " a fair, 
 haughty, implacable princess, who loved me long, but who is 
 growing coy and jealous, and fled from me in capricious wrath 
 but I'll win her back yet — shall I not, Sybil ?" 
 
 " Uncle, I do not understand you," replied Sybil, looking 
 grave and puzzled. 
 
 " There is no need you should," he replied with a short 
 laugh ; " and what is more, I expect you to forget every word 
 I utter, be it jest or earnest. Let Miss Glyn wonder, and 
 let Miss Cains rail — be you silent." 
 
 lie spoke with a gravity that impressed Sybil. 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Dcrmot, I will," she replied very earnestly. 
 
 " And now I must leave you," said Mr. Dermot, looking at 
 the clock. " Your father gave me a quarter of an hour to 
 make peace with you, and the articles have taken me two. So 
 good-evening, Sybil." 
 
 "Good-evening, Mr. Dermot," and she placed her hand in 
 his, oblivious of that austere, " I cannot," with which she had
 
 222 sybil's second love. 
 
 rejected it an hour before. It may be tbat Mr. Dermot remem- 
 bered this, however, for though his pressure of her hand was 
 friendly and cordial, though his smile was genial, there was also 
 as they parted a flickering triumphant light in his gray eyes 
 which brought the color up to Sybil's cheek. 
 
 Yet when the door closed upon him, aud she remained 
 alone, Sybil did not feel displeased, either with herself or her 
 quondam uncle. She leaned back in her chair, and looking at 
 the fire, fell in a pleasant reverie. She forgot the story of her 
 own troubles in the excitement of this new tale. Dreams, vague 
 and soft, gathered around her, and she let them come. They 
 were gracious of aspect, fair v-isions, in which falsehood and 
 reality, the princess aud Mr. Dermot, mingled. But no, that 
 would not do, Mr. Dermot groaned beneath a hated yoke, and 
 yet he had said of the princess, 
 
 " I'll win her back yet." How could that be ? "I have told 
 him every thing, and he tells me nothing, or speaks in riddles," 
 thought Sybil, a little crossly ; " next time I shall tell him I do 
 not like it at all ; and if I do, he will only laugh at me, and say 
 a few kind words that will melt all my anger away. I was ever 
 so angry awhile back, and yet he had but to speak, and it was 
 gone — how does he do it ? " 
 
 Perplexing questions ! IIow do they ever do it, they whose 
 gift it is to hold the key that unlocks our heart ? 
 
 "Well, how did it end?" 
 
 Sybil turned round with a start. Behind her stood Miss 
 Cains. Her face was alive with excitement, and her blue eyes 
 had a half-merry, half-mischievous look. 
 
 " I never heard you coming in," Sybil said. 
 
 " To be sure not. You were as fast as the sleeping beauty 
 in the wood. Come, tell me all about it." 
 
 She sat down in Mr. Dermot's vacant chair, and looked both 
 keen and eager. 
 
 " There is nothing to tell," replied Sybil ; " why did you 
 go ? — you need not." 
 
 " Child, it was getting warm for one not of the family. But 
 to think of that false uncle of yours proving such a deceiver ! 
 How indignantly you looked at him ! " 
 
 " Yes, I felt I detested him," frankly replied Sybil, "and 
 yet, Blanche, how grand he looked at the end ! How small 
 aunt seemed near him ! " 
 
 " I think he looked very vicious, my dear ; and as he is not
 
 sybil's second love. 223 
 
 your uncle, I do not mind speaking my mind about that gen- 
 tleman. Any thing more wicked than his green eyes I never 
 saw." 
 
 " You too saw it ! " cried Sybil, her eyes flashing ; " Blanche, 
 it was terrible ! " 
 
 " Quite frightful," coolly said Miss Cains. 
 
 " I have never seen an angry lion," continued Sybil, " but 
 so I fancy would he look." 
 
 "Yes," dryly replied Miss Cains; "lions are red, so there 
 is that likeness between the two, otherwise I see none. The 
 lion, though feline, is a noble sort of beast, and there is nothing 
 noble about this Mr. Dermot. He looked terribly like an au- 
 dacious swindler." 
 
 " He ! " cried Sybil, amazed, " he ! " 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Dermot. Now don't mistake me. Of course he 
 is no such thing, I only speak of his looks." 
 
 " He looks a hero, every inch of him," warmly said Sybil. 
 
 " And you hate him — you say ? " 
 
 " No, Blanche, I was wicked this evening ; but — " 
 
 " But the charmer came in, and away flew your wickedness. 
 That was why he stayed so long. I thought he would never 
 leave you. Well, well, I confess Mr. Dermot is eloquent — and, 
 pray who is he ? A king in disguise, at the very least." 
 
 " I dont know, Blanche." 
 
 " Ah ! then I see he is only that Mr. Dermot of whom you 
 say Mr. Smith spoke so much." 
 
 She bent her eyes on the face of her friend, and keen, eager 
 eyes they were just then, w r akening out of their habitual lan- 
 guor into quick, searching life. Sybil colored, and hesitated as 
 she said, 
 
 " I do not know that he is the same, Blanche." 
 
 "Yes, he is; and I remember you said they were not 
 friends. Was it money, or business, or — well, why do you look 
 at me so ? " 
 
 " Because vou seem so easier, Blanche. You dislike him — 
 you never saw him, and yet you do seem so eager." 
 
 " This is a dull old house," frankly said Miss Cains ; " and 
 I always fouud that a country life made me dreadfully inquisi- 
 tive. As to not liking Lion, since you think him a lion, that is 
 ju"t the reason for trying to find out some wickedness about 
 him ; and, indeed, my dear, I may as well inform you that my 
 sympathies are all for Mr. Smith, poor, dear old fellow, with
 
 22tl SYBIL'S SECOND LOVE. ' 
 
 his letter H. I am sure he was right, and Green eyes was 
 wrong, whatever the quarrel may have been about — I dare say 
 it was money, the universal cause of all quarrels ; and I have no 
 doubt that poor Mr. Smith was shamefully plundered." 
 
 " It was not about money," dryly said Sybil ; "I am sure 
 of that. It was about some invention." 
 
 " Ah ! well, then, Mr. Dermot had plundered him of his 
 idea. Poor Mr. Smith ! — I am getting quite fond of him. De- 
 pend upon it, Mr. Dermot is hiding from him here, and that 
 was why he took an assumed name." 
 
 " But he never did take an assumed name," cried Sybil, a 
 little warmly ; " papa told me he was to be called Uncle Ed- 
 ward, and there was an end of it." 
 
 " And you understood that Uncle Edward meant Mr. Ed- 
 ward Kennedy, and so did every one." 
 
 " Blanche, I never heard you call him Mr. Kennedy." 
 
 Miss Cains looked annoyed. 
 
 " I perceive," she said, a little shortly, " that I must not 
 say a word against, or, indeed, about that mysterious gentle- 
 
 man." 
 
 Sybil did not answer. Miss Cains looked at her with a 
 mocking smile. 
 
 "Mind your heart, my dear," she said, with cool sarcasm ; 
 " mind your heart." 
 
 Sybil's first speechless amazement was followed by a blush 
 and a look, both so expressive of offended modesty and 
 wounded pride, that Miss Cains was rather disconcerted. 
 
 " Now, darling," she said, " don't look so — don't." 
 
 " How have I deserved it ? " asked Sybil, with some emo- 
 tion ; " how have I deserved it ? " 
 
 " Well, then, I believe I am jealous — that is the truth," 
 bluntly said Blanche; "I am jealous of that Greeneycs, who 
 has such a hold of you." 
 
 Sybil was mollified at once. 
 
 " Jealous of him, of any one ! " she said, fondly throwing her 
 arms around the neck of her friend. 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Cains, returning the caress, "you have 
 such endless conversations, it is quite irritating. , What does 
 he tell you ? — now do tell me, because I am jealous, you know." 
 
 But Sybil only laughed, and shook her head. 
 
 "Do you think he would tell me any thing?" was her an- 
 swer.
 
 sybil's second love. 225 
 
 Miss Cains looked at her earnestly, and did not believe her. 
 
 " Never mind," she said, a little dryly, " I shall find out." 
 
 " Do," saucily rejoined Sybil ; '' and then you Avill tell me 
 all about it." 
 
 Miss Cains looked scarcely pleased, but said nothing. The 
 dinner-bell, which now rang, and summoned them down-stairs, 
 spared them the trouble of further conversation. 
 
 " Sybil sat, as usual, near Mr. Dermot, and Blanche oppo- 
 site her, near Mr. Kennedy. Was it the consciousness of Miss 
 Cains's watchful look, or the remembrance of her warning 
 words, that rendered Sybil so strange and cold with Mr. Der- 
 mot? He perceived the change, and did his best to dispel it; 
 but the more he tried, the less he seemed to succeed. When 
 the meal was over, and Sybil rose and left the dining-room last, 
 Mr. Dermot rose too, and whispered, 
 
 " Little girl, little girl, who has been talking to you ?" 
 
 His careless tone, something rather mocking in his look, did 
 not please Sybil. Besides, Miss Cains turned round, and 
 looked at them and smiled. Sybil colored, and said dryly, 
 
 " Mr. Dermot, you asked me for civility — may I trouble 
 you for some ? " 
 
 A flush rose to his face, but he bowed silently. In a mo- 
 ment, Sybil felt, as she looked at him, that he was offended. 
 She remembered his words : 
 
 " I am touchy — if you care for me, do not try me too far." 
 
 What her angry and vehement reproaches had not effected, 
 this little bit of impertinence had done. "Well, and what do 
 I care ? " rebelliously thought Sybil, and she walked out without 
 giving him a look. 
 
 -♦-»♦- 
 
 CLTAPTER XXX. 
 
 Not a word did Miss Glyn utter during dinner-time, and 
 this ominous silence she carried to the drawing-room, and pre- 
 served the whole evening. Miss Glyn was meditating over the 
 line of conduct she should adopt in Avhat she mentally called 
 " the present critical circumstances." Her plan was not fully 
 matured till the next morning, when she thought fit to impart 
 it privately to Mr. Kennedy. It was this much, and no more : 
 10*
 
 226 sybil's second love. 
 
 " After the painful position in which her ignorance of Mr. Der- 
 mot's identity had placed her, Miss Glyn felt bound to leave 
 Saint Vincent." 
 
 " I cannot remain in the same house with him without 
 apologizing," said Miss Glyn, by way of conclusion ; " and I 
 never apologize, it is a matter of principle with me." 
 
 In vain Mr. Kennedy assured her that Mr. Dermot felt no 
 sort of resentment against her, that he was quite willing to for- 
 give her unconscious offence. It was another matter of prin- 
 ciple with Miss Glyn never to be forgiven, and she said so. # 
 
 As she tempered all these declarations with some bittei 
 comments on the unpleasant consequences of Mr. Kennedy's 
 want of frankness, that gentleman's entreaties that she would 
 stay waxed rather cooler, and it was with the faintest show of 
 sorrow that he heard her announce her approaching departure. 
 " And now," said Miss Glyn, rising, " as Sybil cannot stay 
 here, of course I shall take her with me to England, and Miss 
 Cains can accompany us." 
 
 " Thanks ! " dryly replied Mr. Kennedy. " I wish Sybil to 
 remain." 
 
 " Here, Mr. Kennedy, with that Mr. Dermot, who is quite a 
 young man, and not her uncle ? " 
 
 "Mrs. Mush is coming," calmly said Mr. Kennedy. 
 Miss Glyn's eyes sparkled on hearing her cousin's name. 
 " Were there twenty Mrs. Mushes here," she said, indig- 
 nantly, " it is very strange to keep Mr. Dermot in the same 
 house with two girls like Sybil and Miss Cains ! " 
 
 " I wish neither of them a better husband ! " replied Mr. 
 Kennedy, smiling. 
 
 Miss Glyn felt very angry, but as she would have found it 
 hard to say about what, she merely uttered an ironical " In- 
 deed, Mr. Kennedy ! " and at once left the room. 
 
 " I see through it all," wrathfully thought Miss Glyn. " It 
 is very hard to deceive me. James wants Mr. Dermot, who is 
 rich, for Sybil ; and Mr. Dermot does not care about Sybil a 
 rush, and is always staring at Miss Cains, who has been angling 
 for him ever since she entered this house. I wonder what Mr. 
 Kennedy will say when he finds that out?" 
 
 In the mean time Miss Glyn went up to her room, and nt 
 once commenced packing. After five minutes thus spent, she 
 interrupted the occupation to ring the bell, and send a message 
 through Dcniso, after which she became intent again. She was
 
 sybil's second love. 227 
 
 deep in the critical operation of folding a velvet dress — Miss 
 Glyn never kept a maid, " on principle ! " — when the handle of 
 her door was turned, and Miss Cains entered the room. 
 
 "You have sent for me, Miss Glyn," said that young lady, 
 as if she still doubted the fact. 
 
 " I have taken that liberty, Miss Cains," replied Miss Glyn, 
 with a smile, which meant to be gracious. " I am going to 
 leave this house, and do not wish to do so without having a 
 talk with you. Pray be seated." 
 
 Miss Cains looked as if she would rather stand, but she com- 
 plied, nevertheless, with the elder lady's request, and cast a half- 
 admiring, half-careless look on the velvet dress. 
 
 " What a pile it has ! " she said. " If ever I have money 
 to spend, I shall have a dress like that, Miss Glyn." 
 
 Miss Glyn looked stiff, and said, " Indeed ! " She thought 
 the remark a highly indecorous one, considering Miss Cains's 
 position, both social and pecuniary. 
 
 " I do like velvet ! " continued Blanche, with a fond intona- 
 tion in her voice. " It is so soft, so fur-like. I always fancy 
 it is the skin of some feline beast or other — don't you ? " 
 
 "No," rather sharply said Miss Glyn, and throwing the 
 dress on the bed, she abruptly changed the subject of conver- 
 sation by saying : 
 
 " You know I am going ? " 
 
 " I did not know it, Miss Glyn, but from these signs of 
 packing I fear you are." 
 
 " I am going, and not to return — and Mr. Dermot remains." 
 Blanche gently bent her head, and as she sat near the bed, 
 extended her white hand to feel the quality of the fascinating 
 velvet. 
 
 " My dear Miss Cains," said Miss Glyn, with considerable 
 asperity, " you really must attend to me ; this is a matter that 
 concerns you nearly." 
 
 " Oh ! but I am attending," said Blanche, very sweetly. 
 " "Well, as I said, Mr. Dermot remains, and Mr. Dermot and 
 Mr. Kennedy are both unmarried — allow me to suggest this 
 house is no home for you." 
 
 Miss Cains looked very grave, but did not answer. Miss 
 Glyn resumed : 
 
 " You are young and handsome ; you are poor, too, and 
 your fair name is every thing to you. I am going to England, 
 and I will take you with me, and place yon with a friend of
 
 228 sybil's second love. 
 
 mine, who will be glad of your society until you Lave found 
 such a situation as your talents and accomplishments cannot 
 fail to secure." 
 
 " You are too kind," said Blanche. 
 
 " Am I to understand that you accept ? " 
 
 " Why, no, thank you, Miss Glyn," replied Miss Cains with 
 much urbanity. " I am twenty-five, and can take care of my- 
 self. But do tell me where you got that velvet ; I shall enjoy 
 no peace of mind till I have a dress like it." 
 
 " That will do, Miss Cains," said Miss Glyn angrily, taking 
 the dress away and tossing it on a chair beyond the young 
 lady's reach, " that will do. I had my suspicions — they are 
 certainty now — I know exactly what you are about." 
 
 " Then you know more than I do, Miss, Glyn," replied 
 Blanche, rather scornfully ; " however, that will do, as you say." 
 
 She rose, bowed, received a stiff nod in return, and left the 
 room. She went up at once to her own apartment, opened the 
 chest of drawers with which it was furnished, emptied it of its 
 contents, and deliberately began packing up her trunk. She 
 had not long been thus engaged, when Sybil came in upon her. 
 She remained amazed and mute on seeing; the bed covered with 
 the various articles of Miss Cains's wardrobe. 
 
 " Blanche, what does it mean ? " she asked at length. 
 
 " I am going away," coolly replied Blanche. " Miss Glyn, 
 who is leaving, has just pointed out the impropriety of my 
 remaining in this house, when you, a mere child, are at the 
 head of it ; and though I would not confess she was right, she 
 is right, and I am leaving Saint Vincent, which, if I had not 
 been so thoughtless, I should never have entered." 
 
 Sybil changed color, then said sharply, 
 
 "You shall' not go!" 
 
 " Oh ! but I must — your aunt has just informed me that I 
 had designs upon Mr. Dermot. Designs upon him, Sybil ! " 
 
 Miss Cains looked magnificent in her scorn of this imputa- 
 tion, which utterly confounded Sybil. 
 
 " And so it is on his account you leave ! " she cried half 
 *gnly. " He sends aunt away, and you — Blanche, he will 
 make me detest him ! Why does he not go ? " 
 
 " I suppose, poor wretch ! because he has got into good quar- 
 ters," disdainfully replied Miss Cains. "Well, I am poor my- 
 self, and I will not throw his poverty in his face — only stay here 
 I cannot."
 
 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 229 
 
 She knelt on the floor and resinned her packing. 
 
 " Now, Blanche, that is nonsense," coolly replied Sybil ; " I 
 will not let you go." 
 
 Miss Cains looked up. 
 
 "I must go," she said, " and I will." 
 
 " We shall see that," cried Sybil, darting out of the room. 
 
 She ran down-stairs to seek her father. In her eagerness to 
 make him keep her friend, she forgot that Miss Glyn was leav- 
 ing ; but as she passed by that lady's door, a sharp call of 
 " Sybil ! " suddenly checked her progress, and reminded her of 
 the fact. She entered the room, and saw Miss Glyn standing 
 in the midst of her trunks, with the look of a commander-in- 
 chief on a field-day. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " ruefully cried Sybil, " every one is packing up." 
 
 " Who else is going ? " asked Miss Glyn. 
 
 " Blanche says she must go, after what you have said. Oh ! 
 aunt, do stay — do, pray, do ! " 
 
 Miss Glyn had called in Sybil for the express purpose of 
 telling her that Miss Cains was one of the most imprudent young 
 ladies she had ever met with, but the announcement of the sin- 
 ner's approaching departure silenced her. She tightened uj) her 
 lips, and bridled up, and looked much, but said nothing. 
 
 " Do stay ! " again entreated Sybil ; " do, pray, do ! " 
 
 " Not with Mr. Dermot in the house," was the stern reply. 
 
 " Then I detest Mr. Dei-mot ! " cried Sybil, with angry 
 tears—" I detest him ! " 
 
 " You would not have a penny but for him," coldly replied 
 Miss Glyn. " Mr. Dermot has been your father's best friend, 
 and I sincerely lament his approaching fate." 
 
 " Fate ! — what fate ? " asked Sybil, changing color. 
 
 " Ask Miss Cains." 
 
 " Oh ! aunt," cried Sybil, reddening, " how can you say so ? 
 — she hates him." 
 
 " You are the simplest child; she hates him, does she ? — and 
 all she wants is to be Mrs. Dermot. She has been setting her 
 cap at him all along, as she set it at the count — as she will set it 
 at every man who comes to this house — you will never have a 
 chance while she is by r , Sybil." 
 
 " You do not suppose, aunt, I want that chance from her '. " 
 indignantly asked Sybil. 
 
 " So much the better for you, my dear, for you would not 
 get it."
 
 230 sybil's second love. 
 
 Sybil wanted to answer this, but Miss Glyn said that she w;is 
 very busy, and would rather that she would go. Sybil left her, 
 still flushed and indignant. It was not true ; she did not be 
 lieve it. It was not true, for he did not like Blanche, and on 
 Blanche herself it was a cruel slander. And Blanche should not 
 go ; she would tell her father so, and he would keep her. She 
 entered Mr. Kennedy's study — a quiet room near the library — 
 without knocking, and abruptly exclaimed : 
 
 "Papa, you will not let Blanche go, will you? " 
 
 Mr. Dermot, and not Mr. Kennedy, emerged from behind the 
 window-curtain. He had been standing there reading a letter, 
 with his back to Sybil, who had not seen him. 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy is out," he said — " can I do any thing for 
 you, Miss Kennedy ? " 
 
 The request put Sybil into a rage. 
 
 " No, Mr. Dermot," she said sharply ; " I came to ask my 
 father to undo your work — you cannot assist me." 
 
 " How do you know ? " he asked, with a smile ; " my work, 
 as you call it, can best be undone by me. I confess I do not 
 know what work you mean, but I do know I am willing to 
 oblige you." 
 
 " You are very kind," replied Sybil, " but you will allow me 
 to doubt that you can keep Aunt Glyn and Miss Cains, when 
 both are determined to leave on your account." 
 
 "On my account! — I was not aware I had affronted Miss 
 Cains too. Miss Glyn, I confess, I cannot hope to detain, but I 
 may succeed with your friend." 
 
 " I suppose your influence over her is greater than mine ? " 
 said Sybil, her eyes sparkling. 
 
 " I never meant that." 
 
 " Then what did you mean ? " 
 
 " The end will show." 
 
 "I know," said Sybil, turning crimson — "you have more 
 power with papa than I have. I know it, Mr. Dermot — I have 
 seen it before to-day." 
 
 " It would be very strange indeed if you had not seen that," 
 he composedly answered ; " but I am afraid you are not in a 
 very good temper, so I shall not trouble you any more with 
 proffers of service." 
 
 " He left the room ; his look, his tone had not varied ; both 
 had preserved their coolness and composure. Sybil felt exas- 
 perated. She flung herself across the table, and cried bitterly.
 
 L':;i 
 
 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 " Why, Pussy, what is the matter? " said her father's voice. 
 
 She looted up, her face all flushed. 
 
 " I am wretched ! " vehemently said Sybil, " and Mr. Der- 
 mot is the cause of it all, and only puts on his grand, composed 
 ways to vex me, and make me miserable; and I shall not be 
 happy whilst he remains in the house ! " passionately added Sybil. 
 
 " Then, my dear, you are not likely to be happy just yet," 
 very coolly said her father. 
 
 Indignation kept Sybil silent. 
 
 " Come, Pussy, let us talk sense for once," said Mr. Kenned}^, 
 sitting down, and drawing her on his knee. " Do you know 
 who this hateful Dermot is ? — why, he is simply one of the best, 
 noblest, and grandest fellows that ever lived. There is more 
 than flesh and blood between us, Sybil — ay, ten times more. 
 He helped me to marry his sister, and by so doing brought on 
 himself a bitter persecution. He bore blows, threats, and con- 
 tumely for my sake, and was turned adrift at sixteen, and I was 
 the cause, Sybil. Well, I have paid that debt. I was often 
 short of money — often weighed down with cares — but he never 
 suffered — never, and he knows it. Since he has been a man, wc 
 have been fast friends, and you may judge what chance there is 
 of your being made happy by his removal from the house." 
 
 "Yes," replied Sybil jealously, "and that is the worst of all; 
 you love him more than you love me. I thought I was every 
 thing since I came from school, and I now see I have a rival ; 
 and how can I like Mr. Dermot, since he sends aunt, and even 
 Blanche, away ? " 
 
 "Oh! but Miss Cains must not go," hastily said Mr, Ken- 
 nedy; "she must stay and chaperone you, Pussy." 
 
 " She wants some one to chaperone her, and will go to-mor- 
 row, she says." 
 
 " Tell her that she must not go, and that Mrs. Mush is com- 
 ing. Or stay, I shall tell her so myself." 
 
 " I shall go and fetch her! " cried Sybil, all eagerness. 
 
 She ran out of the study, and found herself face to face with 
 Mr. Dermot. In her joy she would not have minded making it 
 up with him, but Mr. Dermot was probably wearied of her ca- 
 prices, for he made room for her to pass with a cold look, that 
 promised Sybil eternal indifference. 
 
 " What do I care ? " she thought going upstairs. " J >■ < S 
 he fancy, perhaps, that I care about him '. indeed, I will show 
 him I do not — yes, I will show him, and every one else too ! "
 
 232 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Blanche, Blanche," she cried gayly, as she entered the 
 room where Miss Cains sat resting after her packing, " empty 
 your trunk — you are not going. Papa says you must not — Mrs. 
 Mush is coming. Come down and hear him say so." 
 
 Miss Cains wanted to resist, but Sybil took her hand and. 
 compelled her down-stairs. 
 
 " Miss Cains," kindly said Mr. Kennedy, when the two girls 
 entered the study, "you cannot leave us — you must not go. I 
 understand and appreciate your motives ; but Sybil cannot 
 afford to lose her friend. My cousin, Mrs. Mush, has promised 
 to come in a day or two. T trust her presence in the house will 
 remove all your scruples. Allow me to add, that by remaining 
 you will be conferring the greatest favor upon me." 
 Blanche colored and hesitated. 
 
 " Oh ! Blanche," entreated Sybil, clinging to her, " stay, do 
 stay, if you love me. Do, my darling." 
 
 Still Miss Cains hesitated. But Sybil's entreaties grew more 
 and more fervent. Mr. Kennedy threw in a few earnest and 
 cordial words, and reluctantly, like one who yields against her 
 better judgment, Miss Cains gave way. 
 
 " It is for your .sake, darling," she whispered, returning Sybil's 
 fond embrace. 
 
 " Of course it is," gayly said Sybil. 
 
 " And so tbi 3 matter is settled, and all right, is it?" said 
 Mr. Kennedy with evident satisfaction. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, and I am so happy," cried Sybil with sparkling 
 eyes. 
 
 Blanche smiled, and softly smoothed Sybil's dark hair; and 
 Mr. Kennedy thought he had seldom seen a prettier group than 
 that before him, when an unwelcome intrusion disturbed this 
 pleasant contemplation. The door opened, and Miss Glyn en- 
 tered the room fully equipped for her journey. 
 
 " I have come to bid you good-by, Mr. Kennedy," she said 
 rather grandly ; " for there is no reason, of course, why we 
 should not part friends." 
 
 " None indeed, my dear Miss Glyn," he said, kindly going 
 u£ to her ; " I only regret you think it necessary we should 
 part at all." 
 
 " Now, Mr. Kennedy, you know I would not stay here, and all 
 that amazes me is that you will keep Mr. Dermot, having as 
 you have a daughter of Sybil's age, and knowing as you know 
 what the world will say. Miss Cains," she added, with an ap-
 
 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 233 
 
 proving glance toward that young lady, " has shown her sense of 
 the state of things by resolving to leave the house." 
 
 " Miss Cains is staying," coolly said Mr. Kennedy. " I am 
 happy to say that she has yielded to my request, seconded by 
 Pussy's entreaties. 
 
 " Miss Cains is staying ! " echoed Miss Glyn in a hollow 
 voice — " then I was not mistaken after all ; " and she added 
 \\ ith a contemptuous look at her niece, " Sybil, you are a fool ! " 
 
 Sybil reddened, and Mr. Kennedy looked angry. 
 
 " Miss Glyn, explain yourself," he said. 
 
 " No, no," returned that lady with a sagacious nod, " I know 
 rny own meaning, and am satisfied with it. Good-afternoon, 
 Mr. Kennedy ; good-afternoon, Miss Cains ; good-afternoon, 
 Sybil. I congratulate you all on your wisdom — thank Heaven, 
 I am out of it ! " 
 
 With which enigmatic words, Miss Glyn walked out of the 
 room, followed by Sybil only. Mr. Kennedy probably was too 
 much affronted to pay his sister-in-law that last courtesy. Miss 
 Glyn took no notice of Sybil till they both stood on the thresh- 
 old of the abbey gates. She then turned round to her, and said 
 calmly, 
 
 " Sybil, you have chosen to be wise, and you will pay the 
 penalty. You acted against my advice all along ; you have 
 already suffered, and you will suffer still more. That girl is a 
 serpent, and her name should be Cain, not Cains. But for her 
 you would be Count Andre de Renneville's wife. She is a ser- 
 pent, and you will find it out later. Never hope to marry 
 whilst she is here. I might say more, but where would be the 
 use ? The mischief is done, and past your mending. I am 
 going, but I shall soon return to this neighborhood ; and you 
 can always come to me, Sybil, if you need it. There, good-by, 
 child ; give my compliments to Mr. Dermot, and tell him he has 
 acted like a gentleman." 
 
 Miss Glyn gave Sybil a cold embrace, entered the carriage 
 which was waiting, and drove away from her brother-in-law's 
 house, to enter it no more. 
 
 Anger, indignation, surprise, had kept Sybil mute whilst 
 her aunt was speaking ; but she saw her go with a sense of re- 
 lief. It was more than the young girl could bear patiently to be 
 told to mistrust her dearest friend, and to hear her coolly called 
 a serpent. 
 
 Unfortunately, she had not been the only one to hear Miss
 
 234 sybil's second love. 
 
 Glyrt's parting speech. When she turned back from the gates 
 she saw Blanche standing behind her, pale as death, but with 
 flaming eyes. Sybil threw her arms around the neck of her 
 friend. 
 
 " I do not believe it ! " she cried. " I love you ! I trust you 
 entirely. I do not believe it ! " 
 
 " AVhat a sin it is to be poor ! " moodily said Miss Cains, 
 scarcely heeding Sybil's caresses ; " that is my crime, you see. 
 I am poor, and therefore suspected of every baseness. Sybil, as I 
 live, I never wished for the count." 
 
 " I know it ! — I know it ! " said Sybil, leading her up to 
 the drawing-room. "I know it, and I trust you entirely. 
 I love you too well, Blanche, to doubt you ! " 
 
 The large room was vacant. Blanche sank* down on a chair 
 near the fire, and Sybil, kneeling on the carpet at her feet, 
 looked up fondly in the face of her friend, It was flushed now, 
 and tears shone in Blanche Cains's blue eyes, 
 
 " Sybil," she said, " I never shall be unkind to you — never ! 
 — never ! " 
 
 " Unkind ! " laughed Sybil; " don't I know it ? " 
 
 Her look as she glanced upward was the very sublime of 
 faith. It was full, too, very full, of affection. You will be loved, 
 Blanche Cains, and by an adoring husband, ere your tale is 
 done; but never will there be, in a human heart, the trust and 
 love for you which now burn in the heart of that fond, kneeling 
 girl. 
 
 -♦-»♦-- 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A long, languid calm followed the agitation which had pre- 
 ceded and caused Miss Glyn's departure from Saint Vincent. 
 Mrs. Mush, who was to come in a few days, did not appear; and 
 though Mr. Kennedy said not one word on this subject, Miss 
 Cains, to Sybil's great relief, never talked of the impropriety of 
 remaining, nor packed up -her trunk to go. 
 
 So weeks sped by in the dulness and retirement of a secluded 
 country life ; for Sybil had ceased going out, and few visitors 
 crossed the threshold of Saint Vincent since Miss Glyn was no 
 longer there to receive them. Indeed, that lady's departure, 
 and the long \ isit of Miss Cains, were variously commented
 
 Sybil's second love. 235 
 
 upon by the little world -which met to drink tea and talk scanda) 
 at Mrs. Ronald's. 
 
 Some of these comments were repeated to Mr. Kennedy ; 
 but he did not think it necessary to repeat them again, and no 
 one in the Abbey knew a word of them. Matters went on 
 pretty smoothly in that quiet dwelling, and, save in one respect, 
 entirely to Mr. Kennedy's satisfaction. Neither coaxing, nor 
 entreaties, nor commands, could induce Sybil to make up her 
 long and obstinate quarrel with Mr. Dermot. 
 
 "He had offended her," she said, "and it was impossible 
 she should go and beg his pardon." 
 
 So she wrapped herself in her dignity, as in a mantle, and 
 kept aloof. If by this haughty bearing Sybil thought to induce 
 Mr. Dermot to sue again for her lost favor, she was disappointed. 
 Mr. Kennedy, indeed, tried to induce him to go once more 
 " and make it up with Pussy," but Mr. Dermot flatly refused to 
 do so. If Sybil chose to be offended with him, Mr. Dermot 
 was plainly offended with her. Worse still, that fondness and 
 affection he had so long shown seemed to have left no traces of 
 their being behind. Mr. Kennedy was vexed, and he showed 
 his displeasure to Sybil. 
 
 "You have affronted Mr. Dermot," he said sharply ; " you 
 have lost his friendship and his regard by your absurd affecta- 
 tion of dignity. I am very angry, Sybil." 
 
 Sybil reddened, and was amazed at so harsh a reproof. She 
 liked Mr. Dermot none the better for it. What was he, that he 
 turned her father against her, and changed Mr. Kennedy's in- 
 dulgent admiration of all her little caprices into censure so severe ? 
 If he thought to conquer her by that, she would show him be 
 was mistaken. Accordingly, Sybil infused a double amount of 
 coldness in her bearing toward Mr. Dermot. But Mr. Dermot 
 looked, as he felt, no doubt, profoundly indifferent. He was 
 thirty, a man of the world, a friend, and not a lover. What 
 were Sybil's frowns to him ? He could live without the sun- 
 shine of her smiles, and sleep none the worse because he had 
 forfeited her good graces. Miss Cains watched all this with a 
 keen, attentive look, but said very little to Sybil. That little 
 Sybil answered with some asperity. "What did she care about 
 Mr. Dermot, or his grand ways? She knew he put them on to 
 vex her; but he was sadly mistaken if he thought she cared a 
 pin. Not she ; and he must be blind not to see it." 
 
 Mr. Dermot, and, indeed, every one in Saint Vincent, must
 
 236 sybil's second love. 
 
 have been blind not to see that Sybil was very lively. Sbe 
 sang from morning till night, she was restlessly busy, she 
 laughed about every thing, and she had never been in higher 
 spirits. But Sybil's gayety no more moved Mr. Dermot than 
 her previous gravity ; and when she suddenly relapsed into a 
 silent and rather languid mood, he was the same as ever — strictly 
 civil, and no more. Matters stood thus, when Sybil found her- 
 self alone with him in the drawing-room one afternoon. Spring 
 was late that year, and the day was dull and gray ; Sybil sat, 
 for the light, near one window, and Mr. Dermot, for the same 
 purpose, near another. She sewed, and he read. She let her 
 work drop upon her lap, and looted up at him. Something in 
 his newspaper called up a smile on his face. Sybil knew that 
 smile well. It was genial and pleasant; a smile which shone 
 back in his eyes, and gave them a warm lustre. "I wish we 
 were friends again," thought Sybil ; " I know he likes me as I 
 like him. I wonder what he would say if I were to talk to him 
 now ? " The temptation was strong, and Sybil yielded to it. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot," she said. 
 
 Mr. Dermot looked up from his paper, but did not put it 
 down. Sybil's heart failed her a little, but she took courage, 
 and continued : 
 
 " I have been very remiss." 
 
 " Pray, how so ? " 
 
 " Aunt gave me a message for you, and I never delivered it." 
 
 Mr. Dermot waited in silence. She resumed: 
 
 " My aunt desired me to give her compliments to you, and 
 tell you that you behaved like a gentleman." 
 
 Mr. Dermot smiled coldly ; but all he said was : 
 
 "I am very much obliged to you;" with which he took up 
 his paper once more. 
 
 Sybil's heart was very full. So this was how he received 
 her little advances — with that freezing coldness. After that, 
 how could she address him again ? " 1 cannot, and I will not," 
 thought Sybil. " Never more will I open my lips to him. 
 Blanche, whom he pretends to dislike, he would not have dared 
 to treat so." She could have shed tears of mortification, and 
 longed to be out of the room, far from his presence. She had 
 no need to wish so long, for after a few minutes had passed, Mr. 
 Dermot put down his paper and left the drawiug-room. 
 
 They did not meet again till dinner, and then his manner 
 was just as polite and as distant as ever. Mr. Dermot treated
 
 sybil's second love. 237 
 
 Sybil with the greatest courtesy, and did not bestow upon her 
 one unnecessary word. The chief part of his conversation, in- 
 deed, was directed to Mr. Kennedy, and referred to business 
 matters. 
 
 " What do you think of the Quebec Johnsons ? " he asked, 
 rather abruptly, as the meal drew to a close. 
 
 " Not much good," replied Mr. Kennedy, with a peculiar 
 smile. " What do you think of them ? " 
 
 " Mr. Dermot's lip curled, and there was a light in his eye 
 that said much, but other reply he did not give ; and Mr. Ken- 
 nedy forbore to press the question. 
 
 "Who are these Quebec Johnsons?" asked Blanche of 
 Sybil, when they sat alone in the drawing-room, before the gen- 
 tlemen joined them. 
 
 " I don't know," languidly replied Sybil ; " some of papa's 
 correspondents, I believe." 
 
 " Greeneyes does not like them. Eh ? " 
 
 " I don't care about him, or his likes and his dislikes," tartly 
 said Sybil. 
 
 Blanche laughed, and resumed : 
 
 " You remember that pink-eyed Anna, from Canada ? She 
 was a Johnson, was she not ?" 
 
 " No ; her name was Smithson." 
 
 " So it was. I wonder what put Johnson into my head, 
 then ? " 
 
 Sybil did not answer ; she felt in no mood for speech, grave 
 or trivial. Silence was sweet to her just then, for it seemed to 
 lull the secret sting she could not get rid of. Blanche did not 
 tease her with talk, but stretched herself in an easy-chair, and 
 looked at the blazing fire in happy indolence. The entrance of 
 Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Dermot did not make her change her 
 attitude. 
 
 " She is wonderfully handsome ! " thought Sybil, looking at 
 her, and detecting the looks which the two gentlemen cast upon 
 her as they both took their places, " and no wonder that both 
 papa and he should see it. I shall never be admired as Blanche 
 is — never ! " 
 
 " Miss Cains," said Mr. Kennedy, " it is a mortal sin to dis- 
 turb you, you seem so happy ; but, for all that, will you have a 
 game of chess ? " 
 
 Mr. Kennedy was fond of chess, and now and then he thu9 
 challenged Miss Cains of an evening. As a rule, she took up 
 the glove, but now she demurred.
 
 238 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Must I ? " she said reluctantly. " Why do you not ask 
 Sybil, Mr. Kennedy?" 
 
 "Sybil hates chess." 
 
 " Well, then, ask Mr. Derrnot. He is a fine chess-player, I 
 know." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy looked in some surprise at Mr. Dermot, who 
 smiled, evidently not in denial. Then Mr. Kennedy said a little 
 gravely, 
 
 ' k And pray, Miss Cains, how do you know — I confess I did 
 not — that Mr. Dermot possesses this accomplishment?" 
 
 " Because he told me so. I always believe people when 
 they praise themselves." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy laughed. 
 
 " Professional jealousy," he said. " I know you are a very 
 fine chess-player, Miss Cains, and I shall put Mr. Dermot to the 
 test. Dermot, come and play a game with Miss Cains, whilst 
 I look on and act as umpire." 
 
 " With great pleasure," replied Mr. Dermot, rising and 
 bringing forth the little chess-table, which he placed before 
 Miss Cains. She laughed and shook her head, and looked very 
 becomingly lazy, but for all that she yielded, and sat up, and 
 the game began. The two antagonists had not proceeded be- 
 yond the first two or three moves, before a letter was brought 
 in to Mr. Kennedy. He walked away to read it, and instead of 
 returning to the chess-table, fell in a brown study by the fire. 
 Sybil sat at the other end of the room reading, but ere long 
 her book fell on her lap. She felt troubled, and she would have 
 found it hard to say why she felt so ; but the quiet current of 
 her former life seemed gone forever, and that pleasant stream 
 now flowed in restless waves. Why was it so? . 
 
 Oh ! how long ago seemed the days when Sybil was light- 
 hearted. Even her first grief — Count de Renneville's treachery 
 — now wore a remote look. When Sybil thought of that time, 
 she asked herself if she had ever loved him ! It seemed to her 
 that her liking for him was essentially subordinate to his exist- 
 ence as a being of romance. Take that halo from him, and her 
 worship died out, like a spent fire, leaving naught save cold 
 ashes behind. She still smarted from the sense of his betrayal, 
 but that was wounded faith, not wounded love. Her daily 
 quarrel with Mr. Dermot had scattered the last vestiges of that 
 regret, as the first gale of winter scatters autumn leaves. 
 
 " I have lived an age since the count went," thought Sybil.
 
 sybil's second love. 239 
 
 And so she had. She had learned that trouble and untruth 
 can take more than one aspect. She did her best not to blame 
 her father in her thoughts, but she felt that, by introducing Mr. 
 Dermot as his brother, he had wronged his child. He had 
 taught her that deceit can sit by the domestic hearth — a cruel 
 lesson, which should ever be spared the young. And that Mr. 
 Dermot, how he had played his part, how he had cheated her 
 out of her affection and confidence, caring nothing for either all 
 the time. And Sybil remembered how she had cried on his 
 shoulder, how her heart had beat as she held bis letter in her 
 hand, and thought, " This is the letter of a a friend." It was 
 bitter, very bitter. But who had spared her ? Miss Glyn had 
 stung her to the very heart, and gone, leaving the arrow in the 
 wound. Sybil was not jealous, or envious, but she could not 
 forget — what woman could ? — that her lover had preferred her 
 friend to her. Was Miss Glyn's prophecy to be fulfilled, and 
 was Blanche ever to become her involuntary rival ? That would 
 be hard. She looked at her. Miss Cains was leaning back in 
 her chair, her hand uplifted, and staying so in the act of making 
 a decisive move. Mr. Dermot, bending forward, his arms folded 
 on the table, looked intently at his fair enemy's face. A sud- 
 den suspicion flashed across Sybil's mind. What proof had 
 she that Blanche's dislike was returned ? Suppose he admired 
 and loved her ? 
 
 There had been a time when such a thought would have 
 filled Sybil's heart with gladness — when she would have re- 
 joiced to think that her uncle and her friend should unite in 
 love and life, but now that thought was odious. He had taken 
 so large a share of her father's affections, that she disliked him 
 as much for that as for his other misdeeds, but that he should 
 even attempt to take her friend, or think of it, was not to be 
 endured. 
 
 She rose up and went up to them, resolved to disturb his 
 contemplation, pleasing though he found it ; but Mr. Dermot's 
 eyes never moved, and yet he must have heard, if he had not 
 seen her. It was all his insolence, his hateful, odious insolence. 
 She stood by the table, a small square one, scarcely larger than 
 the chessboard that rested upon it. An impulse, an irresistible 
 impulse, and certainly neither a wise nor a right one, made 
 Sybil walk deliberately on as if nothing stood in her way. With 
 a crash the table capsized, the chessmen flew about the room, 
 and Sybil herself would have stumbled, and perhaps fallen, if 
 Mr. Dermot had not caught her in his arms.
 
 240 stbil's second love. 
 
 " Let me go ! " she said, struggling like a wild thing. "Let 
 me go ! " 
 
 But he did not let her go, for he was seriously alarmed, 
 Sybil was pale as death, and trembled in every limb. All his 
 old tenderness seemed to come back. 
 
 " Hush, my darling ! " he said, softly, " hush ! What ails 
 you ? Why, you were walking straight into the fire, and with 
 that thin dress, too. I will not let you go, so sit down here." 
 
 Sybil yielded, and sat down, but she kept her eyes bent. 
 Her father and Miss Cains stood near her and addressed her, 
 but she did not answer one word. 
 
 " What was it ? " anxiously said Mr. Kennedy, looking at 
 Mr. Dermot. 
 
 Mr. Dermot shuddered as he replied : 
 
 " She did not see the table, and was walking into the fire." 
 
 " You look as bad as she does, Ned ! " 
 
 "I saw a lady burned to death last year, and one does not 
 foro-et such sights. — " Come, Sybil, there is no danger ; look up, 
 it is all right, is it not ?" 
 
 He stooped and looked into her face. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, it is all right," said Sybil, with a little shiver ; 
 " but I feel very ill ! — very ill ! " 
 
 " But her dress is on fire," cried Mr. Kennedy. " I smell it 
 burning." 
 
 '• No, it is not, I put my foot upon it at once." 
 
 It was Mr. Dermot who spoke. 
 
 " I think I had better go up-stairs," said Sybil, nervously. 
 
 " I shall go with you, dear," said Miss Cains. 
 
 " No — no, pray do not," replied .Sybil, with something like 
 eagerness. 
 
 " Miss Cains did not insist ; but the door had scarcely 
 closed on Sybil, when she rose and followed her out. 
 
 " Ay, do, Miss Cains," said Mr. Kennedy, anxiously. " I do 
 not fancy the child being left alone." 
 
 There was a pause after Miss Cains was gone ; then Mr. Ken- 
 nedy said very seriously : 
 
 " Something ails Pussy." 
 
 " She is excitable," answered Mr. Dermot. 
 
 "She has not recovered that affair with Count dc Renne- 
 ville — and yet it was all her own doing." 
 
 Mr. Dermot shook his head impatiently. 
 
 " What has she to regret in him?" he asked, with some 
 scorn.
 
 Sybil's second love. 2il 
 
 " No, no, I do not agree with you there, Ned. He was 
 handsome, and gentlemanlike, and courteous, and lie had that 
 chivalrous air which girls like — he "was a count too ! No, no, I 
 do not wonder at Sybil — only, if she regrets him, why did she 
 pack him off"? I have been thinking that this matter might be 
 mended; and do you know, Ned, I think you are just the man 
 to do it" 
 
 "If" 
 
 " Yes, why not ? " 
 
 " I would see her dead first ! " 
 
 Mr. Dermot spoke with considerable energy, and was evi- 
 dently what Mr. Kennedy was in the habit of calling " right 
 down in earnest ! " He whistled, and scanned attentively his 
 friend's flushed and almost angry face, and a suspicion that Mr. 
 Dermot was smitten with Sybil himself found its way into Mr. 
 Kennedy's mind. 
 
 " Well, well," he said carelessly, " Sybil will not want for a 
 husband ; she is a decidedly pretty girl ! " 
 
 Mr. Dermot was silent, and did not seem to have heard 
 him. 
 
 " And you know, Ned, what a clever little pussy she is ! 
 always reading, and when she talks, as wise as if she were forty. 
 I uever saw such a girl ! " 
 
 " Pretty ! " said Mr. Dermot dreamily. " Yes, she is pretty, 
 and, as you say, she is clever ; but, James, she is better than all 
 that — she is simply charming ! " 
 
 His voice was low, and very musical, as he spoke — music 
 that seemed to come from the depths of his heart. His look 
 was soft and vague, and his lip smiled. He seemed in one of 
 those unguarded moods, when man or woman must needs be- 
 tray the most jealously cherished secret. He did not see Mr. 
 Kennedy's smile, he did not detect the triumphant light in his 
 eye ; his own look was bent on the fire, and seemed to read 
 something there, a tale full of sweetness and alluring promises. 
 
 But subtle, and often deceiving, is the language or a human 
 face. The story which Mr. Dermot read was past, not future. 
 
 " How that girl would have tempted me seven years ago ! " 
 he thought. 
 
 He did not think, " Here is an exquisite prize within my 
 
 reach — let me make an effort to secure it." For a moment he 
 
 went back to his youth, and put Sybil there, as we put the 
 
 heroes and heroines of our favorite books in our daily life. For 
 
 11
 
 242 sybil's second love. 
 
 a moment she was his young mistress, despotic hut fond, and 
 adored. The next she was Sybil, and he Mr. Dermot, who once 
 more forgave her her little caprices, and cordially wished her a 
 good husband. 
 
 "And she has money, too," continued Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 " And that," gayly said Mr. Dermot, " will get her counts by 
 the dozen." 
 
 " To be sure, and so it ought," stoutly replied Mr. Kennedy, 
 who was a true worshipper of Mammon. 
 
 On going up to her room, Sybil had flung herself on her 
 bed, and there bui'st into piteous sobs and moans, meant for no 
 one's ear ; but she had forgotten to lock her door, and when it 
 opened and admitted Miss Cains, Sybil started up, flushed, 
 ashamed, and angry, and with a hasty gesture threw back her 
 dishevelled hair, and looked almost sullenly at her friend. 
 
 '"Come, I will have none of those looks," said Miss Cains, 
 going up to her, and speaking gayly, and yet very firmly ; " I 
 know I am an intruder, but I will intrude because you are ill, 
 not in body, but in mind. I know what. ails you, Sybil, and I 
 come to tell you this: you must never — never think of that 
 man ; he is not good ; he is not true, and he does not like you." 
 
 She spoke in a clear, cold, and deliberate voice, which con- 
 founded Sybil, and with the strangeness of her address, kept her 
 mute. Miss Cains continued — 
 
 " I know you think me hard — the fact is, I am a surgeon 
 now, and can show no mercy." 
 
 " I ask for none," replied Sybil — "I only ask for peace." 
 
 " That means, ' Leave me ; ' but I cannot leave you, Sybil, 
 because you are in grief. Good Heaven ! what can you see in 
 him ? " she exclaimed, impatiently — " a doubtful name, a bad 
 temper, and nothing to redeem either." 
 
 Sybil stood up, and looked firmly at Miss Cains. 
 
 " Blanche," she said, " do you like him ? " 
 
 " You mean, do I love him ? " said Miss Cains, with flashing 
 eyes — " no, Sybil, and no, ten times." 
 
 Sybil flung her arms around the neck of her friend, and 
 burst into piteous sobs and tears. 
 
 " Then pity me — pity me ! " she said, "for I do." 
 
 "Do you?" said Blanche, and if Sybil had looked up, she 
 would have thought that her friend looked very moody indeed.
 
 sybil's second love. 243 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 It is a strange thing this love, which so often mates the 
 wise lose their senses, and which often, too, gives wisdom to 
 fools. A subtle, penetrating power, it has pervaded earth since 
 the days when she was young, and it is as fresh and pure in this, 
 her ripe maturity, as when she rose smiling from the depths of 
 chaos, so wondrous and so fair, that the veiy angels acknowl- 
 edged her beanty. Mysterious Eros ! well might the old world 
 make a god of thee, and tremble before thy might, when it saw 
 thee rule the human heart, and laugh every other passion to 
 scorn ! A very chameleon thou hast been, pure with the deli- 
 cate, coarse with the low — with many impassioned or sublime. 
 What aspect hast thou not taken 2 and under which hast thou 
 not triumphed ? Happy they who pass unscathed through thine 
 ordeal, and who do not leave some grace, some virtue, some 
 charm of mind or heart in these scorching fires ! They are 
 amongst the chosen ones, and may boast. They are the gold 
 refined, which has gone through the crucible of Time and Sorrow. 
 
 Through this ordeal Sybil was now to pass; and how she 
 would come forth — nobler, better, and more generous, or fretful, 
 embittered, and scorned, was still a tale to tell. When she 
 awoke the next morning, she felt very ill, and would not rise. 
 Her whole frame ached, and she was in a parching fever. On 
 her own authority Miss Cains bade her friend keep her room, 
 and took her post by her bedside — a zealous and unremitting 
 nurse. 
 
 " But you must make haste and get well again, please," she 
 said gayly, " for, thanks to you, I am fast losing Mr. Kennedy's 
 good graces. He decidedly resents my being so well when 
 Pussy is ill." 
 
 Sybil smiled languidly, then colored, and turned her flushed 
 face to the wall, as a step passed by her door. But Miss Cains 
 would not see this, for there was a subject on which they must 
 not speak. 
 
 After a few days Sybil got well again, and resolved one morn- 
 ing to go down-stairs to breakfast. But she did not say so to 
 Miss Cains, and whilst that young lady was dressing Sybil softly 
 stole down. There was no one in the dining-room when she 
 entered it, but a blazing fire burned on the hearth, and Sybil, 
 who felt chilly, knelt on the rug before it. Presently the door
 
 24.4 sybil's second l@ve. 
 
 opened, but Sybil would not look round. She knew it was not 
 her father, nor Blanche, nor any of the servants — breakfast would 
 not be ready for an hour yet — she knew it was Mr. Dermot. 
 
 " Why, you little fire-worshipper ! " he said gayly, " are you 
 up and well again ? " 
 
 He now stood by her side. And Sybil, still kneeling, looked 
 up at him. Nature had bestowed a handsome face and person 
 on Mr. Dermot ; but gravity or care could darken his aspect in 
 a very remarkable manner. On the contrary, joy, and merely 
 pleasure, lit up his countenance, and gave it a brilliancy and a 
 glow which made him look ten years younger. As she saw him 
 now, Sybil had never seen him before ; Mr. Dermot looked the 
 happiest of men. There was happiness in his eye and happi- 
 ness in his smile ; Sybil felt both amazed and dazzled. 
 
 " I am very well again," she said ; " but what ails you, Mr. 
 Dermot ? " 
 
 " Sit up, and I will tell you ; but you remember the seal of 
 Alexander on Ephestion's lips?" 
 
 " I never repeat what you tell me," gravely said Sybil. 
 
 " I knew it, Sybil, I knew it," he said with a peculiar smile. 
 " "Well, then, wish me joy, my little friend, wish me joy — for I 
 am free ! " 
 
 Sibil heard him with a shock of joy. Free ! Mr. Dermot 
 was free ! Then it was not at least a sin to think of him. She 
 wronged none save her own poor self by so doing. From her 
 heart she cried: 
 
 "Thank God!" 
 
 He took her hand and raised it to his lips. 
 
 " What made you so cross so long? " he asked with a smile. 
 
 Sybil trembled. A wild, passionate joy, an undercurrent of 
 tumultuous happiness, passed through the abiding sorrow at her 
 heart. She knew very well Mr. Dermot did not love her ; but 
 hope said that he might some day. Just now he looked as if 
 she were very dear to him. "Why might she not grow dearer 
 still? 
 
 " What made you so cross so long?" he asked again. "I 
 mean, so cross with me." 
 
 At another time Sybil would have answered him with a 
 &au:y look and still more saucy speech ; now she could not. 
 She withdrew her hand from his, and looked at the fire and 
 smiled, as she answered : 
 
 " I really don't know, Mr. Dermot ; forget and forgive it."
 
 sybil's second lote. 245 
 
 " Confess it was Miss Cains' s doing." 
 
 Sybil reddened. 
 
 "It was my own perversity, and nothing else," she said 
 gravely. 
 
 " Then do not be perverse again, my dear," he said very 
 kindly. 
 
 "Ah ! if he knew — if he knew ! " thought Sybil. 
 
 Her eyes were bent on the fire, and she did not perceive 
 that Mr Dermot's searching look was fastened on her face. Sybil 
 was much altered in manner, even more than in looks; his cu- 
 riosity was roused, and he was endeavoring to read in her 
 saddened countenance the secret of her trouble. 
 
 " Sybil ! " he said suddenlv, " do vou regret Count de Rcu- 
 neville ? " 
 
 " Regret a traitor, a false gentleman ! " cried Sybil with quick 
 resentment. 
 
 " No, you could not — I knew it ; well, thank God, you too 
 are free ! Ah ! what would you feel if it were not three months, 
 but three years, that were blotted from your life ? Look, Sybil, 
 here is my liberty." 
 
 He took out and showed her a packet of letters. For a while 
 he held it poised in his hand, and his face was dark and severe 
 all the time. 
 
 " What wretched stuff there must be in them!" he said 
 moodily. " What a prostration of man's mind and pride that 
 love makes ! I am ashamed, Sybil, when I think of it." 
 
 His face was flushed. Sybil look at him, then at the letters. 
 How she longed to read one, but one, the fondest. It would 
 have pained her, but still she would have liked to see in what 
 language Mr. Dermot wrote of love to the woman he loved. 
 Wretched woman, how had she forfeited his heart ? How did she 
 feel, now that it was lost and gone, and she was left all desolate 
 and forlorn ? Mr. Dermot took the letters, and thrust them one 
 by one into the fire. No pity, no remorse for that dead love 
 held him back. His look was scornful, his smile derisive. 
 One after another the flame caught these letters and consumed 
 them, and when the last lay a black parched scroll before him, 
 Mr. Dermot breathed a relieved sigh and said : " Let that folly 
 be forgotten— eh, Sybil ? " 
 
 Svbil awoke as if out of a dream. 
 
 "Folly, was it folly?" she said. 
 
 " Arrant folly ! And let us hope that Edward Dermot is
 
 246 sybil's secootd love. 
 
 now~a wise man. I should not like, poor fellow, to see him fal. 
 into such a trap again ! " 
 
 " I will die before he suspects any thing ? " thought Sybil, 
 looking at him. 
 
 " Now what does that look mean ? " he asked quickly — "tell 
 me, Sybil." 
 
 Sybil turned red and pale ; but she was spared the trouble 
 of replying ; the door opened, and Blanche Cains appeared on 
 the threshold. Mr. Dermot looked round slowly, and Sybil saw 
 tbem exchange a cold, long look of dislike and defiauce. 
 
 " What are you doing with my patient, Mr. Dermot ? " asked 
 Blanche, smiling as she came forward. 
 
 "Admiring her, Miss Cains," he composedly replied. " She 
 looks a very rosy patient, just now !" 
 
 "She is undutiful," said Blanche. "I had not the least 
 suspicion she was down here." 
 
 But Sybil did not blush or look conscious. She knew she 
 had not come down to see Mr. Dermot, or to be with him ; and, 
 in her pride, she felt above the reach of accusation implied or 
 spoken. So she gave her friend a clear look, and smiled as she 
 answered, 
 
 " I wished to surprise you all." 
 
 That manner she preserved all day. She remained com- 
 posed, rather silent, but very calm. She did not speak, unless 
 when spoken to, and then she seemed to come out of some far 
 dream, not melancholy or unpleasant, but very remote. 
 
 " Something ails Pussy," said Mr. Kennedy to his friend. 
 
 lie seemed puzzled, but was not half so much so as Mr. 
 Dermot. This was a new Sybil — not the merry little Sybil of 
 old days — not the blushing Sybil, whom the Count de Renneville 
 had wooed ; still less the pale, sad Sybil whom he had betrayed, 
 but another Sybil, calm and thoughtful, who lived in a world 
 beyond Mr. Dermot's ken, and did not seem unhappy there. 
 
 The day was wet and uncongenial. Mr. Dermot had little 
 to do ; some portion of his time was spent in the drawing-room, 
 and as his curiosity was roused, he would probably have devoted 
 that portion to studying and perhaps questioning Sybil, if Miss 
 Cains had not pertinaciously sat by her friend, and kept him 
 aloof. Not one second did she leave her, till Mr. Kennedy asked 
 for his game of chess in the evening. Then, indeed, she rose 
 from her scat on the couch near Sybil, but evident was her re- 
 luctance.
 
 SYBIL'S SECOlsTD LOVE. 247 
 
 " Come and look at me playing," she said coaxingly. 
 
 " No ; I cannot endure chess," replied Sybil. 
 
 " Then Mr. Dermot will keep you company," pointedly said 
 Miss Cains, looking at Mr. Dermot in the act of rising. 
 
 "The very thing I intend doing, Miss Cains," he answered, 
 sinking down into her vacant place. 
 
 "Why are they so at war! " thought Sybil, again detecting 
 the unfriendly look they exchanged. 
 
 Miss Cains complained of the heat of the fire, and wanted 
 to have the chess-table drawn nearer to Sybil, who was at the 
 other end of the room ; but Mr. Kennedy misunderstood her, 
 and removed the table still farther from the couch where Mr. 
 Dermot and Sybil were sitting. Miss Cains looked scarcely 
 pleased, and Mr. Dermot smiled, leaned back, and at once 
 addressed Sybil in a subdued key, which could not well be 
 heard near the chess-table. 
 
 " "What ails you — what is it, Sybil ? You are an altered 
 girl, you know. You are like the wedding guest in the ballad — 
 some one has told you a tale that has made you sadder and 
 wiser. Do tell me what it is, Sybil?" 
 
 Sybil looked up at him, and smiled in proud and sad triumph. 
 She wondered how he would have felt if he knew — she won- 
 dered, but scarcely doubted. Could Mr. Dermot — could any 
 man resist the temptation of knowing himself beloved by a 
 girl young, pretty, and whom he had always both liked and ad- 
 mired ? 
 
 " Do tell me ! " he entreated. " I, too, should like to know 
 that wonderful story." 
 
 " No one told it to me," replied Sybil, looking at him wist- 
 fully. 
 
 She felt not the least, not the faintest temptation to enlight- 
 en him. 
 
 "I could live years in this house with him, and keep my 
 secret," she thought proudly. 
 
 "Then you invented it, you little witch. If I were a paint- 
 er, I would make a picture out of you just now." 
 
 "Oh, if he admires me, I am undone," thought Sybil, get- 
 ting frightened ; but Mr. Dermot did not go on with admira- 
 tion. 
 
 "Sybil," he said, a little impatiently, "what did she mean 
 by keeping so close to you all day ? Don't let yourself be cha- 
 peroned by her, if you please ; and above all, don't make a 
 stranger of your friend."
 
 248 Sybil's second love. 
 
 His friendly look, so frank, so open, excluded both hope and 
 fear. Sybil need never fear Mr. Dermot, for he would never be 
 so near her secret as to guess it ; and how could she hope if she 
 feared not? 
 
 " No one chaperones me," she began — she did not continue ; 
 the door opened, and Narcisse appeared, bringing in a letter for 
 Mr. Kennedy. Mr. Dermot looked up surprised. 
 
 " This is not post-time," he said. 
 
 " It is not," replied Narcisse ; " but the weather has been 
 rough, and the packet was late — so at least the postman told 
 me." 
 
 " I believe he is an oyster, though," suggested Mr. Dermot, 
 gravely. 
 
 " He is," quite as seriously replied Narciss*e, with whom 
 this blessed universe was little better than a receptacle for his 
 favorite Testacea. 
 
 In the mean while, Mr. Kennedy was reading his letter. 
 Blanche, whose move it was, seemed absorbed in a brown study. 
 
 " Dermot! " excitedly said Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 In a moment, Mr. Dermot, who had been watching him, was 
 by his side. Sybil looked at them both with a beating heart. 
 Something, she did not know what, but something was at hand. 
 Mr. Kennedy held the letter in his hand, and Mr. Dermot, bend- 
 ing over his shoulder, read it. It was brief, but significant, no 
 doubt, for Sybil saw them exchange perplexed looks. 
 
 " Where is the Times ? " asked Mr. Dermot, quickly. 
 
 Sybil rose swiftly, and brought it to him. He took it with- 
 out thanking her. His eye ran rapidly over it ; she saw that 
 he singled out the shipping news. 
 
 " The Mountain Fairy sails to-morrow," he said, eagerly ; 
 " I can cross over to-night." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy stared. 
 
 " There's no packet." 
 
 " There are fishing-boats," replied Mr. Dermot, gayly. 
 
 " The weather is rough." 
 
 "It has been rough," decisively said Mr. Dermot; "I do 
 not care about the swell. I have two hours before me," he 
 added, taking out his watch. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy looked very grave, but made no further objec- 
 tion Mr. Dermot's gray eyes sparkled with excitement. Sybil, 
 who stood by him unheeded, felt, with a dull despair, that he 
 was going away — away far from St. Vincent, Heaven alone knew
 
 sybil's second love. 24:9 
 
 whither, and for how long ! She looked at him pitifully, in 
 very dreary earnestness, but he did not see her — he saw nothing 
 then. He took two or three turns about the room, then he left 
 it, and she could hear his quick step going down-stairs. Mr. 
 Kennedy, who still looked very grave, slowly followed him out, 
 and the two girls remained alone. Blanche came up to her 
 friend. 
 
 " Sybil," she said, you have been good, and brave — be so 
 till the last." 
 
 " He is going away," replied Sybil, who was ashy pale ; 
 " he is going away, Blanche ! " 
 
 " Never mind, child — he will come back, you know ; only, 
 for goodness' sake, do not betray yourself! " 
 
 " He would not see it, Blanche — he sees nothing — he is too 
 happy to go — did you see that ? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I saw it — let him go, then." 
 
 " He is going to Canada, Blanche. I know the Mountain 
 Fairy sails for Canada. I read it in the Times. The John- 
 sons have failed, or something of the kind, and he is going away." 
 
 She spoke in a low, dull voice ; she looked the picture of 
 misery. She had wished, she had hoped — for when can love 
 cease to do either? — and hope and desire were wrecked. He 
 was going away — when Avould he return ? — when would he 
 ever care for her now ? 
 
 " You will break down at the parting," said Miss Cains, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Oh ! no," very drearily replied Sybil ; " but all is over, 
 Blanche, and — and I suppose I did hope." 
 
 She sat down. A few minutes back she had felt almost 
 happy. A few minutes before he had sat by her, looking so 
 kind and so friendly. A few minutes before she had felt as if 
 happiness were within her grasp, if she but chose to seize it ; 
 and now, now where was it ? She looked at the blank before 
 her in mute despair. A few hours more, less by far, and Saint 
 Vincent would know him no more — his room would be cold 
 and empty ; his voice, his look, his step would be absent, and 
 where was her remedy ! Was she his sister, his wife, his be- 
 trothed ? She was nothing — forever nothing ! She rose with a 
 sudden, sharp cry. 
 
 " Blanche, I cannot bear it ! " she said. " I cannot bear it ! " 
 
 As she spoke the door opened, and her father entered the 
 Kom. Bis countenance was quite clear and pleasant again. 
 11*
 
 250 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Young ladies," lie said, " the traveller bade me wish you 
 good-by for him. He had no time to come himself. Miss 
 Cains, it was your move, I believe." 
 
 He sat down to resume the interrupted game of chess, but 
 Sybil would not let him. She twined her arms around his 
 neck with passionate eagerness. 
 
 " What is it ? " she said. " Have the Johnsons failed ? Is 
 he going to Canada ? Will he come back? What is it, papa, 
 do tell me, darling ? " 
 
 Sybil never questioned her father, and Mr. Kennedy never 
 spoke of business matters to his daughter ; but he was taken 
 by surprise. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " the Johnsons are going all wrong ; but 
 Dermot will be there in time, thanks to a friendly warning, and 
 of course he will come back, Pussy." 
 
 " When ?— when ? " 
 
 " A year hence, perhaps. Why do you ask ? " 
 
 "I had something to say to him," vaguely replied Sybil, 
 releasing her hold of Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 " Then you must write it," gayly said her father. " Miss 
 Cains, it was your move." 
 
 They resumed the interrupted game, and Sybil went and 
 sat alone on the couch where Mr. Dermot had asked her to tell 
 him the tale of the change he saw in her. The tale was told 
 now — told forever, Sybil felt. He would forget her in other 
 scenes, and that slight hold she had of him would perish in the 
 broad chasm of a year. He was free, and may be he would seek 
 some other bondage before they met again. Let him ! Hope 
 died in Sybil's heart that evening ; no slow, lingering agony 
 was hers, with days of health and strength between alternatives 
 of sick despair — but a sudden, violent death, that laid her inan- 
 imate and pale in that girlish bosom which had been her brief 
 sanctuary. 
 
 Mr. Dermot was gone ; he was really gone ; there was no 
 reprieve, blessed and unexpected, to that cruel fiat ; he was 
 gone, for a telegram came the next morning stating that he had 
 reached the English coast safely. 
 
 This was the second great bitterness in Sybil's life ; the 
 third was vet to come.
 
 sybil's second love. 25J 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 " For goodness' sake, Sybil, don't betray yourself, or Mr. 
 Kennedy must see it all," said Miss Cains to Sybil tbe next 
 morning. 
 
 Perhaps Sybil would not have cared much if her father had 
 seen it all, as Blanche said ; but she felt no anxiety on that head 
 for the excellent reason that her father was not in Saint Vin- 
 cent, and she told her friend so. 
 
 " He is gone up the north for a few days." 
 Miss Cains looked surprised, and scarcely pleased. 
 " It seems the fashion in this house for people to go away 
 and not bid those who stay behind a good-by ! " she remarked 
 dryly 
 
 " " Oh ! Blanche, do not think papa meant a slight, pray do 
 not ! " earnestly said Sybil. 
 
 " Oh ! no," carelessly replied Miss Cains. " You do not 
 think he has gone to England about those Thompsons, do you, 
 Sybil ? " 
 
 " Xo, he is gone up the north to buy rape-seed, or something 
 of the kind." 
 
 Miss Cains looked very thoughtful, and Sybil relapsed into 
 her dull, silent misery. He had crossed over safely on that 
 clear, cold, moonlit night ; he had taken the early express train ; 
 he was in London by this, may be on board the Mountain Fairy. 
 Sybil had seen the Thames shipping once ; she remembered that 
 wonderful scene — the forests of masts, the shooting boats, the 
 glassy water, the hissing steamers, the smoke and fog, and the 
 pale sun gleaming over all; and as she sat with Blanche Cains 
 mechanically plying her crochet-needle, she was not in the 
 warm drawino--room of Saint Vincent. She stood on the 
 wharf; she saw Mr. Dermot in the wherry which shot from the 
 docks. He talked and laughed with the boatman, he shook 
 his tawny hair, and his gray eye lit, but she could not hear him, 
 she was so far awav. The steamer was reached. Strong and 
 agile, he leaped on the deck, and made his way amongst the 
 passengers. Then he went down the narrow stairs to his cabin, 
 and vanished. A bell ranar, the deck was cleared of strangers 
 the steamer made her way midst the multitude of ships ami 
 boats around her. Down the broadening Thames she went ; the 
 open sea was reached, coasts vanished, and the Mountain Fairy
 
 252 sybil's second love. 
 
 « 
 
 moved alone, a solitary speck between sea and sty, soon to be 
 lost in the vast Atlantic. 
 
 " I cannot bear it ! — I cannot bear it ! " cried Sybil again, 
 and she flung her work away, and threw herself sobbing and 
 moaning across the table. 
 
 Miss Cains was concerned. 
 
 " Now, darling, do not — do not," she said ; " do not, there 
 is some one coming." 
 
 Sybil looked up, flushed and joyful. Could it be ? — was he 
 returning ? 
 
 " No, no," quickly said Blanche, " this is a lady — a visitor. 
 I do not know her, but I heard her talking to Denise." 
 
 Sybil dried her tears, and stood with her back to the light, 
 The drawing-room door opened, and admitted Mrs. Mush. That 
 lady had long ceased to be mentioned in Saint Vincent ; Sybil 
 had mentally given her up two months ago, and was taken by 
 surprise on seeing her. Still, she did her best to conceal this 
 feeling, and welcome her cousin. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Mush," she said, going up to her, " how long 
 you have been coming ! " 
 
 " No, my dear, I was a very short time ; I had a remarkably 
 good passage." 
 
 " Oh ! but I mean bow long this visit of yours has been de- 
 layed. We. have been expecting you ages." 
 
 Mrs. Mush sat down without answering. She had been 
 spending the winter with Mrs. Steele, and had been sick of her 
 life, poor thing ! and on Mr. Kennedy's first summons, she had 
 hastened back to the calm and pleasant world of Saint Vincent, 
 and now Sybil reproached her for having delayed her visit so 
 long ! It was awkward, but a life of poverty had taught Mrs. 
 Mush the wisdom of not being too frank, so she answered in her 
 light way, 
 
 " My dear, if I had come earlier, I should not have been 
 ' finished ' by Mrs. Steele. Now I am as perfect as she can 
 make me, and, indeed, I am so improved that you will not 
 know me. But what have you been doing, my poor child? 
 You look quite ill ! " 
 
 " I have not been well, Mrs. Mush." 
 
 Mrs. Mush had heard of Count de Renneville, and kindly 
 laid Sybil's altered looks to his account. 
 
 "Ob! that love!" she mentally exclaimed, "that love! 
 Well, my dear," she cheerfully resinned, "I bring news — great 
 news ! "
 
 sybil's second love. 253 
 
 Sybil's heart beat. News ! what news could there be save 
 of him ? She looked eagerly at Mrs. Mush. 
 
 " Yes, great news," resumed Mrs. Mush. " Your aunt, Mrs. 
 Glyn, has at length accomplished the aim and ambition of her 
 life. She has learned how to apply capital, and she is setting 
 up on her own account within half an hour's walk of Saint Vin- 
 cent. Herring curiug, butter salting, are to be Miss Glyn's oc- 
 cupation. She has some thousands, you see," added Mrs. 
 Mush with a sigh, for she, poor thing ! had but hundreds, " and 
 she naturally wants to get rid of them." 
 
 " I am very sorry," said Sybil, vaguely. 
 
 " Yes, but do not tell her so, my dear. She is delighted. 
 And now, you naughty girl, why do you not introduce me to 
 Miss Cains all this time ? " 
 
 Sybil looked confused, for Blanche had been sitting aloof 
 with rather an offended air, but she now came forward smiling 
 and bore unflinchingly Mrs. Mush's keen look. It was a very 
 keen look. It seemed to wish to read Blanche Cains thoroughly ; 
 to wish, but scarcely to succeed. The languid blue eyes, the 
 calm smile, the easy grace, baffled Mrs. Mush. So she dropped 
 her scrutinizing gaze, and became chatty and pleasant, whilst 
 Sybil gave a few orders for her reception. 
 
 Drearily unwelcome was Mrs. Mush's arrival to the poor girl. 
 For now sorrow had to be locked up in her own breast, a mute 
 and fettered, but rebellious captive. 
 
 "Oh ! if it were but night," she thought, " if it were but 
 night, and I could cry and moan to my heart's content ! " 
 
 Poor Sybil ! you are young still, very young, and you do 
 not know the silent grief. You want to complain and cry aloud, 
 and you rebel under the social hypocrisy of life — that inexo- 
 rable law which bids you be still, and tells you to smile, though 
 your heart is aching ! 
 
 But slow though were its hours, the dreary day did at length 
 go by ; Mrs. Mush's fluent talk, Blanche's easy gaycty, were both 
 silent now, and Sybil was once more alone. Then, in the silence 
 of her room, did the poor child's heart at length find a sort of 
 dreary peace. It found more. When, after kneeling and pray- 
 ing, her tears had ceased to flow, and when with them the bit- 
 terness of her sorrow had partly passed away, Sybil's pride and 
 conscience awoke. What was this grief for a man who did not 
 love her ? Why were these tears shed for one whose kind, 
 careless smile of wonder she could imagine and feel, even in the
 
 25-i sybil's second love. 
 
 solitude of her room ? He did not love her — he never would 
 love her now. She had had a chance, aud that chance was gone ; 
 was she therefore to sit lamenting till his return ? She must 
 not, and she would not. She remembered the cold, reproving 
 glance of Blanche Cains as they had parted this evening, and 
 she could not bear to feel that she had deserved the censure of 
 that look. Blanche was not asleep yet, and Sybil would go and 
 tell her that if she had been weak, she was brave and strong 
 again. 
 
 Miss Cains was gently falling asleep when her room door 
 opened softly, a step crossed the floor and stopped at her bed- 
 side, and a voice said almost in her ear : " Blanche, are you 
 sleeping ? " 
 
 She started up, and saw Sybil standing by her side, a candle 
 in one hand — the other held back the bed-curtain. 
 
 " Now," coolly said Miss Cains, " you want but a dove on 
 your shoulder to be Lord Lyttleton's ghost ! " 
 
 " I am a ghost," replied Sybil, in a sad, low voice ; " for I 
 come from another world, Blanche. I could not sleep without 
 telling you so. You need never look at me again as you looked 
 this evening — never!" 
 
 Miss Cains seemed perplexed. 
 
 ''What does it mean, Sybil ?" she asked. "You know I 
 often do not understand you — what does it mean ? " 
 
 Sybil had put down her light — she clasped her hands with 
 passionate fervor. 
 
 " It means," she said, " that I have asked God to help me, 
 and that He is helping me fast, Blanche. It means that I love 
 Mr. Dermot, beyond my life, beyond any thing mortal, but that 
 I will conquer that love and prevail over it, if it be in a woman's 
 heart and power to do so ! Never look at me again as you 
 looked this evening — never, Blanche ! " 
 
 Miss Cains sank back on her pillow. 
 
 " It is no use," she half sighed ; " all that is beyond me — 
 how you can love him, is beyond me — and how, adoring hhn as 
 you do, you can try and give him up, is beyond me, too." 
 
 " "What would you do, Blanche ? " asked Sybil, in simple 
 wonder. 
 
 "Why, I'd have him!" coolly replied her friend. "Let 
 him go to Canada? Not I. He should stay here, Sybil, and 
 tremble to let me out of his sight. There never was a thing I 
 wished for I did not get ; and, if that thing happened to be 
 Greeneyes, why, I should have it too."
 
 sybil's second love. 255 
 
 Sybil's lids full — she blushed deeply. 
 
 " I see you are quite shocked," said Miss Cains ; " but re- 
 member, my dear, that, luckily for decorum's sake, my fancies do 
 not run that way. I defy any man to say that I ever adored him 
 — and, oh! if I were you, how I would* hate that cold Mr. Der- 
 mot, who could live in this house so long and not fall desper- 
 ately in love with you ! " 
 
 She clinched her small hands as she spoke, and as she sat up 
 in bed, her golden hair flowing around her fair face, her eyes 
 fixed in scorn, her lips compressed, Miss Cains looked a terrible 
 young beauty. 
 
 " No, you do not understand me," said Sybil, with a bright 
 wondering smile ; " not at all, Blanche. I would die first. Of 
 course I could have had that sort of liking from Mr. Dermot. It 
 would have been sadly easy," she added with a pretty curling 
 lip ; " for I am sure he falls in love very readily." 
 
 Blanche colored steadily. 
 
 " Indeed ! " she said, with some scorn. 
 
 " Oh ! yes," calmly resumed Sybil ; " and he admires me, 
 too, in a sort of way, at least ; but, Blanche, I would hate that. 
 The liking I would have, if I could have any, is the liking he 
 could not help, which would come to him, and conquer him, and 
 humble him — as I have been humbled — not that which, by 
 seeking, I could give him. What ! " she added, her clear voice 
 ringing, and her dark eyes flashing, " what ! do I love him so, 
 that it seemed this evening like tearing my heartstrings asunder 
 to try and prevail over that love ? — and shall I be liked a few 
 days because I have dark eyes and a pretty face ! Blanche, it 
 would be the deepest abasement and humiliation." 
 
 Miss Cains did not answer at once ; she sat with her cheek 
 on her hand, and her eyes full on Sybil's glowing face and 
 bright eyes. 
 
 "I envy you," she said at leno-th — "yes, you may look 
 amazed, but I envy you ; happy girl, to turn evil into good — 
 sorrow into a blessing ! " 
 
 "Happy girl!" said Sybil, with the tears rushing to her 
 eyes — " happy girl, did you say ? Oh ! Blanche, if you knew ! 
 — if you but "knew ! " 
 
 She turned her face away, for she would have had no one read 
 there the bitterness of her heart. Oh ! how that heart ached at 
 what might have been, and must never be ! — how it repined 
 over inevitable fate ! Oh ! if she could — if she but could have
 
 256 sybil's second love. 
 
 changed lots with that unknown future rival ! — perhaps some 
 poor, struggling girl, who had never worn a silk dress, who had 
 not a shilling for her dowry, and whom Mr. Dermot would prob 
 ably love ere they met again. 
 
 " Yes, of course, if I knew, 1 ' said Miss Cains, a little im 
 patiently ; " but as you do not tell me, I do not know." 
 
 " And I will not — must not tell you," said Sybil, firmly ; 
 " if I wish to prevail, and conquer myself, I must be silent. ] 
 must forget, and not think — not speak. Henceforth, Blanche, 
 his name is that of a stranger — let him stay away, wed whom 
 he will, love whom he pleases, I care not, because I must not 
 care — I have no rig-ht. It would be wicked — it would be 
 wrong." 
 
 Her voice faltered a little as she said the last word. She 
 shook, too — it might be with nervousness, or with cold. 
 
 " You are shivering," said Blanche — " I should not have 
 kept you there so long. Undress, and come in to me, will you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I will," said Sybil, eagerly ; "I am not so brave as 1 
 look. I want comfort and consolation, Blanche." 
 
 " Of course you do, my poor little white dove," softly said 
 Miss Cains — " of course you do." 
 
 Sybil slipped off her clothes, and softly crept in to her friend. 
 She was shivering still, and the fond and warm embrace that re- 
 ceived her did her good. At first she cried bitterly, then she 
 sobbed a little ; and when both sobs and weeping were over, she 
 kissed Blanche, and blessed her, and softly fell asleep. 
 
 But dreary, long, and bitter, and wakeful, was that night to 
 Blanche Cains. Sybil, without knowing it, had stung her to the 
 heart; she had stirred up those dark waters, which sleep in many 
 human lives, till a word, a look, an allusion, bring them up to 
 the surface, and with them a dreary past, or a sullen future. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Wearied with grief and weeping, Sybil slept both late and 
 eoundly. When she awoke Blanche was standing by her side 
 diessed, and looking so brilliant, and so gay, and so handsome, 
 that Sybil was fairly dazzled.
 
 Sybil's second love. 257 
 
 " Well, Miss Kennedy," said Blanche, airily, " what do you 
 bring back to us poor mortals from the ivory gates ? " 
 
 " Blanche, you are splendidly handsome," was Sybil's grave 
 reply. 
 
 "Aral? " 
 
 " You are ; you look triumphant and happy — quite glo- 
 rious ! " 
 
 Miss Cains looked at herself in the glass with calm compla- 
 cency. " Yes, she was not amiss, and she confessed it ; but it 
 was time for Sybil to rise — would she do so, and let her friend 
 help her to dress ? " 
 
 Sybil accepted the offer. The morning was calm and gray. 
 The last frost had melted from the earth, and spring was at 
 hand. The wind was so soft — a balmy breeze, just strong 
 enough to dry the humid soil, but impotent to check the young 
 life that longed to come forth once more. 
 
 In all, save its promise of renewed life, Sybil was like that 
 day. She was calm and mild, and she looked as if the season 
 of her tears had gone by, but the gladness and the joy of spring 
 were not with her. You might have found these, indeed, in 
 the countenance of Miss Cains. The roses on her cheeks could 
 have vied with any that ever blew. Stars were not brighter 
 than her eyes, and as for her mirth, it was mischievous and 
 gleeful — " kittenish," said Sybil. 
 
 " I cannot help it," said Miss Cains, shaking her handsome 
 head. " I do not kuow when I have felt so light and so gay. 
 I hope nothing is going to happen — T mean nothing sad," she 
 added, a little gravely ; " that would be a cruel wakening, 
 would it not, Sybil ? " 
 
 The words were scarcely uttered, when Denise entered the 
 dining-room, where the two girls waited for Mrs. Mush. She 
 brought a letter for Blanche. Miss Cains looked nervous, and 
 turned pale as she took it, and turned it in her hand. 
 
 " 'Tis from England," she said ; " and I do believe it brings 
 bad tidings. Denise looked like fate, did she not ? " 
 
 " Read it, Blanche." 
 
 " Why, so I will, only I like to speculate first. I wonder 
 what it is about. Is my aunt dead, and has she left me her 
 long-promised inheritance ? Why, no — there is no black seal to 
 the envelope, you see. Then I suppose it is from some kind 
 friend or other, offering me a situation of thirty pounds a year. 
 Yes, it must be that."
 
 253 Sybil's second loye. 
 
 Sybil wound her arms around the neck of her friend. 
 
 " You'll not take it, you know ! — you'll never leave me ? " 
 
 " Of course not — not even if you marry," replied Miss 
 Cains, with some little bitterness in her tone. 
 
 Sybil's thoughts flew to the sbip that was now tossing on 
 tbe great ocean, and a cloud came over her face. 
 
 " I shall never marry," she said. 
 
 " "Well, but suppose I do," said Miss Cains. " It is not 
 likely, I grant ; but still the man may be found who will be in- 
 sane enough to take me." 
 
 " Then if you marry," softly said Sybil, " I shall take a house 
 near you, and help to rear and pet your children, my darling. 
 But pray, do read the letter." 
 
 Miss Cains tore the seal open, and did read the letter, and 
 that twice over ; after which she handed it to Sybil, and went 
 to the window, and stood looking out on tbe garden, with her 
 back turned to her friend. 
 
 Sybil, too, read the letter twice, but once sufficed to master 
 its contents. It was from a cousin of Miss Cains, and apprised 
 her that their aunt, Miss Mary Cains, was lying dangerously ill, 
 and urgently requested ber presence. Beyond this the letter 
 said little. The writer, it was plain, expected compliance, for 
 she only spoke of not delaying. 
 
 Sybil's heart fell. 
 
 " You must go," she said. 
 
 "Tell me to stay, and I will!" cried Blanche, embracing 
 her fondly. 
 
 " You must go ! " said Sybil again ; " but, oh ! Blanche 
 when will you come back ? " 
 
 " Ah, there it is — once I go, I am not free ; but my darling, 
 I will do my best, I will." 
 
 " I know you will," said Sybil, " and I suppose you must 
 go at once." 
 
 " Oh ! not to-day," replied Miss Cains. 
 
 Not to-day meant to-morrow. It was scarcely in Sybil's 
 power to hide her distress. This second parting within so short 
 a time grieved and saddened her inexpressibly ; but she was too 
 generous not to struggle against feelings which could only add 
 to her friend's distress, so she smiled bravely in her face, and 
 said with a sort of cheerfulness, 
 
 " Tell me how I can help you." 
 
 " Well, dear, you must come up to my room, and we shall 
 see."
 
 Sybil's second love. 259 
 
 They did go up to Miss Cains's room, and ere long her 
 trunk was emptied on the floor, and Sybil's arras were heaped 
 •with the materials of a good day's work. 
 
 " It is a shame, it is ! " said Miss Cains, remorsefully, " to 
 make you slave so ; but you see I shall have no time at Aunt 
 Cains's— shall I ? " 
 
 " Of course not — besides, it makes me happy, Blanche, to 
 work for vou." 
 
 "I do' believe it does," said Miss Cains, her blue eyes glis- 
 tening. " I do believe that of all good, generous, devoted little 
 creatures you are peer. But I shall help you, you know," she 
 added, reverting to the question of work. " Shall we sit up 
 here or go down to the drawing-room? We could soon put it 
 out of sight, you know." 
 
 "Let" us sit up here," said Sybil. "Denise shall make us 
 a fire." 
 
 "And Mrs. Mush will not be prying," said Blanche. "I 
 prefer it." 
 
 The whole of that day, therefore, they sat together in Miss 
 Cains's room, and Sybil worked for her friend, who was too 
 restless herself to apply her needle very assiduously. Twenty 
 times she took up her task, and flung it down again with some 
 impatient word, and all the time Sybil sewed steadily on, till 
 dusk came, and compelled her to leave off. 
 
 " And now," she said, as she folded up her work, " do come 
 and sit by me, Blanche, and let us have a chat," 
 
 " We must go down," said Blanche, " or Mrs. Mush will be 
 offended." 
 
 "Mrs. Mush does not get offended," impatiently said Sybil. 
 
 " My darling, Mrs. Mush is one of the powers that be, do 
 not let me alienate her if you wish me to return." 
 
 Sybil yielded with a reluctant sigh. Why was she to be de- 
 prived of this her last evening ? Mrs. Mush was very brilliant, 
 but unsupportable was her brilliancy to Sybil. As Miss Cains's 
 departure drew near, it took gloomy proportions, and also be- 
 came an event of strange magnitude. She had felt Mr. Dcrraot's 
 departure more deeply^ but not in the same way. By going he 
 had only set the seal on an inevitable separation. This journey 
 which Blanche was going to take seemed, on the contrary, the 
 herald of some unknown calamity. What if Miss Mary Cains 
 had a lingering illness, and insisted on keeping her beloved 
 niece ! Could Blanche resist, or Sybil complain ? And if she 
 stayed away, what was Sybil's life after this I
 
 260 sybil's second love. 
 
 Very dreary, therefore, was this sepai'ation ; every thing, in- 
 deed, was dreary now in Sybil's life. Every thing bore the 
 mien of a calamity, and came in the shape and aspect of a woe. 
 Happiness is too often like a string of orient pearls — the aggre- 
 gate of precious units ; but break the silken thread that binds 
 them, and they roll away, scattered by the pitiless hand of Fate, 
 never more to be gathered and worn by the happy wearer. 
 Thus it now seemed to fare with Sybil. The precious 
 thread — as precious as any Lachesis ever spun, or Atropos ever 
 tore as uadcr — was broken, and one by one her pearls left her, 
 poor, forsaken, and alone. Thus, at least, she deemed it, dark- 
 ening her lot by voluntary exaggeration, as it is the fashion of 
 the young. 
 
 Miss Cains was to leave the next morning, 'so she retired 
 early, in order to lose none of her slumbers. But Sybil could 
 not sleep, her heart was too full; besides, the wind was moaning 
 fearfully. A gale had risen with sunset, and now lorded it with 
 might and main. It was a terrible night at sea. Ah ! how did 
 it fare with the Mountain Fairy ? Miss Cains quarrelled with 
 Sybil's pale face when she came down. 
 
 " You have not been sleeping ? " she said, severely. 
 
 " No, I could not for the wind — for the gale, I should say." 
 
 " I heard nothing. "Was it a gale ? " 
 
 Miss Cains could put the question, for the morning was re- 
 markably calm. 
 
 " Yes, it was a gale," said Sybil. 
 
 " I suppose there will be a swell," said Miss Cains, with a 
 little shiver, " and I always am so ill." 
 
 She gave her breakfast cup a forlorn look, that made Mrs, 
 Mush laugh. 
 
 " Indeed, Mrs. Mush," ruefully said Blanche, " I consider 
 this no joke. I suffer mental agonies on board — not physical, 
 mind — but mental. Visions of suicide haunt me — now, that is 
 not pleasant, is it ? " 
 
 " Not exactly, my dear ; but take your breakfast all the 
 same." 
 
 " Yes," said Miss Cains philosophically, " of course I must. 
 And after breakfast comes the parting, eh ! Sybil ? " 
 
 This was spoken with a little sigh ; but Sybil could not sigh 
 — her heart was too full for this relief. 
 
 Breakfast was scarcely over, when the ladies were informed 
 that the carriage, which was to convey Miss Cains away, was at
 
 sybil's second love. 201 
 
 the door. There had been some talk of Sybil and Mrs. Mush 
 accompanying her, but this Blanche successfully resisted. The 
 distance was too great, and Sybil had a slight cold — she would 
 not hear of it, and her will at length prevailed. 
 
 " I suppose it is time for me to go," said Miss Cains, rising. 
 
 Sybil rose too. 
 
 " Let us have a turn in the garden first," she said. 
 
 Blanche nodded assent, and they went out together arm-in- 
 arm. The morning was mild, but dull and cheerless. The sun 
 was hidden in gray clouds, and now and then shot forth a cold, 
 lurid ray, that vanished almost as soon as seen. The garden 
 paths were strewn with tokens of the night's tempest. Young 
 green branches, that would never bud forth into leaf, shrubs that 
 had been stripped and scattered by the wind, met them on every 
 side; but saddest of all was a shattered nest, around which a 
 bird flew with a plaintive cry and fluttering wings. The young 
 unfledged bird had been killed by the fall which had spared the 
 parent. 
 
 Sybil felt sick and faint, and turned away with a shudder. 
 Even Miss Cains, albeit not a sensitive young lady, said, ner- 
 vously, 
 
 " I wish that bird would not scream so." 
 
 " Is it an omen?" said Sybil, in a low voice. 
 
 " Nonsense ! An omen of what ? " 
 
 Sybil did not answer. They had walked to the end of the 
 garden and back, and reached the house once more. 
 
 "Let us take another turn," she said, "you have time 
 enough." 
 
 Blanche looked at her watch, and said yes, she had time. 
 When they had once more reached the end of the garden, Sybil 
 spoke. 
 
 " I don't know why I feel this parting so terribly, Blanche. 
 I know you will come back — and yet there is something that dins 
 and murmurs in my car that you will not." 
 
 " Shall I take a vow ? " asked Miss Cains, with much gravity. 
 " Vows, you know, do what nothing else can." 
 
 Sybil shook her head. 
 
 " No, that will not do," she said ; " the vow could only bind 
 your will, which I do not doubt. It does not bind Fate, or, to 
 speak in more Christian fashion, circumstances." 
 
 They had reached the house again, and Sybil looked at it 
 with strange, wistful eyes.
 
 262 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Oh ! if I could keep you there," she said, passionately. 
 " If I could be sure of you in these four walls ! " 
 
 Blanche was moved, and stooping, kissed the flushed face 
 that was half raised to hers. 
 
 " I do not think there ever was a friendship like ours," cried 
 Sybil, ardently ; " was there, Blanche ? I am sure it is beyond 
 the love of sisters ! Oh ! yes, far beyond it. Oh ! if I were but 
 my own mistress, we should never part. Blanche, we sball live 
 together when I am of age, and you shall be the fair one, and I 
 the dark one, for we shall dress alike." 
 
 Blauche laughed. 
 
 " If you laugh, I shall get affronted ! " said Sybil, a little 
 hotly. 
 
 " Which Heaven forbid ! And now, my dear, shall we not 
 part?" 
 
 Sybil frowned, and despotically replied, 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, but what shall we do, dear ? " 
 
 " Take another turn, and then we shall see." 
 
 Miss Cains looked at her watch again. 
 
 " Why do you look at your watch ? " jealously asked Sybil. 
 
 " To see the time." 
 
 " You are in a mighty hurry to leave me." 
 
 " No, dear, but Time is. We shall take another turn, how- 
 ever." 
 
 Again they went to the end of the garden ; but Sybil's tears 
 flowed the whole time. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Blanche, " we should have parted at once." 
 
 " Yes," replied Sybil, " we should indeed." 
 
 When they reached the house again, they entered it, went 
 through the cloister, and came out at the gates where the car- 
 riage was waiting. 
 
 "And now we part!" said Miss Cains, hurriedly. "Good- 
 by, Mrs. Mush ; good-by, Sybil — give me a kiss, and let it be 
 over ! " 
 
 " Yes, now we part — and we part forever ! " sobbed Sybil. 
 " Shall I, must I never see you again, Blanche ? Oh ! why — 
 why do you leave me ?" 
 
 She spoke in piteous accents, she clung to her friend with a 
 convulsive and entreatinff embrace. 
 
 Miss Cains turned ashy pale, and averted her face, and 
 trembling, tried to disengage herself.
 
 SYBIL S 
 
 'S SECOND LOVE. 2G3 
 
 " Mrs. Mush, take her away," she implored. _ " Come, dar- 
 ling, let me go. I tell you that unless I die I will come back 
 to you. There, one kiss, and good-by." ■ 
 
 Mrs. Mush came forward and gently separated them. In- 
 deed, Sybil, though weeping pitifully, offered no resistance. 
 Miss Cains hurried into the carriage, and shut the door quickly, 
 but at once looked out at Sybil. "Raising her veil, she showed 
 her once more the fair face she loved so dearly, and Sybil, look- 
 ing at it, thought : 
 
 " I shall never see her again ! — never ! " 
 
 That sad little word still echoed in her heart as the carriage 
 drove away. And who knows, Sybil, perhaps, you have indeed 
 seen your last of the friend of your youth ? Perhaps something 
 more cruel than death — more pitiless than space or time — shall 
 henceforth divide you ! 
 
 -+*+- 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Ox the very day of Miss Cains's departure from Saint Vin- 
 cent, Miss Glyn came and took possession of her new home, and 
 sent word to her cousin and her niece that she should be very 
 happy to see them. Sybil, who was languidly sitting with a 
 book in her lap, and her feet on the fender, looked up, and 
 seemed interested. 
 
 " Let us go and see aunt to-day, Mrs. Mush," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Mush asked for no better ; so they got ready, and went. 
 A beautiful, solitary road, passing between stately oaks, with 
 wild-looking slopes on either side, where sheep were scattered 
 midst the furze, led them to the lonely brick house which Miss 
 Glyn had elected for her home. About this dwelling itself 
 there was no beauty ; its garden was rude and old-fashioned, 
 but the savage look of the surrounding landscape half-charmed, 
 half-awed Sybil's heart. A long, lonely moor, a brawling river, 
 tumbling rudely midst rocks and stones, and in the distance 
 some Celtic ruins, which, Sybil knew well, bounded Miss Glyn's 
 horizon. It was a strange place for business, to say the least 
 of it. 
 
 Miss Glyn came forth to meet them. 
 
 " I am glad to see you, Mrs. Mush," she said, with a certain 
 formality — " why, Sybil, how pale you are !"
 
 264 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Miss Cains went off this morning," replied Sybil, with a 
 quivering lip — " her aunt is very ill." 
 
 " I ana heartily glad of it ! " said Miss Glyn, not taking time 
 to think to which portion of Sybil's speech her answer gram- 
 matically referred — " I never was better pleased in my life ; and 
 I hope Miss Cains will never enter my brother-in-law's house 
 again ! " 
 
 Tears rushed to Sybil's eyes, and she uttered a reproachful, 
 " Oh ! aunt." 
 
 " Well, my dear," recklessly said Miss Glyn, " that is my 
 way — I never get over a dislike — never ! " 
 
 There was a candid want of reasoning in this declaration, 
 which mollified Sybil. Of course, if her aunt invoked prejudice, 
 and took her stand thereon, argument was at an end. So she 
 did her best to forgive Miss Glyn's want of reason, and at once 
 changed the subject by looking around the half-empty parlor in 
 which they stood, and saying, with a sigh : 
 
 " How unsettled you are still ! " 
 
 " My dear, I am in my element ; you have not seen my 
 counting-house, have you ? — why, of course not ; come this way 
 — I saw to that first." 
 
 She led them into the next apartment ; a high desk, a high 
 stool, a bureau, with formidable drawers, ledgers, inkstands, and 
 all the appurtenances of business, graced this room, which Miss 
 Glyn surveyed with infinite complacency. 
 
 " This is my boudoir" she said, " and here, Sybil, you will 
 find me at my fancy work whenever you come to see me." 
 
 Sybil looked dismayed. 
 
 " Aunt," she cried, " what are you going to do ? " 
 
 " My dear, it would be no use telling you — you have no 
 sort of talent for business ; even Mrs. Mush will not bo affronted 
 if I say that business is not in her way." 
 
 Mrs. Mush, who looked unusually grave and pensive, nodded, 
 as much as to say, " Oh ! of course not ; " but not one word did 
 she utter. 
 
 "You see," resumed Miss Glyn, who was itching to tell 
 them all the time, "the mistake of modern commerce is unity ; 
 we shall never be right till we go back to the plan of the middle 
 ages when merchants were princes ; they ruled cities, they were 
 ambassadors — they were virtually masters of Europe. Now all 
 that is altered, thanks, I firmly believe, to the combined action 
 of bankers and the aristocracy. The bankers have got the
 
 sybil's second love. 265 
 
 power — I mean the moneyed power — which belongs to com- 
 merce, and not to them. What is a banker ? — just tell me that. 
 A banker is a thief," added Miss Glyn, with sudden energy ; 
 " he makes money, and does not earn it — his fortune does not 
 mean honest labor ; but I am taking you beyond your depth," 
 she added, with a calm smile at her own absurdity — " however, 
 this you can understand : I mean to deal not in one thing, but 
 in many things. Rape-seed I shall grow and sell ; herrings I 
 shall cure and sell, too ; and butter I shall salt and sell ; and I 
 shall deal in that not appreciated, though most invaluable ma- 
 nure, sea-weed. We import guano," added Miss Glyn, with 
 great contempt, " and we neglect one of the most powerful fer- 
 tilizing agents, sea-weed — absurd ! " 
 
 Sybil looked at her aunt, then at Mrs. Mush, who was look- 
 ing more and more grave, and she knew not what to think, 
 much less what to say, so she was silent. 
 
 " Suppose we have a cup of tea here ? " suggested Miss Glyn, 
 who was evidently smitten with the charms of her counting- 
 house — " yes, we will. Rose, bring the tea-things here." 
 
 The order was obeyed, and a most comfortless meal, to 
 Sybil's seeming, followed. The tea, the cream, the toast were 
 excellent indeed, but Miss Kennedy felt frozen out of all cheer- 
 fulness by these tall ledgers, and that grim desk, and that deep- 
 looking bureau. Mrs. Mush's silence, too, struck her as some- 
 thing ominous and strange, and she was glad when evening 
 came, and her companion rising, said it was time for them to be 
 going. Miss Glyn did not detain them. It was plain that her 
 mind was too full of business for hospitality to rule it. 
 
 " My dear," she said to Sybil, as she gave her a parting kiss, 
 " you must not come to me for a week, please. After that 
 time I shall be very glad to see you ; but until then I shall bo 
 too busy to see anybody — so good-night, and good-by." 
 
 " Good-night, aunt," said Sybil, rather hurt. Indeed, she 
 was so far displeased, that she spoke to Mrs. Mush on the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 " Now that is unkind of aunt," she said, warmly ; " I should 
 have liked to be of use to her, and she treats me like a stranger." 
 
 "Poor Miss Glyn !" said Mrs. Mush, very sadly — "did you 
 hear her ? — why, Sybil, she is going straight on to ruin — 
 rushing upon it. And the worst is, that if one were to say a 
 word to her, she would only rush the faster." 
 12
 
 266 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Then — then you think her business will not do?" faltered 
 Sybil. 
 
 " Think ! — I am sure of it, child ; but there is no help for 
 it," 
 
 At first Sybil was much troubled, then it occurred to her 
 that Mrs. Mush might be mistaken ; then, with the lightness of 
 youth for all that concerns business, she drove the subject from 
 her mind, and reverted to her own weighty troubles. She had 
 little else to think of that whole week, for Miss Cains did not 
 keep her promise, or, at least, no letter from her cheered Sybil. 
 Mr. Kennedy never wrote, so Sybil had little else to think of 
 besides her loss, and Blanche's strange silence. 
 
 At the end of the week assigned by Miss Glyn, that lady 
 sent a message to Mrs. Mush, requiring her presence that same 
 evening, and exonerating Sybil -from coming. Mrs. Mush, who 
 had heard that Rose, Miss Glyn's maid, was strongly suspected, 
 of a flirtation, guessed why she was wanted, and why Sybil was 
 not, and answered Sybil's perplexed look of inquiry with a mys- 
 terious smile. 
 
 " But why must I stay ? " asked Sybil — " I feel so dull, Mrs. 
 Mush." 
 
 "My dear, your aunt is a most discreet person — moreover 
 she is convinced you are a mere baby, so you must remain be 
 hind." 
 
 "Very well," said Sybil, sadly. 
 
 " I shall not be long," promised Mrs. Mush, and away she 
 went. 
 
 But promises not to be long seem made to be broken. 
 There was much to say in Mrs. Mush's favor. She found Miss 
 Glyn in a toweling rage in the counting-house, sitting on the 
 high stool, now converted into a judicial bench, and the delin- 
 quent Rose standing in tears before her. It was a flirtation — 
 it was worse — said Miss Glyn ; Mrs. Mush hoped not, and ques- 
 tioned Rose, and tried to calm her mistress; and still time 
 passed, and Sybil remained alone. 
 
 There are clays and hours when solitude is a burden and a 
 pain. Other days there are, indeed, when there is enchantment 
 in her aspect. Days of hope or desire, when the green wood, 
 the wild shore, the barren heath, or the misty mountain-side 
 arc a delight and a passion, when the dearest presence brings 
 weariness, and no voice is so sweet as the silence through which 
 Nature speaks. But, as we said, there are also days and hours
 
 svbil's second love. 2G7 
 
 wheu solitude is a trouble and a torment, and such a day and 
 such an hour were these to Sybil. 
 
 Soon after Mrs. Mush left it began to rain; no drizzle was 
 this, but a long, sustained shower, that beat against the window- 
 panes, and made Sybil feel nervous and miserable. She rose to 
 close the shutters herself ; as she opened the window, a gust of 
 stormy wind came in, covering her face with rain, and she caught 
 a glimpse of a drenched landscape, gleaming wet, and shivering 
 through the dark night. Then it vanished, for as she undid the 
 hasp, the shutters flew to with a crash, and Sybil hastily closed 
 the window and went back to the lire. She felt very wretched, 
 and the voices of the servants, laughing in the kitchen below, 
 added to her misery. They were gay and happy, and Sybil en- 
 vied them. 
 
 " I wish Mrs. Mush would come back," she thought querul- 
 ously. 
 
 She took up a book, but she could not read ; she took up 
 her work, but she could not sew. So she sat listlessly, and 
 looked at the fire. But as she sat by that lonely hearth, the 
 little mistress of the house felt that she was not meant for soli- 
 tude. Her heart ached at all these vacant places which she saw 
 and filled up with her mind's eye. Here her aunt, her father, 
 Mr. Derinot, and Blanche had sat together, or in turns ; and now 
 they were gone, scattered, to meet no more, perhaps, and no 
 one wrote to her, and she felt wretched indeed. 
 
 "And yet that is my lot," thought Sybil sadly, "for of 
 course I shall not marry, so I shall grow old alone; but perhaps 
 dear Blanche will not marry either. And then we could be to- 
 gether — two old maids, but not unamiable or censorious." 
 
 Another thought followed on this — Sybil saw a stormy sea, 
 a ship tossed by the seething waves ; then she started up, 
 trembling with grief and pain, and, to drown the sound of the 
 gusty wind, she went to her piano, opened it, and played the 
 merriest Irish tune she could think of. But there is always a 
 plaintive note in the gayest Irish music — a sound of lament 
 which easily deepens into a wail. This Irish air, though merry, 
 was wild, and wildness is akin to sorrow. Every time Sybil 
 came back to this sad note, she lingered over it, until it swelled 
 into a dirge so sad and lamentable, that she rose frightened], and 
 would play no more. As she turned from the instrument, she 
 stood still, mute, breathless, awestruck. The door which she 
 faced had opened, and, standing on its threshold, with tho
 
 268 sybil's second love. 
 
 gloom behind him, she saw Mr. Dermot. He was haggard and 
 pale, and dripping, as if the sea-waves had that moment cast him 
 forth. 
 
 Never did Sybil forget the passionate joy of that moment. 
 At a glance she saw it all. Mr. Dermot was not gone — he was 
 not going. He had come back once more. She sprang toward 
 him, welcome in her whole aspect. 
 
 " Oh ! I am glad, very glad to see you ! " she cried. 
 
 Her eyes beamed, her lips quivered, and her flushed face 
 was radiant with happiness and delight. All this Mr. Dermot 
 saw, but vaguely and coldly. He went to the fire, took a chair, 
 and began drying himself. 
 
 " Are you — are you ill ? " faltered Sybil, frightened at his 
 face. 
 
 " No, thank you — only wet." 
 
 " You are not going away again ? " she half-whispered. 
 
 Their eyes met. He was struck with her breathless look, 
 but he did not understand it. 
 
 " No," he replied, gravely — " I am not." 
 
 Joy, tumultuous in its excess, filled Sybil's heart. She forgot 
 her struggles, her boasted victory, now lost forever; she was 
 only conscious of exquisite bliss ; but she did not dare to speak 
 — she looked at the tire, and tried to still the beatings of her 
 heart. A few minutes passed thus. "When Sybil shyly looked 
 up at Mr. Dermot, she was struck with the settled gloom of his 
 looks. Suddenly her great joy was stilled, and slowly her heart 
 sank within her as she watched him. There was somethiuor in 
 that rio-id countenance which her thoughts called " ominous." 
 An omen means a sign of good or of evil, but custom prefers the 
 sad significance of this word to its happier meaning. It did not 
 occur to Sybil that Mr. Dermot was the bearer of happy tidings. 
 She read trouble and woe in the look of his gray eye, and every 
 time he moved, or seemed about to speak, her heart leaped up 
 within her. 
 
 " I thought — we thought you were gone to Canada," she 
 said at leno-th. 
 
 "I was to go, but I shall not go now." 
 
 Sybil turned crimson, and looked down, and again felt that 
 she was trembling with guilty joy at this confirmation ; but he 
 made a motion. She thought he was going to speak, and up 
 jumped her heart agairt. He was silent, and Sybil's emotion 
 subsided. Perhaps nothing had happened, after all !
 
 sybil's second love. 2G9 
 
 " You are very wet," she said, timidly — " it is raining hard." 
 
 He shivered as he bent over the fire, and Sybil thought that 
 he looked very cold and ill. 
 
 " Pray take something hot," she said, with her hand on the 
 bell, but his hand laid on her arm checked her. 
 
 Sybil started. Mr. Dermot looked very cold, but his hand 
 felt like hot iron through her muslin sleeve. 
 
 " You are feverish," she said. 
 
 " I believe I am, but that is nothing." 
 
 Svbil felt sick and faint. If that -was nothing, there was 
 something then. She trembled, and almost longed to cry : 
 "Tell me all — I know it is dreadful, but tell me all at once." 
 
 And it was as if Mr. Dermot read the meaning of her anx- 
 ious face, and wistful eye, for he looked at her in a way so sad, so 
 penetrating, and so strange, that Sybil's full heart overflowed. 
 
 " Oh ! "what is it, Mr." Dermot I " she entreated — " oh ! tell 
 me, what is it ? " 
 
 " I bring sad news, Sybil." 
 
 Sybil rose to her feet, and clasped her hands wildly. 
 
 " My father is ill ? " she cried, and her look added — " he is 
 dead." 
 
 Mr. Dermot understood her, for he replied quickly : 
 
 " He is alive — and well," he added, after a pause. 
 
 A deep sigh showed Sybil's relief. 
 
 " No, it is not that," resumed Mr. Dermot, recalling her to 
 the bad tidings she had forgotten. 
 
 Sybil sat down again, sobered at once. 
 
 " He has lost money — he is insolvent, perhaps?" and her 
 voice faltered as there passed before her the dismal and ghastly 
 spectre, doubly drear to a merchant's daughter of commercial 
 ruin. 
 
 "No, Sybil, it is not that either," sadly said Mr. Dermot; 
 " it is worse — far worse for you." 
 
 Was her father guilt v ? She gave him a scared look. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot," she said, nervously turning and twisting her 
 little fingers together, " you torture me — better kill me, and put 
 me out of my pain." 
 
 " I will, Sybil — your father is married." 
 
 " Married ! " she said, half smiling — " married ! " 
 
 Stupor was her first feeling. Then she remembered the 
 fondness, the caresses, the adoration, which had been hers for 
 years — all rushed back to her in one moment, and with them
 
 270 sybil's second love. 
 
 the thought of this strange woman, now standing forever be- 
 tween her and her father's love. She raised her hands to her 
 face, and cried till the tears ran through hex fingers. Mr. Der- 
 ruot let her Aveep unchecked. Those tears would do her good, 
 and he knew it. He let her weep, and all the time he looked at 
 the fire with a gloomy, forbidding stare. 
 
 " Married ! " at length said Sybil, looking up. " Mr. Der- 
 mot, have you said it — have I heard you rightly ? I thought 
 you were gone to Canada — is it true that you are sitting 
 there talking to me ? " 
 
 " It is true," he replied, " and it is true that your father is 
 married ; and you will need a friend, my poor little Sybil, and 
 friend and brother I will be to you." 
 
 lie stretched forth his hand, as if to draw her to his side 
 and shield her from some unknown danger. But Sybil drew 
 back, and started to her feet, frightened, pale, and breathless. 
 " There is more," she cried ; " tell me all — tell me all ! " 
 " Ay, there is more indeed," said he, rising and standing 
 before her. " You did not ask Avho was your father's wife ? " 
 " No," she answered faintly. " Tell me." 
 " Blanche Cains." 
 
 Sybil's eyes flashed ; she drew herself up. 
 " That's not true," she cried ; " you always hated her, and 
 now you slander her, Mr. Dermot. . It is not true." 
 
 Sybil looked very handsome as she stood thus and there — 
 flushed, brilliant, and indignant. But little cared Mr. Dermot 
 for any woman's beauty then. 
 
 " 'Tis true," he said doggedly, and with a look so severe 
 and stern, that it carried conviction with it. 
 
 Sybil felt that her blood turned cold and curdled within 
 her. The shock which her lover's treachery had begun was 
 consummated by this deeper and darker treason of her friend. 
 Something then died Avithin her Avhich was to know no second 
 birth — a faith, a trust, a belief in others, which there once had 
 been, and which were to be no more. She looked at Mr. Der- 
 mot with tearless eyes and quivering lips, but she saw him 
 not. She saw nothing but the Avreck and miserable ruin of 
 the great passion of her life. Her friend was perfidious. The 
 heart of her heart was untrue. Her second self Avas false to 
 its other half. The world Avas at an end — for this treason 
 of a friend filled it with the trouble, confusion, and utter 
 darkness of earth's aAvful days.
 
 sybil's second love. 271 
 
 " But it cannot be ! " she cried, rallying suddenly with a 
 flash of hope ; " he disliked Blanche, you know he did — he 
 could not hear her." 
 
 *' He disliked her, did he ! " said Mr. Dermot, with a stern 
 smile ; " and he left this house to marry her, and she joined 
 him ten days hack to marry him. Oh ! yes, he hated her, 
 Sybil, and I have no doubt she hated him too." 
 
 He laughed. But Sybil's arms fell down loosely by her 
 side. Her tears could not flow now, but when she read the 
 past, when she saw in it how these two, her father and her 
 friend, had united to deceive her fond, faithful trust, she felt 
 a passion of despair, which fouud its vent in words. 
 
 " And so it was all false !" she cried, "all false. He liked 
 her all along, and all along, too, she whom I loved as I loved 
 my life, meant to supplant me in my father's love. I took her 
 in, poor and forsaken ; I defended her against every one and 
 every thing, and she meant to betray me, and she is now 
 my father's wife, and the mistress of this house." 
 
 " And she will wear satin, and velvet, and diamonds," 
 said Mr. Dermot, with a curling lip, " and think what a little 
 foolish Sybil that was who gave her the chance and let her in ! " 
 
 Sybil had thrown herself on the sofa and buried her face in 
 its velvet cushion ; she now looked up, with eyes that burned 
 angrily in her pale face. She was in that mood of grief, one of 
 its bitterest, when the heart scorns the relief of tears and lam- 
 entations, and longs for reveuge, which oftener falls on the 
 innocent than on the guilty. 
 
 " Yes, you triumph over me," she cried, " for you hated her 
 as much as I loved her, and that is why you came here to give 
 me this stab, and to laugu at me in my misery. Triumph if 
 you will. AVhat is it to you if she has deceived me ? — what is 
 it to you if she is my father's wife, and, as you say, will wear 
 velvet and diamonds?" 
 
 Her looks, her tone stung him. Anger, steady and sure, not 
 fitful, like hers, rose to his brow, and Milled there. 
 
 "You ask what it is to me, Miss Kennedy," he replied — 
 "why, simply this : she was your friend, but she was my mis- 
 tress, honored and beloved. She is your father's wife — she was 
 to have been mine." 
 
 ■ Sybil turned ashy pale. In one moment memory brought 
 back a host of images so shameful, so humiliating, so torment- 
 ing, that she could have died gladly to escape them. Oh ! in-
 
 272 sybil's second love. 
 
 supportable remembrance, it was the lover of Blanche Caina 
 that she had loved ! — it was to his mistress that she had told 
 it ! — it was in her arms that she had sobbed her grief to 
 sleep ! Sybil turned wild and desperate. 
 
 " Do you want to kill me ? " she cried. " What have I done 
 to you that you should treat me so ? — -what have I done?" 
 
 " And what have I done ? " he asked, indignantly. " I am 
 the bearer, not the author of evil tidings ; you questioned my 
 right to call to account this most perfidious of women, and I 
 told you the right she herself gave me three years back. How 
 and why does this offend you?" 
 
 " True," bitterly said Sybil, " why should the falsehood, dis- 
 sembling, and treachery, which for the last year have surrounded 
 me, offend me ? My father's conduct I will not'censure- — he is 
 my father after all, and not accountable to his child. But you 
 will allow me to ask why you, sir, who entered this house 
 under an assumed character, also chose to be so silent concern- 
 ing the relation in which you stood to my father's guest, and 
 my friend ! " 
 
 She spoke in a bitter, taunting tone, that stung him to the 
 quick. 
 
 " Miss Kennedy," he said, trying to curb down his auger, 
 but the thick veins in his forehead swelling, "you have no prac- 
 tical experience of life, and I suppose I must excuse you. A 
 man scarcely takes a girl for his confidant in these matters." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that I wanted to be yours ? " cried 
 Sybil, firing with indignation — " who asked for your confi- 
 dence ? But were you not bound to tell my father ? — you were, 
 sir — you know you were ! " 
 
 " I repeat it, Miss Kennedy, you have no practical expe- 
 rience of life. Was this secret mine only ? — it was a woman's, 
 and, therefore, doubly sacred." 
 
 "Then why do you tell it now?" asked Sybil — I can 
 tell you why, Mr. Dermot — to serve your revenge, not to 
 serve me." 
 
 Mr. Dermot looked at her in indignant amazement. 
 
 "You are an ungrateful girl," he said, losing all patience, 
 " and I should have left you to your fate. If I come back to 
 this house, Sybil, it is to guard you ; and if I were not here, 
 your bauishmeut would be her first act." 
 
 " Then she would be more merciful than you arc, Mr. Der- 
 mot," bitterly said Sybil. " I dare say she knows there are tor- 
 ments beyond endurance."
 
 sybil's second love. 273 
 
 She spoke in a tone of such misery, that his heart relented 
 once more toward her. Cruel, unjust, stinging as she had been, 
 he pitied her again, and again approached her with words of 
 comfort. 
 
 " Sybil," he said, " do not be so, my child ; let one wrong 
 bind us more closely — let her treachery to us both give each a 
 friend." 
 
 He spoke very kindly, but with a calmness beyond Sybil's 
 comprehension. 
 
 "Ah! how can you bear it?" she cried — "how can you 
 bear it ?— for, after all, you loved her." 
 
 " No," he said, his eyes kindling with much scorn — " T 
 loved a great, good, and generous woman, incapable of mean- 
 ness, and fraud, and perjury, but I never loved Blanche Cains." 
 
 " And she is my father's wife?" resumed Sybil, coming 
 back to that bitter thought — " mv father's wife — and what 
 ami?" 
 
 She sank down on a chair with a look full of woe. Mr. 
 Dermot sat down by her, and took her hand. 
 
 " Sybil," he said, in a low tone, " I will be true to you — 
 true as death — life is too false to swear by." 
 
 Sybil was ashamed of the sudden flood of joy his words 
 and looks brought to her heart. She scorned herself and that 
 love against which she ever strove in vain; that weakness which 
 even in this bitter hour made her feel glad to sit thus by him, 
 receiving this stranger's friendship. Suddenly she turned pale 
 as death. 
 
 "Mr. Dermot," she said, trembling with passionate emotion, 
 " tell me this. Did she ever betray me to you — tell you any 
 thing — any thing, in short — " 
 
 She looked at him with such scared eyes that he was 
 amazed. 
 
 " Tell me any thing ! " he replied. " Why, no, Sybil, how 
 could she? We had no private interviews." 
 
 " Never ? " said Sybil, relieved. 
 
 Mr. Dermot smiled. 
 
 " Never is too rigid," he said. "You remember the little 
 wood near the mill where you found me? I was waiting for her 
 — on the day when her head ached. You remember, too, the 
 sea-weed. Well, I had seen her that morning, and your sus- 
 picion was a true one; but, Sybil, you know how 1 felt then, 
 and you may sj'uess how she felt too. No fond, foolish lovers 
 12*
 
 27* sybil's second love. 
 
 were we, but secret enemies, politic and watchful. Chance threw 
 opportunities in our way, but need I tell you that she shunned, 
 and I did not seek their repetition." 
 
 " That will do," said Sybil, moving away slightly. " I want 
 to know no more. She was truer than I thought — " 
 
 " Truer ! " he interrupted with some passion. " Why, from 
 the first she decreed that you should not marry that wretched 
 young man ; her plan was not ripe yet, Sybil — your father was 
 not won, and she did not want to leave this house. So she 
 tempted that miserable count, and so played upon him, that he 
 wrote — when she held proof she sent it to me, and I came to 
 save you, and unconsciously abetted her. That was her truth." 
 
 " And you were jealous," said Sybil, moodily ; " that was 
 why you came — you were jealous, Mr. Dermot." 
 
 " Sybil, Sybil, if I had been jealous, I should have been 
 clear-sighted. Clever as she is, she could not have blinded a 
 jealous man. Besides, I am not all trust like you, Sybil." 
 
 Sybil raised her hands. 
 
 " Oh! how she deceived us both," she said with a sort of 
 despair, " false to you, false to me, false to him — to all." 
 
 Mr. Dermot lightly laid his hand on her arm. 
 
 " Sybil," he said significantly, " remember that she was free 
 when she married your father — quite free. I had surrendered 
 her letters, her portrait, and given her back her liberty. I have 
 no right to quarrel or complain, still less have I a right to tell 
 James Kennedy — who no doubt thinks he has married an angel 
 — that this angel was to have been mine. She told me I was 
 her first love, I feel sure she has told him so too. Let him be- 
 lieve her. It is too late to undeceive your father, Sybil, and it 
 would be useless and cruel to attempt it. Never shall a Avord 
 from me shake his belief in the wife he has married. I shall 
 be silent, and I know you will be silent too. And, Sybil, do 
 not suppose I would have said a word to you, if you, too, could 
 have been cheated into happiness. No ; happy are the deceived 
 when the trick is well done, only the sleight of hand must not 
 appear, and the juggler stand betrayed. I know nothing of 
 you, Sybil, if that false woman will ever win back your lost 
 love ; but for all that I had a right to bid you beware. She has 
 many arts, and she will do her best to charm you back. Sybil, 
 you may call it revenge if you will, but I shall hate — hate 
 mortally to see that traitress kiss and fondle you, and triumph 
 over your innocence. Let her attempt it if she dare !" added
 
 sybil's second love. 275 
 
 Mr. Dermot, stamping his foot angrily, " let her ! Sybil, I told 
 you once I would be your true friend, and when I learned her 
 treason — and it was chauce betrayed her — my first impulse was 
 to come here, and warn, and guard, and, alas ! that I should say 
 so, screen you." 
 
 "Why, what can she do to me?" asked Sybil. 
 
 " You ask it. The young, beautiful, adored wife of a man 
 of fifty. Sybil, I know what she will attempt — to charm you 
 back if she can, and, failing that, to hunt you out of your 
 father's house and heart. But, Sybil, I have some arrows iuiny 
 quiver she knows nothing of. Do not fear — do not fear." 
 
 He had been walking up and down the room with some 
 agitation. He stopped by her as he uttered the words, and in 
 all her desolation it was comfort to Sybil to look at his care- 
 worn, haggard face, and feel that even in this hour of indigna- 
 tion he had a thought for her. 
 
 " Did my father ask you to tell me ? " inquired Sybil, after 
 awhile. 
 
 Mr. Dermot came back and sat by her. 
 
 " Your father believes me on my way to Canada. He is in 
 Scotland with the bride, and I did not think it needful to let 
 her know that she will find me here on her return." 
 
 " But are you sure they are married ? " cried Sybil. 
 
 " Am I sure I live ! Sybil, I saw them. I was told of this 
 marriage, and I went and saw them." 
 
 " And she will come here, and you will be able to bear that, 
 Mr. Dermot?" 
 
 " Quite well," he coolly answered. 
 
 " Ah ! you never loved her as I loved her ! " 
 
 "Wisely concluded — say rather that my love died a thou- 
 sand deaths, and that yours has perished at one fell blow. My 
 poor little Sybil, would it were ended — would it were ! " 
 
 He spoke in such pitying accents that Sybil's full heart 
 melted. Sobs, passionate tears, relieved her. He took her 
 handkerchief and wiped the tears from her cheeks. It was as 
 if she had been a child, and he the fond, indulgent parent com- 
 forting it in its first grief. 
 
 " Do not ! " she said, " do not ! You too will cease to care 
 for me, kind as you are now ! My father loved me, and he has 
 put me by — and so will you, Mr. Dermot — so will you ! " 
 
 "I cannot even if I would, Sybil. You have been per- 
 verse, unjust, stinging even in your wrath, and yet I cannot 
 cease liking you."
 
 276 sybil's second love. 
 
 His words were kind, but his looks were kinder than his 
 words. Sybil trembled, and was glad to hear the voice of Mrs. 
 Mush below, and not run the risk of self-betrayal. This kind- 
 ness was sweet, but it was both a snare and a torment, spite all 
 its sweetness. Unconscious of her thoughts, Mr. Dermot said 
 quickly, 
 
 " Sybil, we must tell Mrs. Mush nothing — we know noth- 
 ing." 
 
 " Very well," replied Sybil. " Good-night, Mr. Dermot," 
 
 She left him so quickly that he had not time to remonstrate. 
 Swiftly, as if she were going up to meet the once loved one, 
 Sybil ran up to her room. Not a token was there, but it 
 wrung anew her poor bleeding heart. Again she wept, again 
 she sobbed, passionately upbraiding the deceiver, and feeling in 
 her very inmost being the cruel sting of a deep trust betrayed 
 and a great friendship broken. 
 
 Something beyond all this Sybil also felt. Her lover's 
 falsehood had been almost forgotten in the pangs of her second 
 love, and once more treachery had been to her as earthquakes, 
 shipwrecks, and murders, all things terrible and remote, and, 
 thank Heaven, never to come within her experience. It is a 
 common illusion. The man who shall be murdered ere the sun 
 has set, rises on his last day in happy ignorance of that fate. 
 Greed or revenge are already on their way, and he goes to meet 
 them as they come to meet him. It is to be in that railway 
 carriage, or on this bridge, or by that lane, or in his own house, 
 and he leaves the spot where he is safe to seek that on which he 
 is to perish. When the whole world has sat in judgment on 
 his fatal story, men remember how he resisted the entreaties 
 that might have saved him. His friends pressed him to stay ; 
 they seemed to have the forewarning he failed in, and heed- 
 ing them not, he went forth to meet the slayer. He too had 
 heard of murders, of shipwrecks, and strange perils by land 
 and sea, but he had never realized that they could happen to 
 him. His path was to be safe, his bark was to be charmed, his 
 life was to be inviolate. 
 
 So had Sybil felt, and now, like that victim of life's chances, 
 she hud not merely abetted her own undoing, but she lived to 
 see it. She had rejected every warning, she had smiled at the 
 " Beware " that might have saved her. She had forced Blanche 
 on her father, she had wearied him with her praises. She had 
 given the traitress the opportunity she might not even have
 
 sybil's second love. 277 
 
 sought for. These were bitter thoughts. But bitterer still 
 rose above them all the ghost of her dead friendship. She suf- 
 fered as only the young can suffer. The middle-aged are armor- 
 proof. They never trust or believe so entirely as to be quite de- 
 ceived. They know that to-day's friend may be to-morrow's 
 enemv. But the vomica, the younw who give the whole faith, 
 the whole trust, the whole love, the whole fond passion, or ar- 
 dent friendship, oh ! pity them! 
 
 "When Sybil remembered, through that weary night, how 
 she had unveiled her heart to Blanche Cains — how she had al- 
 lowed her to read every feeling, every thought as it sprang, and 
 when she remembered, too, the use to which this knowledge 
 had been put, and how she had been played upon, and trifled 
 with, and deceived, she moaned again in the bitterness of hei 
 anguish. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 " Sybil, did you sleep last night ? " 
 
 So spoke Mr. Dermot to Sybil when he found her in the 
 library the next morning. She had stolen down there early, 
 hoping for brief solitude, but he had seen and followed her, and 
 he now stood looking at her pale young face and sad eyes, with 
 grave and pitying attention. 
 
 " Xo, I did not sleep," replied Sybil ; " it rained all night, 
 and the wind blew and was a very gale — I could not sleep." 
 
 " Xo, Sybil, you could not sleep, for this was a sad night in 
 your little history. Sybil, is there no comfort for you ? " 
 
 " Xone," listlessly replied Sybil ; and she turned from him 
 to the window, and looked out at the wet landscape and bleak 
 sky. 
 
 "You amaze me," he said, with a touch of anger in his 
 tone ; "pray, what charm was there in Blanche Cains that her 
 guilt should thus drive you to despair? Is all truth ended be- 
 cause she was false ? — or has life nothing left because of her 
 'oss \ " 
 
 " Life has plenty left," replied Sybil ; " but not for me." 
 
 "And you are eighteen, and you are good, clever, and very 
 pretty. I wish you would not talk such nonsense, my dear. 
 Why, old as I am, I think that life has something left for me ;
 
 278 sybil's second love. 
 
 and -what is more, I mean to compel the wayward lady's gifts, 
 and what she'll not bestow, I'll take." 
 
 Sybil turned round and looked at him with mingled envy 
 and admiration. He looked very handsome and defiant, and 
 shook his tawny locks as if in very scorn of fate. 
 
 " You see," he continued gayly, " faint heart never won fair 
 lady. Life is a woman, and when we court her smiles, she jilts 
 us. "We must compel her kindness, Sybil." 
 
 Mr. Dermot half hoped by this libel on her sex to draw forth 
 Sybil's indignation, and rouse her from her apathy ; but Sybil 
 was mute. Her heart was full too, for she thought how willingly 
 she would bestow her smiles if they were but sought, and how 
 her kindness need never be compelled. 
 
 What ! not a word ? he said, looking atr her wistfully ; 
 " Sybil, Sybil, that will never do. Scold me as you did last 
 night — I shall like it a great deal better." 
 
 " I cannot," replied Sybil ; " I feel dead this morning." 
 
 " I wish, Sybil, you would tell me Miss Cains's hold upon 
 your heart. I care more for your little finger than she ever 
 cared for your whole person. I would do any thing to serve 
 you, and almost any thing to please you ; but, alack the day, I 
 have not blue eyes and golden hair, and an angelic face, so you 
 care naught for me." 
 
 He spoke in jest, but Sybil could not bear that he should 
 say it even in jest. 
 
 " Do not think so," she answered earnestly ; " oh ! pray do 
 not, Mr. Dermot. I value your kindness — " 
 
 " I do not want that — I want you to value me, Sybil." 
 
 " Well, then, I do," she braveiy replied ; " indeed I do." 
 
 " Very much ? " 
 
 "More than you think, Mr. Dermot." 
 
 She spoke with a sad earnestness,-tnat brought tears to her 
 eyes. 
 
 " My poor little Sybil," he said, looking down at her kindly, 
 " I very much fear Uncle Edward is now your only friend. Do 
 you hear that hammering up-stairs, and do you know its mean- 
 ing? No ; well, then be it known unto you that there arrived 
 this morning a host of packing-cases full of furniture, new, cost- 
 ly, and splendid, for the use or pleasure of the bride. Blanche 
 Cains has sold herself, and no one will surely blame her that 
 she exacts the full purchase price from her foolish buyer. So 
 this price is coming, or, at least, some fair instalments of it,
 
 sybil's second love. 279 
 
 under every .luxurious aspect a woman's fancy can devise. Two 
 experienced Parisian upholsterers are now unpacking the bower 
 of Mrs. Kennedy. Come and look on, Sybil, you must steel 
 yourself betimes." 
 
 Sybil reddened and turned pale ; but yielding to a bitter 
 fascination, sbe went. 
 
 The two men had come armed with a letter of instructions 
 from Mr. Kennedy, telling them which rooms to adorn, but not 
 saying a word more. To his daughter he had not written, and 
 had she not been aware of his message, she might have sup- 
 posed that she was the object of his munificence. Alas ! was 
 this silent indifference the forewarning of her new destiny? 
 
 Blanche had no doubt chosen her old room, for this the two 
 men were now engaged in arranging. Very deftly did they set 
 about their task." They stripped the room of its contents, 
 ruthlessly destroying every little proof of Sybil's tenderness and 
 care. They cast forth a little rosewood table she had placed 
 there, and the muslin-covered toilet fashioned by her friendly 
 hands; they tore down the very paper from the walls, and in its 
 stead set up silk damask hangings of the most celestial blue. 
 Cunningly woven in this texture, Sybil saw little white cupids 
 disporting themselves midst white flowers, and wreaths, and 
 quivering hearts. Some brandished their arrows with a merci- 
 less look ; others floated about with bandaged eyes, their arms 
 outstretched helplessly ; and others, again, lay in ambush in the 
 wreaths, and bided their hour. Such splendor Sybil had never 
 seen, and had only imagined in the palaces of queens. 
 
 " I hope you a'dmire'these cupids, Sybil," said Mr. Dermnt — 
 " pray do ; they cost a pound a yard, and they are dirt-cheap 
 at that price — a bargain, these men tell me." 
 
 " They are very pretty," said Sybil, in order to say some- 
 thing. 
 
 " So they are, but God forbid there should ever be such 
 cupids in your room when you marry, and come home, Sybil. 
 Better bare whitewashed walls, and true love, any day, than 
 this." 
 
 The walls now being hung, the rest of the furniture was un- 
 packed, and brought up. The carpet might have vied with auy 
 painting, so fresh were its roses. A goddess might have trod 
 upon it, and fancied herself in Olympus. The bed, too, was of 
 some rare gray wood, with a satin sheen, and the toilet-table 
 was trimmed with costly lace. Every thing else matched, and
 
 280 sybil's second love. 
 
 when the delicate curtains hung from the window, and floated 
 around the bed, the whole room looked so exquisite and dainty, 
 that Sybil's heart swelled with jealousy, and she felt the dawn 
 of a new torment. 
 
 "The worst of all this vanity," said Mr. Dermot, following her 
 out of the room, " is that it is taken out of our substance, 
 Sybil. Your money and mine will in the end pay for all that 
 splendor. James Kennedy is not a rich man, and the foolish 
 woman is killing the bird with the golden eggs. The drawing- 
 room, too, is to be new furnished. The plain red velvet will 
 not do now ; we must have some tapestry second only to 
 Gobelin's, and carved chairs, all gold and glitter. I believe 
 there is also a new carriage for the divinity of Saint Vincent, 
 and a costly harp has come, across which she wiH fling her fair 
 arms. She certainly knows what suits her beauty, and I sup- 
 pose that is an art too. And now, Sybil, a friendly word: Do 
 not sit down and grieve, and fret away your roses, and dim 
 your bright eyes with weeping. Be young, be gay, and hand- 
 some ; and if you find some honest man worthy of you, why, 
 Sybil, take him, and fly from this house, for, verily, perdition is 
 hanging over it." 
 
 "Thank you," shortly said Sybil — " I am in no hurry." 
 
 " Who said you should be ? But you do not seem pleased, 
 jet I mean well. Sybil, we have been wrecked in the same 
 fthip — we are cast ashore on the same desert island; do not 
 quarrel with me, your faithful friend, because I want to fashion 
 out the means of escape. You are going to the garden, Sybil 
 — let me go with you, and smoke a cigar as we walk along ; 
 there is much I wish to say to you." 
 
 They stood in the hall; he took down her cloak, which was 
 hanging there, and wrapped it around her. Sybil did not say 
 nay, but it was with a cold, irritated look that she yielded. 
 Sybil felt like that garden which they now entered. The sun 
 shone upon it — but did its watery gleam give the dead earth life, 
 or bid the sap of spring flow in the trees, or the joy of summer 
 abide in their barren boughs ? There was no comfort for her, 
 and his kindness, though well meant, was only a new torment. 
 He bade her forget, be happy, and marry ; but could he offer 
 he* the love which would drown hf;r cares in sweet oblivion ? 
 Could he take charge of her happiness, and compensate her 
 heavy losses by giving her the tenderness of father, friend, and 
 husband — all in one ? — he did not — he could not. Then why
 
 sybil's second love. 281 
 
 trouble her with words ? — why not leave her to silence and 
 peace ? Mr. Dermot walked by her side, unconscious of her 
 thoughts, and by his language he added to her secret irritation. 
 
 " You see, Sybil," he said, " the hardship of your position is 
 this — that you may have to live years perhaps with your 
 enemy. I call her your enemy, not that I believe she hates 
 you, but that, in self-defence, she must end by doing so. You 
 will never love her again. Of course you will forgive her, but 
 we all know what forgiveness is without love. Ah ! if after 
 cheating and deceiving you, Sybil, she could have her friend 
 back, why you may be sure she would ; but as she cannot she 
 must rule her step-daughter — and how will you like that ? Not 
 at all ; then take my word for it, marriage — I mean good and 
 honorable marriage, is your only safeguard." 
 
 He had come back to the hateful theme. 
 
 " And how will you manage, Mr. Dermot ? " asked Sybil— • 
 " surely you, too, will have your difficulties ? " 
 
 Mr. Dermot took out his cigar, and smiled a peculiar smile, 
 
 " Say rather that Mrs. Kennedy will have her difficulties," ho 
 replied at length. " She thought me safe off to Canada ; she 
 probably thought she could make your father keep me there. 
 Foolish woman ! She has married the most secretive of men, 
 and knows nothing of his intentions, his power, or his business. 
 Providence has been too much for her in one matter at least. 
 I shall not go to Canada ; and she must either leave Saint Vin- 
 cent or bear with the infliction of my presence — for here I stay 
 — for life, perhaps." 
 
 " For life ! " thought Sybil, her heart beating, " for life ! " 
 
 " So you see," he resumed, " I am all right, and need take 
 no trouble." 
 
 "Then you feel nothing !" cried Sybil, impetuously — "you 
 were to have married her — and yet you feel nothing ! " 
 
 "And you think me cold-blooded?" he said quietly. 
 " Why, so I should be if I loved her, or rather had loved her, 
 and could stay and look on." 
 
 " And did you not then ? " 
 
 " I have already told you that Blanche Cains and the woman 
 that I loved were two ; but I will be more explicit. Almost 
 from the first week that she entered this house my love sick- 
 ened. I could not help it — it was her doing. I resisted, but 
 the disease Avas too strong for the leech's art, and long before 
 we parted, and I burned the letters she returned, the love that
 
 282 sybil's second love. 
 
 gave them birth lay cold and dead — a thing of ashes. And 
 now what do you want me to feel because she has married your 
 father ? Regret — jealousy — resentment. Pshaw ! I feel pity 
 and sorrow for James Kennedy, and to see her again is not 
 pleasant. There is such a thing as the dregs of affection ; and, 
 believe me, Sybil, they are hateful food, as nauseous as man 
 ever tasted ; but, beyond that, what can I feel ? " 
 
 " True — she has not robbed you ? " 
 
 " Has she not, though ! " he replied, his cheek flushing ; 
 " and what do you call three years of my life spent in adoring 
 her? — for of course I adored her. She was great, beautiful, 
 good — a divinity, and the worship lasted three years. And 
 what do you call the wakening — not sudden, like yours, but 
 gradual and slow, to the hard — hard truth?" I worshipped 
 Una, and lo and behold you, instead of the heavenly maid with 
 her milk-white lamb, behold a false Duessa, as hateful as the 
 other was fair! Only you see, Sybil, men and women are dif- 
 ferently constituted. I believe it is woman's nature to brood 
 over lost love — I do not believe it is man's. His pangs are 
 the keener because his nature is stronger, more violent, if you 
 like, than woman's ; but they are also the less enduring of the 
 two. I confess that the ignoble passion which can survive es- 
 teem is beyond my comprehension." 
 
 " And why did you cease to esteem her ? " asked Sybil al- 
 most sharply. 
 
 " Say rather, why, having been blind so long, did you be- 
 come clear-sighted? Heaven knows, Sybil, I do not — but it was 
 so. You see, I met Miss Cains three years ago in England, and 
 sa\r but little of her. We got engaged, but met seldom. Dis- 
 tance is a wonderful enchantress, and daily intercourse a terrible 
 tale-teller. It may be that she helped it too, for she was sick 
 of me, and panted for liberty, and a rich husband. Poor, de- 
 luded girl ! she little thought that of the two — your father and 
 me — I was the richer man. Let him give her silk cupids, Sybil, 
 and upholsterer's splendor, it will go hard indeed if Uncle Ed- 
 ward does not get you a wealthier husband, and a more sub- 
 stantial home than she has bought with all her perfidy." 
 
 This promise exasperated Sybil. 
 
 " I will not marry," she said angrily, and her eyes flashing; 
 " do I not see by you, Mr. Dermot, the value of a man's liking ? 
 You do not know yourself why you ceased loving Miss Cains. 
 It came, it went, it was gone, and you are glad — any one can
 
 sybil's second love. 285 
 
 see you are glad of that perfidy which wrings my very heart. 
 And you want me to many ! — to he liked a few days, then pnt 
 hy like the toy that has ceased to please, or is secretly detested ! 
 Never — never ! I will die first." 
 
 Her passion, her anger, and energy amazed Mr. Dermot. 
 Bnt he soon rallied. 
 
 " Sybil," he said smiling, " it is not worth, it is not even 
 beauty — that lure to the eye — which wakens love, for mystery 
 is the name of its birth. But that a man of sense and honor, 
 who has married for love a good and handsome woman, can 
 cease to love her, I will never believe. His judgment, his taste, 
 his conscience will keep him true. There is both mental and 
 moral depravity in unjustified faithlessness. If you ever win a 
 true man, Sybil, you will keep him, and that without effort." 
 
 " You think so ? " said Sybil, with a dreary smile, in which 
 Mr. Dermot read doubt and irony. 
 
 " Sybil, Sybil, you vex me," he said, his face flushing slight- 
 ly. " I know you wrong me in your thoughts, but if you had 
 a few years more, or I a few years less, I would find a Avay to 
 convince you." 
 
 He looked at her more in anger than in love, but the anger 
 quickly passed away, and the tenderness remained — a tender- 
 ness in which blended reproach and regret. Sybil's breath 
 seemed gone. Never before had she felt as if she could please 
 Mr. Derrnot's eye, or as if her beauty were more than a child's 
 in his sight. Provoked though he was, he knew what he was 
 saying, and his voice rang true to every word he had uttered. 
 A word, a look, a breath might place eternal happiness within 
 her grasp. The word was not spoken ; neither look nor sign 
 was given. 
 
 "I will die before I win him so," thought Sybil, clinching 
 her slender hands together. 
 
 She caught his look, eagerly perusing her troubled face, and 
 in its puzzled meaning she read a half revelation of the truth. 
 In a moment she was calm and grave. 
 
 "Thank you," she said, with a little mocking smile, ami 
 with a cool, unconcerned voice. 
 
 Mr. Dermot looked disappointed, like one who, stooping to 
 pick up a gem, finds a worthless bauble in its stead. 
 
 " And yet 'tis a pity," he said involuntarily. 
 
 " For me ? " suggested Sybil with a curling lip. 
 
 "No, no, Sybil, for me, of course," he replied with a grave
 
 284 sybil's second love. 
 
 smile. 4 ' I know that young ladies of your age consider men 
 of mine to be quite in the ' sear and yellow leaf ; ' and I be- 
 lieve, Sybil, tbey are right. Youth needs youth, and when 1 
 look for a husband for you — " 
 
 " I shall be much obliged to you, Mr. Dermot, to do no such 
 thing," indignantly interrupted Sybil ; " I consider your re- 
 marks rude and impertinent." 
 
 "Do you, Sybil ? Well, so they might be, if I were not 
 your only friend now, my poor little girl." 
 
 The kindness of his tone, his pitying looks, went to Sybil's 
 heart. Her eyes grew dim, her lips trembled. 
 
 " Forgive me," she said, " do not mind me — be my friend 
 still, only do not try to comfort me by talking so — it exasperates 
 me." 
 
 Mr. Dermot did not answer her, but he thought, " She can- 
 not forget that foolish count ! " and the thought annoyed him. 
 A brief pause followed. When Sybil spoke, it was to ask what 
 they should say to Mrs. Mush. 
 
 " Nothing, my dear, we know nothing. She saw the pack- 
 ing-cases, and knows of their contents and destination — do not 
 start so, child, I mean that she guesses, and precisely because 
 she guesses, she is mute. So be you." 
 
 He spoke quietly, and rather coldly, and without looking at 
 her. He was displeased. Sybil saw that, but why so ? She 
 lingered awhile near him, then, seeing that he remained cold 
 and silent, she left him slowly. 
 
 Mr. Dermot was displeased, but he was vexed with himself 
 for that displeasure. What was it to him if Sybil regretted 
 her faithless lover ? Had he ever wished to be more than her 
 friend ? Did he wish it even now ? " Foolish girl, all I want is 
 to see her safely married ! " he thought. But did he really wish 
 that ? The doubt startled Mr. Dermot. It was all very well to 
 be Sybil's friend, but it would be desperate folly to become 
 Sybil's slave. In a moment Mr. Dermot's pride was in arms, as 
 he saw himself a fond lover at saucy little Sybil's mercy. He 
 smiled the vision to scorn, and mentally uttered a firm and in- 
 exorable " Nay." 
 
 Something of this Sybil felt when they met at breakfast. 
 Mrs. Mush was in her usual spirits ; Mr. Dermot was cheerful 
 with her, and very kind with Sybil. But his kindness was tem- 
 pered with a grave familiarity, which sank her into the merest 
 little girl. If a vague hope had crept into Sybil's heart that 
 morning, it died stillborn before she rose from the table.
 
 sybil's second love. 285 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 Grief is a stream that deepens as it flows. On the amaze- 
 ment which Sybil had felt, now followed a dark despondency. 
 
 We all have read, in the early history of the Church, how 
 statesmen, sages, great warriors, unlettered peasants, simple 
 women, put down the old heathen worship, and took up the 
 faith of Christ. We all, according to the measure of our fervor, 
 have marvelled at, and sometimes envied them the joy of leav- 
 ing foul error and finding shining truth. But have we thought 
 of the pangs and the heart-faintings which preceded the advent 
 of their Christian belief ? Was it not a fearful thing to see that 
 glorious Olympus emptying of all its gods and goddesses, as if 
 star by star, and planet by planet, had dropped from man's sky ? 
 AYhere was the majesty of Jove, the breath of whose ambrosian 
 curls shook the world ? What became of the calm wisdom of 
 Pallas, and the beauty of Yenus, and the fleetness of Mercury, 
 and the glory of Apollo ? — did they too vanish ? Whether they 
 perished in one great cataclysm of the soul, or melted away out 
 of its domain into shadowy grayness, a dreary void followed. 
 It was not at once that a sublimer faith stepped in and con- 
 quered. A voice proclaimed, indeed, to the dismayed world, 
 that the great Pan was dead ; but the cross on Calvarv, and the 
 new heaven, with choirs of angels, and mighty prophets, and 
 ardent apostles, and palm-bearing martyrs in white robes, were 
 still matters of doubt or speculation to multitudes. Think of 
 the agonies which the searching soul endured between these 
 two truths; that which having proved a falsehood was lost for- 
 ever, and this which was not yet grasped. Alas ! the bitter 
 pangs and throes which the heathen world then bore, we have 
 to bear on the day when we put by some great worship, and 
 wander forth in the darkness of our unbelief. Our heaven of 
 friendship or of love, of some creed, mortal or divine, is empty, 
 and no other God has come to fill it. The old faith is dead, 
 but the new one is not yet born, and the interregnum is inex- 
 pressibly grievous and. wearisome. In this dark mood fi'It 
 Sybil. She had set her heart on one great adoration, and it 
 was dust and ashes. No other feeling had been so strong in 
 her an this, for in it she had placed her whole faith, and to it 
 she had trusted her whole heart. Every other she had stinted 
 in some measure — to this she had denied nothing. She had
 
 28G Sybil's second love. 
 
 given it trust, hope, tenderness, all her heart had to give ! Why 
 had it ended in her bitter confusion and humiliation ? Oh ! 
 how hard, how very hard it was ; aud how the poor young 
 thing, unused to such battles of the soul, felt tossed on a sea 
 of doubt and calamity ! How she spent day and night in 
 sad lamenting over her incomparable wrong ! She felt singled 
 out by Fate, and thought hers the cruellest sorrow that had 
 ever been borne. She could not help it. I wonder if any one 
 could have convinced her that hers was no solitary lot ; that 
 grief as deep had often been felt by men and womeu who had 
 outlived it and long been dust ; that a treason as shameful had 
 been wrought again and again to the trusting friend in days and 
 years, ay, and in ages too long gone by ? That the present held 
 aught like her story, Sybil would have resented with indigna- 
 tion and grief. Throughout all time the sorrowing heart has 
 had but one self-same cry : 
 
 " Oh ! all ye that pass by the way, attend, and see if there 
 be any sorrow like to my sorrow." 
 
 Thus, in her own eyes, at least, her wrongs were paramount. 
 Never had a friend been so betrayed as Sybil Kennedy ; never 
 had truth, and honor, and generosity, and every virtue which 
 should flourish in a woman's heart, been so outraged as by 
 Blanche Cains. She dwelt and brooded over these things in 
 bitterness and vexation of spirit, fretting all chance of patience 
 away. She thought of her utter loss, as the merchant thinks 
 of his great ship that went down in the sucking waves and was 
 devoured by them. It was laden with Indian treasure, with 
 gold, and precious silks, and costly spice, and yet this priceless 
 freight could not save it. As he hates that greedy, devouring 
 sea, and chafes at it, so did Sybil now hate life which had 
 wronged her so cruelly, and so pitilessly plundered her. 
 
 Mrs. Mush, who suspected much, but knew nothing, could 
 not console Sybil. Mr. Dermot, who had survived the loss of 
 his beautiful mistress, knew that Sybil would outlive the 
 treachery of her adored friend. He left the sad girl to her own 
 thoughts, and administered comfort under the general form of 
 kindness. Sometimes Sybil took, and sometimes she rejected 
 this medicine. Mr. Dermot bore with her waywardness, and 
 would not be discouraged. His patient goodness at length con- 
 quered her one morning. 
 
 Mr. Dermot had found her alone in the drawing-room ; he 
 had as usual done his best to draw her into conversation, and
 
 sybil's second love. 287 
 
 Sybil had, as slie often did, given him short, wearied replies, 
 that said plainly, 
 
 " Let me he at peace." 
 
 " It is no use, Sybil," he said, sitting down by her side ; " I 
 will not indulge you in that constant moping. You must be 
 yourself once more, my little bright and gay Sybil. Do you 
 remember her ? I do quite well." 
 
 Sybil did not answer. He continued : 
 
 " She was as merry as a lark, and as busy as a bee. Her 
 work did not linger as does this now lying idly on your lap. 
 She read, she studied, she sang, she ran about the garden. She 
 was as grave as a judge sometimes, and sometimes as mis- 
 chievous as a fairy. I liked her very much, and I think that 
 she liked me. And now she has vanished, and there is another 
 Sybil in her stead ; a sad Sybil, whom neither eloquence, nor 
 praise, nor blame can waken from her apathy, and who, worst 
 of all, cares about nothing and no one." 
 
 "But I do care about you, Mr. Dermot," said Sybil, 
 gravely. 
 
 " I wish you would prove it, then." 
 
 " How so ? " 
 
 Mr. Dermot hesitated. Sybil was not his niece, nor his 
 sister, nor any thing to him save his little friend. The language 
 of friendship is often too like that of love, and though he did 
 not think she would misconstrue him, he had the prudence 
 which springs- from experience, and he would not give her cause 
 to do so. 
 
 " My little Sybil," he said, at length, " when we care about 
 people, we generally find a way of proving it — an easy, natural 
 way, which springs from the sincerity of our feeling." 
 
 Sybil's color came and went. 
 
 " Ah ! if he knew," she thought, " if he knew ! " 
 
 But Mr. Dermot did not know, he did not even suspect. So 
 he resumed : 
 
 " Yet friendship is pleasant. I wish you were really my 
 brother's daughter, Sybil — say a little orphan girl whom 1 had 
 to take care of. And then there would be no Mrs. Kennedy to 
 vex and trouble us in this quiet old abbey. You would like 
 Uncle Edward fast enough if you had no one else to like, and I 
 need not be sitting here a whole morning to coax you into a 
 good humor." 
 
 " Indeed — indeed you are too good," cried Sybil. " I do
 
 2S8 sybil's second love. 
 
 not deserve your kindness, I do not. I am perverse, naughty 
 disagreeable. But, Mr. Dermot, I cannot help it sometimes. 
 Oh ! think of it — I have lost a friend." 
 
 "And I have won an enemy — a keen, bitter enemy." 
 
 " Surely she cannot hurt you," said Sybil, uneasily 
 " Surely—" 
 
 " Yes, she can," interrupted Mr. Dei-mot, with a short, de- 
 fiant laugh. " And what is more, she will try to do so. Let 
 her ! With God's help I will be a match for her again and 
 again. Providence defeated her once, why not twice or 
 thrice ? " 
 
 Sybil was startled. 
 
 " What did she do ? " she asked, under her breath. 
 
 " I shall tell you later." 
 
 "Later! and you say I am your friend!" she said, jeal- 
 ously. 
 
 " You are, Sybil, but I cannot tell- you now, nor here. Take 
 a walk by the sea, this afternoon, and I will meet you there, and 
 tell you." 
 
 The entrance of Mrs. Mush did not allow Sybil to reply. 
 This lady gave them both a keen, merry look, then became 
 very demure. Mr. Dermot saw nothing. Sybil, who felt her 
 face burn, bent it over her work, and stitched assiduously. 
 Mrs. Mush sat down in an American rocking-chair, leaned back, 
 folded her hands on her lap, and said, in her clear voice, 
 
 " Mr. Dermot, which do you like best in a love-story, the first 
 or the last chapter ? " 
 
 " What love-story are you reading, Mrs. Mush ? " 
 
 " None. I never read stories." 
 
 " And I never read love-stories." 
 
 " But if you did read love-stories, which would you prefer, 
 the first or the last chapter ? " 
 
 " Oh, momentous question ! Pray how am I to answer it ? 
 The first chapter may be sweet and the last bitter — an Idyll 
 closing in tragedy. Mrs. Mush, I can venture no opinion with- 
 out first hearing you." 
 
 "Well, then, Mr. Dermot, I say there should be no last 
 chapter — that it is a fatal mistake of all dealers in love fiction 
 to write one. Every century, or half or quarter of a century, 
 nay, every year if you like it, should have its love-stories, which 
 the next year, or next century, should take up and continue. I 
 speak of the survivors, for every period should bury its own
 
 sybil's second love. 289 
 
 dead. A comfortable plan would this be, in ray opinion, and 
 it would do away with, the inevitable wedding-fas r ors of one 
 tribe of writers, or the no less inevitable grave and churchyard 
 of the other. Why should Sir Charles Grandison wed and lose 
 all his graces by becoming an obsolete grandpapa ? Why should 
 sweet Virginia be drowned and buried? The imagination of 
 Richardson and Saint Pierre was exhausted — granted ; but 
 young writers could have sprung up to take up the tale. It 
 was only taking his wig off Sir Charles and making him put by 
 his sword— or dressing Virginia a little differently, and sending 
 Paul off for her in a life-boat. Bless you, I would have spun it 
 on for ever so long? That matchless gentleman should have 
 wedded no Miss Byron had I been free, and no dark, envious 
 earth should cover Virginia's angel-face. It is too bad that 
 imaginary beings should be subject to the ills of mortality. No 
 — no ; there should never be a last chapter to a love-story if I 
 had my way, Mr. Dermot. It should go on forever and ever 
 — as it will in heaven, I trust. But why do you never read 
 love-stories, Mr. Dermot? Do you like the practice better than 
 the theory ? " 
 
 " You have hit the right nail on the head, Mrs. Mush. I 
 like the theorv of nothing." 
 
 " Well, Sybil— why, where is Sybil ? " 
 
 " Sybil is gone, Mrs. Mush. I am sorry to say that when 
 you spoke of sending off Paul for Virginia in a life-boat, Sybil 
 put down her work and left the room in silent indignation." 
 
 " She likes the drowning. Youth is cruel, Mr. Dermot — 
 give it dark endings, and graves, and mopings, kill all — that is 
 youth's way, and Sybil is pale and altered. I am afraid she is 
 fretting for that lover of hers." 
 
 Mr. Dermot looked scornful. 
 
 " Fretting for him ! " he said. " Sybil has too much 
 sense." 
 
 "Oh, I do not think her inconsolable ; but youth is silly, 
 Mr. Dermot," 
 
 "Sybil is not silly, Mrs. Mush. She is full of sense when 
 she pleases; and she has too refined a taste to go on regretting 
 that man." 
 
 " Oh, I never questioned her taste," said Mrs. Mush, smiling; 
 "and I have no doubt that her next venture will show more 
 judgment, and be more fortunate than the first." 
 13
 
 290 sybil's second love. 
 
 "I hope so," was the composed reply. "Good-morning, 
 Mrs. Mush. I must leave you." 
 
 " A pair of simpletons ! " thought Mrs. Mush ; " as if I did 
 not know what was coming." 
 
 Mrs. Mush was a great reader of love's symptoms, and she 
 had for some days past seen what she called " love incipient " 
 in Mr. Dermot's eye. lie might not know it, but Mrs. Mush, 
 the wise leech, knew it for him, and as he was much in her 
 favor, she neither wished to cross him, nor to deprive Sybil of 
 what Mrs. Mush called a good chance. Moreover, she was like 
 Sancho Panza — she liked a good love-story of all things, and 
 here was one pretty, good, and true, ready-made for her. 
 
 " Poor things ! " she thought, " let them be comforted if 
 they can. I know Mr. Kennedy is married to .that Miss Cains, 
 with her white teeth, and I do believe Mr. Dermot had an eye 
 after the false lady. Let Sybil comfort him, and let him com- 
 fort Sybil." 
 
 •-♦♦♦-- 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 Mr.. Dermot was walking along the beach with downcast 
 eyes'. Sybil's light footsteps made no noise on the sand, and he 
 neither saw nor heard her till she stood by his side. 
 
 " Why, you little mermaid," he said, " did you come out of 
 the sea ? " 
 
 " No," replied Sybil, gravely. 
 
 "No! and you deny it, as much as to say, 'I might have 
 come out of the sea if I chose, but I did not.' Well, Sybil, you 
 are but a little pale spirit of the sea, for I will not call you a 
 mermaid. Ah ! when will you get back your roses ? " 
 
 Sybil looked at him wistfully. He was very kind, and 
 spoke very kindly, but how far apart they stood, on shores as 
 remote as their feelings were different. She loved him very 
 much — infinitely, it seemed to her, but without hope or desire. 
 His indifference had made her passionless. She had no thought 
 of his love for her as a possible event. She had scarcely ever 
 allowed herself to wish for it, and now, though he was free, 
 though he was always praising and admiring her in some way 
 or other, she could listen to his praises and meet his look with
 
 sybil's second love. 201 
 
 sad and unmoved gravity. He meant nothing, and she felt 
 nothing. Mr. Dermot was struck with her serious aspect. 
 Was this the childish Sybil of a few months back? That pale 
 young face had lost its sunny, open meaning, and got, instead, 
 the sad wisdom of years. 
 
 " Will you walk or sit down ? " he asked after awhile. 
 
 Sybil perferred walking, so they paced the sandy beach side 
 by side. A gray sky bent over a gray sea, with streaks of shin- 
 ing silver. Rippling waves, so soft that they scarcely seemed 
 to advance, gently beat the yellow shore with a steady, en- 
 croaching step. The wind was still, and clouds of a deep blu- 
 ish gray veiled the extreme points of the winding coast. 
 
 " There is a divine calmness in such days, Sybil," said Mr. 
 Dermot, speaking first. " Sunshine, green fields, and blue sky 
 perplex grief and vex the mind. This sullen sky, this vast, calm 
 sea soothe a troubled heart. Life is short, they say, and full of 
 weariness, but we are great and patient. Nothing frets us out 
 of our gloomy serenity. We bear and forbear — be as we are." 
 
 Sybil stood still. 
 
 "Mr. Dermot," she said, "you have a new grief to tell me." 
 
 "Yes," he replied. "Your father is coming home to-day. 
 I know it by Leblond, the foreman, to whom he wrote a few 
 lines — a business order." 
 
 And he does not write to me," said Sybil. 
 
 " Sybil, he wishes to take you by surprise ; that is the mean- 
 ing of his silence." 
 
 " Well," said Sybil after a pause, " I must bear with it — I 
 knew it was coining — you have something else to tell me, Mr. 
 Dermot ? " 
 
 " No, Sybil, that is all I know." 
 
 " Yes, but you have something else to tell me — I came here 
 for that." 
 
 " Sybil, will you not have trouble enough on your mind 
 without my adding to it? — these are sad, very sad revelations 
 for youth, and you are still so young," he pityingly added. 
 
 " The last year has made me old in sorrow, Mr. Dermot ; 
 you need not spare me. Nothing will surprise, and few things 
 can grieve me now." 
 
 Mr. Dermot opened his pocket-book, and took out a slip of 
 paper, which he placed in Sybil's hand. It was in the hand- 
 writing of Blanche Cains, a mere scrawl, on which all Sybil saw 
 was, "Johnson and Co., Quebec — the Mountain Fairy."
 
 292 sybil's second love. 
 
 "You can make nothing of this," he said, taking it hack 
 from her; "and yet, Sybil, this slip of paper, which I picked 
 up when the man moved the furniture out of Mrs. Kennedy's 
 room, is the key to a mystery. You remember the letter that 
 sent me off so suddenly? Well, I had time, just time before 
 going on board, to call on the supposed writer of that letter, 
 and I learned that it was a forgery. You now know why I did 
 not go Canada. " 
 
 Sybil seemed awestruck. 
 
 " She forged it," she said in a low voice. 
 
 " My dear, she knew we were uneasy about these Johnsons 
 — she knew the Mountain Fairy sailed on such a day, and she 
 wanted me to be out of the way till she was married. ' After 
 that,' she thought, ' I can brave it out.' " 
 
 " And she wrote that letter? " 
 
 " No — here it is — it is a man's hand, and bears no resem- 
 blance to her writing. Miss Cains has a brother." 
 
 "A brother! " interrupted Sybil; "no, Mr. Dermot, she has 
 no brother." 
 
 "Yes, she has — only she did not tell you so. Miss Cains 
 can keep a secret, and she has no cause to be proud of that 
 young man. God forgive me if I wrong him, Sybil, but I con- 
 scientiously believe Mr. Reginald Cains to be his sister's tool 
 and accomplice. We were blind, too, and without suspicion, 
 else some slight tokens might have enlightened us. The writ- 
 ing, though like, is yet too different to bear comparison. The 
 paper on which it is written is that of the firm ; but not of the 
 usual size. This was some sheet used for some purpose or other, 
 and from which the bottom has been torn — look at it, you will 
 see that it has been clipped by scissors — depend upon it, Sybil, 
 this sheet was abstracted from our papers here, and went back 
 to London to come once more to Saint Vincent. Another token 
 was this: the envelope is a common one, not the blue-wove 
 with the name and the address of the firm on the seal. Now, 
 I see all this ; but then in the hurry of the moment neither your 
 father nor I saw any thing. He was glad to have me out of the 
 way, and it was deliverance for me to go too. We were puppets 
 in her hands, Sybil, and now she is rejoicing over her skill and 
 our folly. You look amazed and startled. My poor little Syb- 
 il, did you think her incapable of it? Wonder at nothing, and 
 be on your guard." 
 
 " And you," said Sybil, drawing close to him, and looking 
 up in his lace.
 
 sybil's second love. 293 
 
 " Well, I shall be on my guard too. She will try to harm 
 ine, Sybil, and I could tell you beforehand from what direction 
 her arrow will fly. There is just one little dark spot in yon 
 calm horizon. The storm is there, Sybil, and it will come here 
 from that faint speck. Even so will her latent hatred bide its 
 hour and take its course." 
 
 " Mr. Dermot, what will she do — what will she attempt ? " 
 
 Mr. Dermot was silent. 
 
 " I cannot tell you — Sybil, it is not right that I should do 
 so ; but have you ever spoken to her about Mr. Smith, and has 
 she ever questioned you ? " 
 
 Sybil looked startled and frightened. 
 
 "Is Mr. Smith in it?" she stammered. 
 
 " You do not answer me, Sybil." 
 
 " Yes, she did question me — but you know yourself I knew 
 nothing." 
 
 " She made something out of it, Sybil, but let it be. It will 
 be well for her and for us all if she means no harm." 
 
 He looked composed, but grave. Sybil's heart sank, and 
 she sickened with fear. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot," she said, " is there no way of keeping that 
 Mr. Smith quiet ? " 
 
 "None, Sybil," he replied, a little ironically. " Quiet him, 
 indeed ! " 
 
 "But why should he abet her?" 
 
 " Why, indeed ; but he will, as surely as that tide will flow 
 in to-night." 
 
 "I always detested that man," cried Sybil vehemently. 
 
 " Do not, child, he is harmless if she will but be wise." 
 
 " And if she will not, Mr. Dermot ? " 
 
 " And if she will not, there is nothing but trouble in store 
 for us all." 
 
 " And can no one meddle — can no one advise or interfere ? " 
 
 " No one," he gravely answered. " For to advise would be 
 to tell her what' she has no right to know — and, Sybil, she is not 
 good enough to be trusted. "No, even though it is her interest 
 and her duty to be mute, she must know nothing. Her igno- 
 rance -4s our only safeguard. Her knowledge might be our 
 perdition." 
 
 " Then it is a secret," said Sybil. 
 
 "It is, as you say, a secret. A secret in your father's life 
 and in mine. It is known to few, but yet it may prove to be
 
 294 sybil's second love. 
 
 known to too many. She may never get hold of it, or she may 
 grasp it at once, and sacrifice every thing to a double revenge, 
 Let her, Sybil— let her ! " 
 
 Sybil longed to question, but did not dare to do so. There 
 was, apart from his words, something in Mr. Dermot's face which 
 silenced her. She could not understand, or even attempt to gain 
 its meaning ; but it enjoined her to be mute, and forbade her to 
 hope for a reply. 
 
 " And so," she said pitifully, " she will do all she can against 
 you, and I must look on and see it. Mr. Dermot, will my fa- 
 ther let her?" 
 
 "Your father, Sybil, will let her do whatever she pleases 
 till she betrays herself — as she must in the end. But in the mean 
 while, do you think I will tell him that I was -to have married 
 his wife, and that she sent me off to Canada to get rid of me ? 
 Sybil, the day your father knows that Blanche Cains was my 
 betrothed, our friendship is at an end. Even as it is, I know 
 that before a year is out she will have made us bitter foes. Let 
 her, I will not help her to it. And if you care for me, Sybil, 
 be silent. Do not speak — do not hint. Never, whatever you 
 may learn or see, never attempt to speak to your father." 
 
 Sybil sat down on a ledge of rock, and looking at the 
 waves which almost touched her feet, she longed to be at rest 
 in their quiet floating world. 
 
 " I wish I were dead ! " she said, passionately, and suddenly 
 raising her voice, " I wish I were dead ! The friend I loved is 
 your enemy and mine. She is worse, she is base and treacher- 
 ous, and I must loathe what I once cherished so fondly ; and to 
 crown all, she is coming home to-day my father's wife. I wish 
 I were dead, Mr. Dermot." 
 
 " And I wish I had told you nothing," he said, reproach- 
 fully. " You said I did not trust you, Sybil, and see what my 
 trust has done." 
 
 "And can I help it?" cried Sybil. " Can I help it? Do 
 you think I care nothing for you, and that I can think of her 
 hatred being fastened upon you, and not feel it? I tell you, 
 .Mr. Dermot, to be on your guard — I tell you so again and 
 again. I remember words which she dropped, and which sicken 
 me now. Oh ! I wish I were dead in that salt water there, roll- 
 ing with the waves like that tangled mass of sea-weed, and 
 feeling no more than it feels." 
 
 " Sybil ! Sybil ! if you care for me, never speak so," he
 
 sybil's second love. 295 
 
 said, in a tone full of concern. " Never look as you look now, 
 so desperate and pale, or you will make me hate Blanche Cains 
 a little too much. Depend upon it," he added, more calmly, 
 ' I shall not let her come within reach of me if I can help it ; if I 
 cannot, I shall do my best, and prevail against her, I trust. But, 
 Sybil, if you care for me, never utter such wishes as that you 
 have just spoken. I am not always the slave of imagination, 
 but sometimes that cruel power, far more cruel than it is benefi- 
 cent, masters me. Just now the curling foam of that long 
 wave took a human shape as it broke on the beach, and I saw 
 you lying on the sand, your white face turned up, your hair 
 all tangled with sea-weed, and the cold waves breaking over 
 you." 
 
 Sybil tried to laugh, but the tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 " I thought you were prose, Mr. Dermot," she said. 
 
 " That is not poetry, Sybil. That is superstitious fear, the 
 weakness which comes to us whenever there is some evil threat- 
 ening what we love." 
 
 Sybil bowed her head, and her tears flowed. Yes, he loved 
 her, not with man's passion for youth and beauty, but with 
 man's tenderness for the unprotected weakness of woman. He 
 loved her, and that love was very sweet, though later he would 
 take it from her and give it to some other woman, as her father 
 had given his to Blanche Cains. 
 
 " Well, what is it ? " asked Mr. Dermot, bending toward her. 
 
 Sybil looked up, and frankly replied : — 
 
 " I thank you very much, Mr. Dermot, for I have a very 
 wayward temper, and many faults, and spite them all you are 
 true to me. You give me all the liking you can. I know 
 that later you will not be able to do so. You will have other 
 ties that will absorb you, and leave me but a little share of your 
 good-will ; but for what you give me now, I am grateful, and 
 when you take it away I shall not murmur, knowing I never 
 deserved it." 
 
 Her frankness and humility touched him very much. He 
 felt slightly troubled, too, for a voice within him seemed to say, 
 " Why wait and seek further, may be to fare worse? Have 
 you not here the two things you prize most, truth and beauty i 
 Would you not stake your life on her guileness, and pale and 
 wan as she is now, is she not very sweet and fair? Happiness 
 and love would bring back all its roses to her young face, and 
 more than their old light to those dark eyes of hers."
 
 296 sybil's second loye. 
 
 He looked at her as lie thought so. He was unconscious of 
 the fixedness of his gaze, but Sybil reddened. 
 
 " I think I shall go in," she said. 
 
 " I wish you would stay a little while longer," he said. 
 " We shall not have such another walk as this in a hurry, Sybil. 
 Mrs. Kennedy is coming, and with her adieu to liberty and 
 happy conversation, and pleasant hours. Ay, verily adieu to 
 them all." 
 
 " Yes," sadly said Sybil, " adieu indeed." 
 
 " And yet I should like to speak to you now and then, Sybil. 
 What shall be your favorite walk ? " 
 
 Sybil shook her head. She did not know. 
 
 " Will you come near by the sea ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes, sometimes," hesitatingly replied Sybil. 
 
 " About this hour ? " he suggested. 
 
 Sybil said yes again. He spoke very quietly, as of a mat- 
 ter of course. She knew these were no lover's assignations, 
 and yet she had scarcely said ye=, when she resolved never 
 to come. What should she do here walking with him by 
 the lonely shore? She was not his sister, his niece, or his 
 betrothed, and she must live under the eye of a woman who 
 knew her secret. Almost at the same moment similar thoughts 
 occurred to Mr. Dermot. He frowned, and stood still. 
 
 " No," he said ; " we must not come here to meet, Sybil. 
 I forget Mrs. Kennedy. We will not give her that triumph. 
 We must trust to chance, or say, rather to Providence. And 
 so you will go ? " 
 
 "" Yes," replied Sybil ; "but I will not go to the house. I 
 cannot bear to see her arrive. I will go and spend the day 
 with Aunt Glyn. Pray send some one for me this evening." 
 
 " I shall go for you myself, Sybil ; but I shall not go up, of 
 course." 
 
 Thus they parted. As she entered the house alone, Sybil 
 met Mrs. Mush. Now, though that lady liked a love-story, she 
 thought Sybil had been too long away, and objected to this 
 chapter. 
 
 " My dear," she said, rather gravely, " where have yon been 
 all this time ? " 
 
 " Down by the sea," replied Sybil. 
 
 " To take a lonely walk ? " suggested Mrs. Mush, very point- 
 edly. 
 
 Accusation always made Sybil strong. Her face cleared as 
 she quickly replied :
 
 sybil's second love. 297 
 
 " No, I found Mr. Dermot there." 
 
 Her frankness disconcerted Mrs. Mush. She looked at her 
 wondering and perplexed, then said, honestly : 
 
 " I do not understand you, Sybil. Sometimes you seem 
 very shy with that Mr. Dermot, who is a wonderfully cool and 
 easy gentleman, and now you have had a walk with him by the 
 sea-side — and you say so, too." 
 
 " Why should I hide it, Mrs. Mush ? " 
 
 "You do well not to hide it; but you would do better 
 not to have gone. I have no actual authority over you, but 
 your father is not aware that Mr. Dermot is here; and I 
 think it strange he should wish to have private interviews with 
 you. His suit is not one likely to fail, I believe, with either 
 father or daughter." 
 
 " And so, Mrs. Mush," sadly said Sybil, " you think this 
 was a love-meeting ? You think Mr. Dermot is the man to 
 make me do such a thing, and I the girl to do it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Mush looked fairly bewildered. 
 
 " Why, child," she said, " if it is not love, what is it ? Not 
 business." 
 
 " It is sorrow, sorrow," said Sybil, looking so woe-begone 
 that Mrs. Mush could not but believe her. " And, oh ! Mrs. 
 Mush," she added, " do not think he cares for me in that way. 
 He never thought of such a thing — never ! Mr. Dermot thinks 
 me ever so young, and himself ever so old. I am quite a little 
 girl, and he is my grandfather, at the very least." 
 
 " And he. is not making love to you ? " skeptically said Mrs. 
 Mush. 
 
 " No," indignantly replied Sybil ; " he never did — he never 
 will." 
 
 " Well, I never was so mistaken in all my life — why, I 
 thought you were engaged. Well, well, I do not mean to dis- 
 tress you — I shall not say another word ; but, my dear, take 
 care — you are not so very young, nor is he so very old, and I 
 do not at all like sea-side meetings between a pretty girl like 
 you and a handsome gentleman like Mr. Dermot." 
 
 " I do not intend ever going again," replied Sybil. 
 
 She looked very grave and indignant, but her gravity and 
 indignation failed to convince Mrs. Mush. She did not doubt 
 Sybil's word ; but for all that, she was as sure love was coming, 
 as we are sure the sun is going to rise when we see the blush of 
 dawn. " A pair of simpletons," she thought again ; and though 
 13*
 
 298 Sybil's second love. 
 
 she could not approve of sea-side meetings, she felt ready to 
 tolerate all else that could make the course of true love run 
 more smooth. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Sybil was gone to Miss Glyn's, and Mrs. Mush had driven 
 over to Saint Vincent on business. Mr. Dermot sat alone in 
 the library. There was nothing and no one to disturb his 
 thoughts. He took down a book and read awhile ; then he put 
 by the volume, and looked his future in the face. 
 
 That future wore no pleasant aspect, but apart from the fact 
 that he knew how to endure, Mr. Dermot could contemplate 
 it with composure. It was sure to be dark and troublesome, 
 but it was as sure to be brief. The same house could not long 
 hold him and his enemy, and whichever was vanquished must 
 needs leave. He had told Sybil but half his troubles, after all. 
 That sad portion of his life in which Mr. Smith had played his 
 part he had kept in the shade. He had concealed it from 
 Blanche Cains in the days when she was his betrothed wife, and 
 he would not reveal to Sybil that which she had no right to 
 know. It would only distress her, and could serve no useful 
 purpose. 
 
 " I wonder if Mrs. Kennedy knows any thing ! " he thought ; 
 "and knowing it, how she will act? Poor James! he has 
 brought the enemy into the heart of the citadel, and there is no 
 expelling her now. She is there forever, and holds him fast. 
 Woe to him if he ever displeases her! His charmer will turn 
 tyrant and make him her slave. How he will hate her then, 
 and how she will hate him when she knows all ! " 
 
 There is something loathsome in the hatred of man and 
 wife ; and though for many reasons Mr. Dermot's friendship for 
 Sybil's father had lost its fervor, though the married life of 
 Blanche Cains was naught to him, he could not linger over the 
 thought of their future strife without pain. Tbe night was 
 calm and mild ; he left the library, and went out into the clois- 
 ter to seek there the soothing and benignant influence of air and 
 sky. 
 
 The light which he had left burning behind him poured its 
 pale golden rays into the silent cloister, and lit up one of its
 
 sybil's second love. 299 
 
 arched galleries. A misty moon looked down with a troubled 
 mien on the stone cross, and a few stars pierced the clouds and 
 glimmered faintly in their far region. Mr. Dermot had seen 
 finer nights than this — nights of full- orbed moon and planet?, 
 and a thousand glittering worlds ; but Nature's power over us 
 lies in our own mood — not in her aspect. When she wants us 
 she calls us — in a moment we are her slaves, and yield ourselves 
 to the mighty goddess. 
 
 Blanche Cains, her falsehood, her enmity, the weakness of 
 Mr. Kennedy's friendship, Sybil's sorrows and wrongs, were all 
 forgotten by Mr. Dermot now. As he paced the quiet cloister 
 he felt like one who hears from afar the tumult and the roar of 
 troubled waters, and whom their loud murmur only soothes to 
 a sense of deeper rest. Thus remote were now to him his life 
 aud its cares — a tale in which he had no part. But that lull 
 in active life rarely endures. Every human existence is a ro- 
 mance, if not in action at least in feeling — a romance which 
 often has but one reader ; and it would be very sweet if every 
 now aud then we could turn a page in our own book and 
 calmly read that wonderful story. But it may not be ; for a mo- 
 ment we may stand aloof, like Mr. Dermot, and survey our des- 
 tiny as something in which we have no part — for a moment, 
 and no more. Soon the outward world calls us forth from that 
 secret stronghold of our inner life — forth into the strife and un- 
 rest which flow like a stormy sea around that calm isle. 
 
 Mr. Dermot had not long enjoyed the repose of that calm 
 spot and quiet hour, when a far sound of wheels and jingling 
 bells, which rapidly grew nearer, warned him that the bride 
 was coming home. He did not think it needful to go and re- 
 ceive Mr. Kennedy, but neither did he wish to shun meeting 
 him and his wife. So he stayed in the cloister, and waited, 
 there till they should cross it to reach the house. 
 
 Presently the post-chaise drew up at the gates of Saint Vin- 
 cent, and Narcisse and Denise, each armed with a lantern, flew 
 to open. In the stillness of the night Mr. Dermot could hear 
 Mr. Kennedy's voice saying, " Take care, my love — this way." 
 
 " And Ralph — where is Ralph ? " asked die voice of Blanche 
 Cains. 
 
 "I am here, ma'am," replied another voice — a woman's, and 
 rather a vulgar voice it was. 
 
 "She has brought home a lady's-maid," thought Mr. Der- 
 mot — " poor little Sybil, you never had one ! "
 
 300 sybil's second love. 
 
 " I wish you would see to my bonnet-box," continued Mrs. 
 Kennedy — " I am sure the things are awfully crushed, Ralph." 
 
 Ralph hoped not — she had been so very particular in the 
 packing. 
 
 " Well, but see to it," pursued Mrs. Kennedy, whose voice 
 was drawing nearer. 
 
 The door which led from the court she was then crossing to 
 the cloister, opened as she spoke. A dark figure — Denise's, 
 probably — appeared, bearing a lantern, and behind her Mr. Der- 
 mot saw two other figures, one of which moved with a loud 
 rustling of silk, He stood still near the cross quietly waiting. 
 
 " It seems there is no one here," said Mr. Kennedy to his 
 wife ; " but there is a light in the library — who is there, I 
 wonder? — Sybil, perhaps, or Mrs. Mush." 
 
 They were moving toward the library window to look in, 
 when Mrs. Kennedy caught sight of Mr. Dermot's figure. 
 
 "Who's that?" she whispered, pressing her husband's arm. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy took the lantern from the hand of Denise, and 
 raised it, whilst Mr. Dermot came forward. For a while no one 
 spoke. The light that flashed across their three faces showed in 
 each a different meaning. Mr. Dermot's was composed, and 
 slightly ironical; Mrs. Kennedy seemed to have seen a ghost, so 
 pale and bewildered did she look ; and Mr. Kennedy was fairly 
 confounded. 
 
 "Why, Dermot," he cried, "I thought vou were in 
 Canada ! " 
 
 " I did not go — tbere was no need for the journey. I will 
 tell you all about it to-morrow." 
 
 "And you were here all the time." 
 
 "Here, and in England. I there heard of your marriage, 
 and did not think it needful to trouble you with business." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy laughed rather a forced laugh. 
 
 " I must introduce you to Mrs. Kennedy — an old acquaint- 
 ance under a new name." 
 
 Mr. Dermot bowed. Mrs. Kennedy gave him a calm, dis- 
 tant look of her blue eyes, and shivered slightly. 
 
 " Let us go in, my love," said her husband. " Well, Der- 
 mot, old fellow, I am glad to see you here again — where's Sybil, 
 
 though r 
 
 " Sybil is at Miss Glyn's," said Mr. Dermot, " and it is time 
 I should go and fetch her," he added, looking at his watch. 
 lie bowed again, and walked away at a quick pace.
 
 sybil's second love. 303 
 
 " What a chill night ! " said Mrs. Keunedy, wrapping her- 
 self up in a costly shawl ; <c and what an odd man that Mr. 
 Dermot is, dear. He never wished us joy, nor any thing, but 
 stood there like a stick. I don't think I ever was in his good 
 graces, do you know ? " 
 
 She laughed, with a pretty scorn of Mr. Dermot's favor. 
 But Mr. Kennedy said not a word. He was puzzled and 
 annoyed. Why was Mr. Dermot here in Saint Vincent, instead 
 of being in Canada ? Why was his manner so cold and severe ? 
 Why had he surveyed him and his wife with that austere 
 gravity ? Was Mr. Kennedy the first man of fifty who had 
 married a young and handsome girl ? — and what was his mar- 
 riage to his friend ? 
 
 "Decidedly that is it," pursued Mrs. Kennedy, as they 
 entered the house together; " Mr. Dermot took a dislike to me, 
 and is vexed to have me here. Very provoking, is it not ? " 
 
 " A dislike to you, my love ? " replied her husband, looking 
 down with mingled fondness and pride at her blooming face — 
 " why, if I remember aright, Dermot admired you." 
 
 "Oh! no — not he," quickly said Mrs. Kennedy. 
 
 She spoke in a short, vexed tone, with a little irritated 
 laugh, which did not escape her husband's ear. 
 
 " Indeed, I thought better of his taste," he replied, gayly. 
 
 To all appearance he was unmoved. But there are 
 thoughts, at first light and passing, -which come to us we know 
 not why or how. We scarcely heed them, for they slumber as 
 yet, and their murmurings are low, but they are with us. They 
 grow with daily, though hidden strength; they feed on food 
 we seek for them with unconcious eagerness till the day 
 comes, when a word, a look, waken them into sudden life, 
 and then, when they turn round and sting us — then do we 
 feel, for the first time, it Avas a serpent we nourished in our 
 bosom. Even such a thought entered Mr. Kennedy's heart 
 as he heard his wife reply, " Oh ! no — not he," in that voice 
 of irritated vanity. 
 
 Mr. Dermot, in the mean while, went on for Sybil, and hav- 
 ing sent her in word that he was waiting, he took a few turns 
 up and down the road that passed in front of Miss Glyn's abode. 
 
 Great had been Miss Glyn's amazement and indignation on 
 learning the news ; but her wrath, indeed, was stronger than her 
 surprise. She remembered having foretold that Blanche Cains 
 was setting her cap at some one, and she forgot that Mr. Dermot, 
 and not Mr. Kennedy, had been the individual designated.
 
 302 sybil's secoxd love. 
 
 Sybil, whose sad heart had room for very few feelings now, 
 the great one of her grief excepted, heard, and by her silence 
 assented. She did not care for contradiction or for argument, 
 she did not even care for truth, so she listened in dull, moody 
 silence to Miss Glyn's dark triumph at her own sagacity. For 
 it was singular how quickly the recollection that Mr. Dermot 
 and not Mr. Kennedy had been Miss Cains's intended victim, 
 wore away, and how surely the contrary of this past prophecy 
 now grew up in its stead, and, like many an upstart, made its 
 way good and prevailed. 
 
 " I told you you should have struck the letter S from her 
 name," said Miss Glyn. 
 
 And Sybil remembered fond embraces, moments of passion- 
 ate confidence and affection, wdien the two girls were as one, 
 and had but one heart. 
 
 " I told vou she was thinking: of vour father all the time, 
 and stayed at home whilst we went to parties," said Miss Glyn ; 
 and Sybil's heart turned back to bygone days, when she lay 
 tossing on a sick bed, and Blanche watched by her, all love and 
 fondness then. 
 
 " You will have to come and live with me," persisted Miss 
 Glvn ; and this time, Sybil heeding her, looked up and said : 
 " " Why so ? " 
 
 " Why so? — why so ? — have you no spirit that you ask?" 
 inquired Miss Glyn, firing up. 
 
 " Why should I leave my father's house ? " asked Sybil, 
 gravely : " it is my father's house after all — not hers." 
 
 " Your father has done what he pleased," hotly said Miss 
 Glyn ; " and not what he should have done if he had cared a 
 pin for you — as to that Mr. Dermot, I'll ne-er believe but he 
 was in it — her accomplice, Sybil — her accomplice." 
 
 As Miss Cains's accomplice was even then ringing at Miss 
 Glyn's door, and Sybil could hear his voice inquiring for her, 
 she rose and prepared to go. 
 
 " Well, what are you going for ? " asked her aunt, whose 
 hearing was not so keen as the young girl's. 
 
 Sybil was very pale, and her hands shook as she tied her 
 bonnet-strings. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot is below, aunt, and I can guess why he has 
 come." 
 
 " The happy pair have arrived, no doubt ; now, Sybil, don't 
 go and make a fool of yourself."
 
 sybil's second love. 303 
 
 Sybil did not answer this kind admonition, but hurried 
 down-stairs. She found Mr. Derraot walking up and down in 
 the pale moonlight, with rather restless steps. Oh ! how had he 
 felt on seeing her again ? 
 
 He took her arm in silence. 
 " Why, child, how you tremble,' 1 he said. 
 " I cannot help it, Mr. Dermot." 
 " Take heart, Sybil." 
 " When did thev come, Mr. Dermot? " 
 " About half an hour ago. Pity you were not there, Sybil, 
 to see the face of the bride when she saw me. But she soon 
 recovered. The assurance of some women is incomparable. On 
 my word, it is grand ! She gave me a cool broad stare of those 
 blue eyes of hers, then looked at her husband, as much as to say, 
 ' Mr. Dermot, I believe.' Sybil, it is well for me that those 
 white teeth of hers did not dare to bite just then, else Duessa, 
 formerly Una, had not spared me. Take care when she kisses 
 you. I would not trust her." 
 
 " Never ! never ! " cried Sybil, passionately ; " never, so long 
 as I live, shall lips of mine touch her cheek ; never shall my 
 hand press hers. I have no secret to guard, Mr. Dermot." 
 
 " And thank Heaven that you have not," he replied, in a 
 tone scarcely less vehement than her own ; " thank Heaven, 
 Sybil, that you have no daily part to act, no abhorrent recollec- 
 tions to stifle under smiles, no looks of detestation to veil under 
 looks of good-will." 
 
 His tone startled and frightened Sybil. A cruel suspicion 
 forced itself upward like some noxious serpent, do what she 
 would to stifle it in its birth. Was this hatred of the once-loved 
 woman the subtle disguise ofunconquered affection, or the un- 
 avoidable jealousy of the injured lover ? 
 
 " Mr. Dermot," she said, " are you sure you ought to remain 
 here ? — are you sure you ought not to go away ? " 
 
 Mr. Dermot was silent awhile, then said in a tone of deep 
 displeasure, 
 
 " I suppose, Sybil, your meaning is this : ' Mr. Dermot, are 
 you sure you are not still too fond of my father's wife ? ' Sybil, 
 I forgive you, but you do not know how cruelly insulting is such 
 a question. Why, Sybil, if Mrs. Kennedy were not as a stranger 
 W me — nay, t#n times worse than a stranger — I would not, could 
 not stay more than twenty-four hours in the same house with 
 her and her husband. I would not, because it would be base ;
 
 304 sybil's second loye. 
 
 and I could not, because I have a touch of Othello in me. I am 
 inclined to be a jealous man — not a mistrustful one, indeed, but 
 I could not see the woman I loved loving another before my face 
 — it would madden me. So once for all, Sybil, dismiss such 
 thoughts from your mind — if we are to be friends." 
 
 His tone was so severe that it cut Sybil to the heart. 
 
 "Do not be hard upon me," she entreated; "I meant no 
 harm." 
 
 " Hard upon you ! Why, no, child, only don't you be hard 
 npon me. I know you don't like me much, but I must have 
 your esteem." 
 
 She did not like him much ! Had she, then, kept her secret 
 so well ? 
 
 He resumed very composedly : 
 
 " When I say you don't like me much, I mean no reproach ; 
 our years, our tempers, our very natures are such as not to allow 
 you any strong affection for me. It is very natural and right 
 that I should care more for a dear little girl such as you are, 
 than you, the dear little girl, should care for an old man of the 
 world such as I am." 
 
 Sybil could not bear this. 
 
 " But, Mr. Dermot," she said, " I do care for you — indeed I 
 do, very much." 
 
 " Do you, Sybil ? — well, I should not have thought so. Your 
 friend, Miss Cains, had another tale to tell — but 1 dare say it 
 was all invention ; and now take heart, for you are going to face 
 the evil enchantress herself." 
 
 They stood at the gates, which, after awhile, Narcisse came 
 and opened. They crossed the cloister, but at the foot of the 
 staircase Mr. Dermot dropped Sybil's arm. 
 
 " You do not come up ? " she said faintly. 
 
 "No, I am busy. Come, take heart; it must be done, and 
 it will soon be over." 
 
 He left her, and Sybil went up the staircase alone.
 
 sybil's second love. 305 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Mrs. Mush was talking loud, and no one heard Sybil enter- 
 ing the room. She stood still near the door, and looked at 
 them. Mrs. Mush sat with her hack turned to her, and she saw 
 her father's side-face only. Mrs. Kennedy she saw well. 
 
 The drawing-room had donned its new splendor to greet its 
 new mistress, and that mistress herself was like a fair and costly 
 picture, worthy of this rich setting. 
 
 The bride sat, half leaning back, on a couch, and her attitude 
 was very graceful. Light wreaths of flowers of vivid hues were 
 scattered on the white cushions against which she rested. She 
 wore a travelling dress of plain silk, but there was depth and 
 richness in its folds. Her slender fingers sparkled with rings. 
 and Sybil caught the glitter of a bracelet on her fair arm. She 
 looked in excellent health, and in high spirits, and, what wa* 
 more, she looked wonderfully handsome. 
 
 Sybil's heart swelled within her. This was the girl whom 
 she had brought to that house poor, all but penniless, whom her 
 foolish generosity and affection had thrust on her father's notice, 
 till from indifference Mr. Kennedy had passed to liking, and 
 thence to idolatrous passion. Sybil came forward. Mrs. Mush 
 ceased talking, and Mrs. Kennedy gave a little start, but Sybil 
 did not heed them. She went up to her father, and said, in a 
 low, measured tone, 
 
 " I am glad you have come back so well, papa." 
 "And how are you, Pussy?" he asked, giving her a kiss, 
 but scarcely looking at her. 
 
 Sybil quietly replied that she was very well. 
 Mr. Kennedy put on a gay look, and said, 
 " I have brought you back some one, Sybil." 
 Sybil was mute. 
 
 " Sybil, have you nothing to say to Mrs. Kennedy ? " he 
 asked sharply. 
 
 " I hope Mrs. Kennedy had a pleasant journey," gravely 
 said Sybil. 
 
 " Delightful ! " replied Mrs. Kennedy. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy looked from his wife to his daughter, and 
 seemed perplexed. They were both very calm, and both looked 
 profoundly indifferent. He put his hand into his pocket, 
 Sybil thought it was the present he always brought her when ho
 
 30G sybil's second love. 
 
 had been away, and she waited to receive it. She knew before 
 hand it would not be worth much, but she resolved to accept 
 it as thankfully as if it were a costly gift. Mr. Kennedy drew 
 out a glittering smelling-bottle, and handed it to his wife. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, my love," he said, apologetically, " I 
 had forgotten to return this to you." 
 
 "Is your head better, dear ?" asked Mrs. Kennedy, with 
 tender anxiety. 
 
 " It is quite well again, thank you, my dear/' 
 
 Sybil turned away and went to the table. On her way 
 thitber she passed by Mrs. Kennedy. Sybil half bowed. Her 
 step-mother returned the salutation with a cool bend of her fair 
 head, and resumed her discourse with Mrs. Mush. It related 
 to the drawbacks of a sea-journey, and need not be recorded 
 here. Mr. Kennedy frowned, and was inclined to take his 
 daughter to task forthwith, but he remembered a promise he 
 had made his wife, and he forbore. Leaving the sea-journey, 
 Mrs. Kennedy soon launched into pleasanter topics. 
 
 " My dear," she said, to her husband, " we must give a ball. 
 I want to dance, and do not want to go out of my own house 
 to do so. When shall it be ? " 
 
 Mr. Kennedy went and sat by her side, and smiled down in 
 her handsome face. 
 
 " I. am not going to let you have a ball just yet, my love," 
 he said. " I must not rouse envy. I have not forgotten the 
 sensation you created at Mrs. Ronald's." 
 
 His wife laughed, and showed her handsome teeth, bright 
 and wdiite, like a row of pearls. 
 
 " Yes," she said, frankly, " I got fairly hated that night ; 
 but I do not fear hate, and you need not fear envy. Besides, I 
 want to show people what beautiful things you can give your 
 wife; and suppose I am handsome," she added, "why should 
 you not show the world that you have got a handsome 
 wife ? " 
 
 " The world knows it, my dear." 
 
 " Oh ! but it must both know and remember," said Blanche, 
 wilfully ; " and the world is so very, very forgetful," she added, 
 with a sweet smile, " it has such a short memory, poor thing. 
 It forgets beauty, goodness, worth, every thing, save money ! " 
 
 " And why not that too ? " asked Mrs. Mush. 
 
 " The thirsty man cannot forget his thirst, nor the hungry 
 man his hunger," replied Mrs. Kennedy ; "and so the world, 
 who is both hungry and athirst, remembers money forever."
 
 sybil's second love. 307 
 
 " You are a wonderful philosopher, Mrs. Kennedy ! " said 
 Mrs. Mush, with mock gravity. 
 
 " Granted ! I am any thing you please, so I have my ball. 
 Now, dear, I must have one, or I'll worry your life out of 
 you ! " 
 
 " I shall like to be worried by you, my dear," said Mr. Ken- 
 nedy, smiling. 
 
 Blanche nodded sadly, and shook her head. 
 
 " Mrs. Mush," she said, " you see and hear my hard case. 
 I have already learned to obey, and not to have my way. 
 had set my heart on this ball, but the despot says nay, and I 
 yield. Be it so — I shall mope, then ! " 
 
 She put on a look, and a very becoming one it was, of deep 
 melancholy. Mr. Kennedy bent over her, fond, admiring, evi- 
 dently charmed with her flippant speech, but more charmed 
 still with her stately beauty. Admiration was in his looks^ as 
 it was in his heart. And Sybil sat silent and desolate, seeing 
 and listening, and feeling that she was nothing and no one in 
 her father's house. 
 
 She had not thought she could be forgotten so quickly, nor 
 that her enemy's triumph could have been so complete. Her 
 lover, her friend, her father, had each proved faithless in turns, 
 not in the same degree, but enough to make her very heart 
 ache. Who would be true to her now ? To whom could she 
 look in her sorrow ? 
 
 " I am afraid your head aches, my dear ? " said Mrs. Mush, 
 bending a pitying glance on the poor girl. 
 
 "Very much," replied Sybil. 
 
 Blanche silently handed her smelling-bottle to Mrs. Mush, 
 who passed it to Sybil. But Miss Kennedy did not touch the 
 sparkling bauble, worth ten times in value such a present as her 
 father usually brought her. She rose almost vehemently from 
 her chair, and said, in a short, broken voice, 
 
 " Thank you — I shall go to bed." 
 
 She bade them all a hurried good-night, and left the room. 
 Her father breathed a relieved sigh as the door closed upon 
 her. It was not pleasant to see her sitting there pale and cold 
 and altered. Her presence was a burden ; her absence a 
 relief. 
 
 Sybil's heart was full to bursting. She stopped on the stair- 
 case and leaned her head on the banisters. A step coming 
 down made her look up. It was Mr. Dermot. By the light of
 
 308 sybil's second love. 
 
 a lamp which hurned dimly against the wall, he saw bright 
 tears glittering on the face she raised toward him. He bent 
 over her with a look full of concern, and taking her two hands 
 in his, stroked them softly. 
 
 "Sybil, be brave," he said with deep pity — "bear it 
 better." 
 
 " I cannot," sobbed Sybil—" I cannot ! She has taken my 
 father from me. There was a time when he came home all 
 smiles and fondness for his child ; his hands full of presents as 
 his heart was full of love. And this time he brought me noth- 
 ing — ^e scarcely looked at me. I saw he wished me out of the 
 room. Oh, Mr. Dermot ! it has come to this ! " 
 
 " Yes, it is hard," said Mr. Dermot, gently ; " and children 
 do not expect it, for they generally forget first.". 
 
 " No one cares for me now ! " moaned Sybil. 
 
 " Am I no one ? " asked Mr. Dermot, reproachfully. " And 
 have I forgotten you? " he added, producing and raising to hei 
 face a bunch of violets, fresh and blue. 
 
 " Are they for me ? " asked Sybil, evidently pleased. 
 
 "Unless you wish me to present the bride with them," he 
 dryly replied, " they are for you." 
 
 Sybil smiled languidly, but did not take the flowers. Mr. 
 Dermot deliberately took and held them above the wall of the 
 old-fashioned staircase, and said quietly, 
 
 " Will you have them ? One — two — three ! " 
 
 As he uttered the last word, and opened his hand to drop 
 the flowers, Sybil saucily snatched them from him and ran up 
 the staircase. He turned round and raised a threatening fore- 
 finger at her; but Sybil only gave him a defiant little nod as 
 she looked round over her shoulder before she entered her 
 room. 
 
 Her first act was to place her flowers in water. But the 
 pleasure this slight gift of his had given her was already over, 
 and behind it remained a dull, aching pain. 
 
 " He would never be so kind, if he knew how fond I am of 
 hi m," she thought. " lie takes pity upon me because I am a 
 poor, betrayed little creature, and because he likes me in a sort 
 of way ; but let another Blanche Cains come in his way, and 
 he will fall in love with her, and forget me as if I had never 
 been. If my own father is already cold and estranged, Avhat 
 will Mr. Dermot be ? " 
 
 There was truth in these bitter thoughts, but they were
 
 sybil's second love. 309 
 
 none the less bitter for being so true. Sybil knew, too, that, 
 however hard her fate might be, useless repining could only 
 make it harder to bear. Her nature, though sensitive, was 
 strong, and even in this, the first vehemence of her grief, she 
 resolved upon patience and resignation. 
 
 Her back was turned to the door of her room as she stood 
 near her toilet-table undressing ; but she heard the door open, 
 she heard, too, the rustle of a silk dress, and in the glass facing 
 her she saw Mrs. Kennedy's handsome face. 
 
 Sybil was half undressed, her hair flowed on her bare arms 
 and shoulders ; and on being thus intruded upon, she hastily 
 took up a shawl and wrapped it around her. Blanche Cains 
 was dead, and Mrs. Kennedy was a stranger. 
 
 " Sybil," impetuously said her step-mother as she closed the 
 door, " I come to know whether it is to be peace or war be- 
 tween us." 
 
 Sybil turned round slowly till she confronted her. 
 
 " Neither," was her laconic reply. 
 
 " Neither ! How so ? " 
 
 And Mrs. Kennedy sat down unbidden. 
 
 " You are my father's wife — I have no intention of being at 
 war with you. You are my false Mend — we cannot be at 
 peace." 
 
 " That is candid, though not very plain," said Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy, reddening. " Oh, Sybil — Sybil ! " she added, bursting 
 into tears, " is this the love you professed for me ? " 
 
 " Where is the love you professed for me ?" moodily asked 
 Sybil. 
 
 " Your father would have married again," said Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy; "you must see and feel that. Why is it such a hard- 
 ship that he took your dearest friend instead of some stranger ? 
 True, this marriage has given me a good and kind husband — it 
 has taken me out of poverty into affluence ; but you are not 
 mean, Sybil — you cannot grudge me that. Is it so long ago 
 that you devised a hundred foolish plans, the upshot of every 
 one being that we should never part ? Now that in the only 
 feasible manner this plan is fulfilled, that we need never sepa- 
 rate, you hate your friend. Why so, Sybil — why so ? " 
 
 She spoke impetuously, and not without genuine emotion — 
 it was very plain that she would rather be the friend than the 
 step-mother. But Sybil smiled drearily. 
 
 " If there was no harm in this, why did you hide it from
 
 310 sybil's second love. 
 
 me?" she asked. " Since it was so desirable for me that you 
 should become my father's wife, why did you not become so 
 openly ? But you were wronging me, so you did not dare to 
 trust me. And now you expect me to forget the cruellest 
 treachery that was ever wrought from friend to friend. You 
 took advantage of m) T ignorance, and laughing at my simplicity 
 all the time, you stole my father from me. And it was not love 
 for him that carried you away — you dare not tell me to my 
 face that it was. It was love of fine furniture, and fine clothes, 
 of that silk dress, and those rings, of all that a true woman 
 should scorn. Keep them, enjoy them, and much good may 
 they do you ! " said Sybil, her eyes flashing. " You sold your- 
 self for them — with that I do not meddle, it rests between your 
 God and you, but you sold my friendship too r and this I will 
 tell you, there is nothing — nothing this wide earth holds — will 
 ever purchase it back again. If you had thrown it into the sea, 
 it would not be more lost to you than it is." 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy rose. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot has been speaking to you," she said, glancing 
 at the violets on the table. " What has he been saying ? I will 
 know it — I have a right to know it ! " 
 
 " Have you ? " replied Sybil. " What right, I wonder ? 
 There was a time indeed, when I w r as so foolish as to lay bare 
 every thought and feeling of my heart to you — but surely that 
 time is over." 
 
 " I tell you he has been speaking to you," angrily said Mrs. 
 Kennedy; " and if you will not tell me, he shall." 
 
 "He is in the counting-house," coolly replied Sybil. "I 
 see the light burning there, so if you wish to question him you 
 
 can." 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy went to the door. When her hand was on 
 the lock, she turned round and looked at Sybil. There was 
 pride, and humility, and old affection in the look. 
 
 " There was a time," she said, and her voice shook slightly 
 as she spoke, " there was a time, Sybil, when you would have 
 remembered not merely your imaginary wrongs, but real and 
 true proofs of friendship. I watched by your bed when you 
 were sick and dying amongst strangers ; I was true to you, 
 timer than you think or know. I could have married Count de 
 llenneville if I chose ! I did not. Why do you forget these 
 things ? " 
 
 I do not forget them," replied Sybil ; " but you have 
 
 a.
 
 sybil's second love. 311 
 
 ruined them all — you have sown doubt, and doubt you must 
 reap. I may wrong you, but I do believe that if you were kind 
 and true, it was because it cost you nothing to be so. I cannot 
 help seeing that when I stood in your way you walked over me 
 recklessly." 
 
 With a smile of scorn Mrs. Kennedy replied : 
 
 " That is a very convenient way of explaining, and getting 
 rid of kindness and affection." 
 
 " I know a way more convenient still," said Sybil, with a 
 steady look ; " it is to take advantage of both to crush and ruin 
 the giver. I defy you to say that I ever wronged you. I defy 
 you to say it in the past, and I defy you to say it in the future. 
 I know what my lot in this house will henceforth be, but I sub- 
 mit to it beforehand, with an aching heart I confess it, but with 
 pride enough to abstain from any thing like retaliation. From 
 such power as I have to offend or wound you you are safe — I 
 would scorn to use it." 
 
 " You are too good ! " ironically said Mrs. Kennedy ; " but 
 I suppose I must meet this magnanimous declaration in a 
 friendly spirit. Of course, if your father chides or censures, you 
 will kindly lay it to me." 
 
 " No," frankly said Sybil. " I do not think you wish it. 
 I even believe you would like to be kind to me. But I tell 
 you again," she added, her eyes flashing with generous indigna- 
 tion, " that never will I accept the kindness of the friend who 
 betrayed me." 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy thought awhile, then said coldly, 
 
 " You are young and inexperienced, and therefore harsh 
 and severe. Later you will think differently of all this. I shall 
 always be ready and willing to renew our old affection ; but 
 you must take the first step, Sybil. I have done all that I 
 could do, and far more than your father wished me to do." 
 
 Without waiting for any answer, without even looking at 
 Svbil, she left the room.
 
 312 sybil's second loye. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 The counting-house was empty when Mrs. Kennedy entered 
 it ; but Mr. Dermot bad left a light burning on the table, and 
 she knew be would return. She sat down and waited his com- 
 ing. She was a brave woman, though not a good one. She 
 would defy the enemies she had raised against herself, and face 
 the danger she had called up. She had failed with Sybil, but 
 she was not without hopes of success with her former lover. So 
 she sat, waiting patiently enough, thinking, with a wondering 
 sort of contempt, of the tragic way in which Sybil took all this, 
 and feeling just a touch of regret that she took it thus. 
 
 But Blanche Cains was not the woman to -linger over such 
 regret. She had not, indeed, anticipated this; her nature was 
 not one of deep thought or much foresight. She liked to go 
 on, pushing others aside, trampling obstacles under foot, but 
 she did not care to ask herself, " What will the cost of victory 
 be ? " She was no subtle schemer, though she had a power of 
 deceit without which she could never have prevailed. She had 
 scarcely entered Mr. Kennedy's house, and appreciated its com- 
 forts, both actual and contingent, when she had resolved to put 
 Mr. Dermot aside, and marry the father of her trusting friend. 
 Mr. Kennedy did not care for her, and she saw it. _ What of 
 that? It would only sweeten victory to subdue this careless 
 rebel. So she spread her net, and when the bird was in its 
 meshes, she closed it, and laughed to herself like a saucy child. 
 He was young enough, and handsome enough, too, for her to 
 like him in a certain way. Besides, he adored her, and would 
 be generous. Of Sybil she thought little, of Mr. Dermot not at 
 all/ She disliked him now, and as her pleasure was her rule of 
 life, so were her likings and her dislikings the only code of con- 
 science Blanche Cains acknowledged. For her dear little Sybil, 
 indeed, she felt some slight compunction, but, then, she was 
 half vexed with her too. 
 
 " If she loved me as much as she says," thought Miss Cains, 
 "she would have thought of it. Of course she knows her 
 father will marry again. Then why not wish me to be her step- 
 mother? No, she would like me to be her dependant. She 
 would shower benefits on me, I suppose, and kiss and hug me 
 all day long like a lapdog. But it cannot be. However, I will 
 be very kind to her — dear little Sybil ! "
 
 sybil's second love. 313 
 
 To do her justice, Miss Cains had some delightful fancies 
 concerning this prospective kindness. She would he the me- 
 dium of Mr. Kennedy's love to his daughter. No girl in all 
 Saint Vincent should be attired so exquisitely as Sybil Kennedy. 
 She should have such darling dresses, and such a sweet little 
 room, and when she had a fancy she need only come to her 
 step-mother and tell it to her, and Mrs. Kennedy would coax or 
 worry it out of her husband, for dear little Sybil must be grat- 
 ified. 
 
 All this had been very pleasant to think of, and it was as 
 provoking to find that it would not come to pass. Sybil's per- 
 versity was set up as a barrier between them. She had not 
 loved her after all. It had only been the lapdog affection, and 
 because Blanche would not be a lapdog, Sybil hated her, and 
 looked at her with cold, scornful eves. 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy's feelings were too blunt for her anger against 
 Sybil to rise very high. But she was displeased, and her dis- 
 pleasure was akin to dislike. She was a sort of heathen in her 
 way. Not a devout pagan like Socrates, nor one that sub- 
 dued his passions like Scipio, nor yet such a heathen as Lucre- 
 tia, who could not survive dishonor. No ; but she belonged to 
 that countless multitude who have ever been, and will not cease 
 to be till time is dead. She was one of those who make gods, 
 small or mighty, of their passions, according to the strength and 
 measure of their nature. For whom the tables of the law were 
 never written. For whom Christ died in vain. Customs, cir- 
 cumstances, hedge in the majority of these from great crimes 
 -or weighty sins ; many behave pretty much like Christians, and 
 call themselves such. But watch them closely ; see how their 
 eager, sensuous natures grasp at every pleasure, every joy, and 
 forego no temptation. The smallest sacrifice of self is intolera- 
 ble. The greatest is never thought of. They cannot do it, and 
 they neither admire nor love the foolish ascetic who conquers 
 the flesh, and lays his quivering heart bare beneath God's hand. 
 Why punish one's self so? Was not life given for enjoyment ? — 
 are not these self-inflicted pangs the diseased workings of poor, 
 sad fanatics ? To this creed Mrs. Kennedy had ever practically 
 belonged. There had ever been something in Sybil's passion- 
 ate, aspiring nature that jarred upon her. What was that silly 
 girl ever longing for? AVhy did she ever go beyond the present 
 in some- wild dream or other ? Why did she rave about books, 
 or people, or things ? It was irritating at times, and ever in- 
 14
 
 311: sybil's second loye. 
 
 comprehensible, and at other times it was hateful. For to this 
 day the heathen hates the Christian, who, alas ! often hates him. 
 The Avar of creeds is ever going on — a fierce war often — and al- 
 ways a war of mutual derision and scorn. 
 
 Spite this difference in their two natures, Miss Cains had 
 taken a liking to Sybil. She had indulged and petted the young 
 girl at school. She had even watched by her sick-bed, and 
 braved contagion to do so. But then she did not fear this par- 
 ticular disease ; indeed, a certain bravery was one of her re- 
 deeming traits, and she had found pleasure in Sybil's vivacious 
 adoration. The latter years of Blanche Cains had been bitter. 
 They had overflowed with humiliations, and slights, and scorns, 
 which she hated. Against all these Sybil's worship had avenged 
 her. It was soothing to wounded vanity and smarting pride to 
 be the idol of this fervent school-girl. It was pleasant, too, and 
 Miss Cains foresaw that it could lead to much that would be 
 pleasanter still. A friendship based on such grounds was not 
 very likely to prove self-denying, and as she thought over all 
 this, Mrs. Kennedy again thought what a silly girl Sybil must 
 have been, and was still. 
 
 The sound of a step roused her from her meditation. The 
 door opened, she turned round, and they were face to face. 
 They exchanged one cold, wary look, and did not speak. At 
 length Mr. Dermot very coldly asked to know Mrs. Kennedy's 
 pleasure. 
 
 " I think, sir, you may guess it," was the lady's composed 
 reply. " You have been already sowing discord between my 
 husband's daughter and me, doing what you can to embitter my 
 stay in this house. I come to know your pleasure — am I to 
 leave it, or will you ? — one house cannot hold us." 
 
 " In that case, I am sorry to say, Mrs. Kennedy, that you 
 must go. I have no intention of leaving this house." 
 
 She stared at him, more annoyed than angry. 
 
 " Perhaps you will explain yourself," she said, after a while, 
 " there need be no riddles between us." 
 
 " And why should I explain ? You have only to question 
 your husband, and you will surely know." 
 
 " Mr. Dermot, I expected the conduct of a gentleman, but I 
 find I was mistaken." 
 
 She rose, and looked grandly scornful. 
 
 But Mr. Dermot smiled a cold, unmoved smile. He could 
 be stung, but not by her.
 
 Sybil's second love. 315 
 
 " Of your own accord you released me," sbe pursue'd, " and 
 because I took tlie liberty you gave me, you cboose to insult me." 
 
 "My dear madam," kindly said Mr. Dermot, " take this friend- 
 ly advise, offer no excuse where tbere is no accusation. You were 
 free to bestow your baud on Mr. Kennedy, and you could not 
 bestow it on a worthier man. You bave made a good match, 
 too, and pray, who blames you for doing so ? " 
 
 Blanche looked at him with sparkling eyes. 
 
 " You want me to fear you," she said, " but nothing shall 
 make me do that — nothing, do you bear ? I defy you, Mr. 
 Dermot, I defy you ! " 
 
 Mr. Dermot took out bis pocket-book, opened it, and pro- 
 duced a letter. On seeing it, she turned ashy pale. At a 
 glance she knew the writing, it was hers — a proof she could 
 not deny was in his bands. No doubt be would take it to her 
 husband, and she must confess her mean deceit. She wondered 
 if she could snatch and tear it from his hand — but no, the at- 
 tempt was useless, and might be dangerous. So she stood si- 
 lent, looking at him with moody eyes. 
 
 " Inadvertently," said Mr. Dermot, laying grave emphasis 
 on the word, " this letter remained in my hands. I was hesita- 
 ting whether to destroy it, or return it to you, but by coming 
 here to-night you have removed all doubt." 
 
 He placed it on the table before her. She took it up with- 
 out eagerness, and held it loosely. Why did he care so little 
 about injuring her when he had her so completely in bis power ? 
 It could not be the old love. Yet there was no harm in trying, 
 so she said softly : 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Dermot." 
 
 He looked at her — and no woman could mistake that look. 
 Nothing — no, not an atom of the old love was there. Unless 
 in so far as it might have been useful to her, Mrs. Kennedy had 
 no wish for that same old love — yet that look stung her. She 
 thrust the letter into the flame of the candle, then threw it 
 contemptuously or the hearth, and let it burn there. And still 
 she was not satisfied. 
 
 "Mr. Dermot," sbe said, "you know very well that I can 
 ask my husband for no explanation. I come to you, and you 
 are bound to answer me. Why and bow do vou remain in this 
 house ? " 
 
 "Mrs. Kennedy, you must question your husband or re- 
 main in ignorance. Why should ho not tell you? — and why
 
 316 Sybil's secoxd love. 
 
 should I ? There is no past between us — we are strangers 
 — and we met to-day for the first time. Destroy that un- 
 derstanding, and you place yourself in a position of doubt 
 and difficulty. Keep it, and it seems to me that you have 
 only to be happy according to the way you have chosen." 
 
 " Mr. Dermot," said Blanche, "you are a false, bad man, 
 and I hate you ! But I have no need to question Mr. Ken- 
 nedy — you have already told me enough. You are his part- 
 ner, or something of the kind. Be it so. I shall not crave 
 your mercy, and what is more, I shall scorn to be revenged. 
 You have deceived me all along, but know that, though Mr. 
 Kennedy may be the older and the poorer man, I prefer him 
 still a thousand times to you." 
 
 She walked out of the counting-house without giving him 
 another look. As she spoke, so she felt in that bitter hour. 
 She had been deceived, nay, she had been cheated, and she saw 
 it. But her hatred of the deceiver was greater than her resent- 
 ment of the cheat. 
 
 Mr. Dermot had not thought it necessary to inform her that 
 he was richer than she thought, and he had given her no clue 
 to Mr. Kennedy's circumstances. He had let her be caught 
 in this net of her own spreading, and now he laughed at her ! 
 Let him. He should not triumph in her regret, nor behold 
 her mortification. She would love Mr. Kennedy to his face, and 
 that should be her revenge. 
 
 In this fond mood Mrs. Kennedy entered her room, where 
 her husband was rather anxiously waiting. He thought her 
 with Sybil all the time, and the interview seemed a long one. 
 Had Pussy been coaxed back to duty by the charmer ? He 
 gave her an uneasy look as she came in. Mrs. Kennedy smiled 
 brightly, and went up to him with a pretty, playful, deprecat- 
 ing air. 
 
 " Not yet," she said, " not yet. You sec she feels sore, but 
 she will come round. Indeed, if there had not been mischief- 
 making, I do believe she would have come round. So in my 
 headlong way I have been to Mr. Dermot in the counting-house, 
 and scolded him roundly. He, poor man, declares he had nothing 
 to do with it, but seems rather affronted with me. Have I done 
 very wrong? Now don't look so cross,-dear, but do tell me how 
 I am to behave to that Mr. Dermot? Is he a clerk ? Has he a 
 share in the business ? What is he here ? Why did he not go 
 to Canada ? "
 
 sybil's second love. 317 
 
 Mr. Kennedy was not a communicative man, but she spoke 
 in a coaxing, careless tone. She laid her head on his shoulder 
 in a fond way, that stirred every fibre in bis heart, and mas- 
 tered him. He felt her breath on his cheek, and her white band 
 softly playing with his hair, and be yielded to this beloved Delilah. 
 
 " My* love," he replied, " it is a business secret, and you 
 must not mention it even to Derrnot. But the fact is, I have 
 given up this French business to him, and kept the foreign con- 
 nection for myself." 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy opened her blue eyes in childish wonder. 
 
 " Dear me," she said, " is this house his ? " 
 
 " It will be, my love. The house goes with the mill." 
 
 A cold shudder passed through Mrs. Kennedy's heart. She 
 was a matter-of-fact woman, and tangible possessions were all in 
 all to her. "What was Mr. Kennedy's foreign connection ? It 
 might mean nothing. The house, the mill, the French busi- 
 ness were substantial goods, and these were to belong to her dis- 
 carded lover. She looked at the cupids on the blue hangings 
 on the walls, at the costly furniture, and the velvet carpets, and 
 they bored her dreadfully. She gazed moodily at the man, on 
 whose shoulder her head now rested, and she saw him with 
 changed eyes. How old he looked — quite old ; and there were 
 gray hairs in his beard, too, and she was married to him, and 
 perhaps he would be a beggar to-morrow. 
 
 " You look tired, love/' said Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 Blanche roused herself with a little start. 
 
 " No, she was not tired, but she was thinking. "Would they 
 all stay in this house, suppose Mr. Dermot got married ? " 
 
 " And suppose he marries Sybil," playfully said Mr. Kenne- 
 dy, kissing her hand. 
 
 It bad been the boast of this woman that she was not en- 
 vious. That boast perished as her husband spoke. Suppose he 
 marries Sybil ! She would have grudged her former friend no 
 other husband, but this one she did grudge her in her heart. 
 What! had she schemed, and plotted, and betrayed; had she 
 sold herself to an old man that these two might scorn her with 
 their love and their money ? The thought was hateful, so she 
 smiled and said : 
 
 "He will not do for Sybil." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " You will not tell Sybil I told you ? " 
 
 "No— what is it?"
 
 318 sybil's second love. 
 
 "Well, then — yon will not tell Mr. Dermot either?" 
 
 « No." 
 
 " On your word ? " 
 
 " On my word — what is it ? " 
 
 " Well, then, he proposed to Sybil, and she would not have 
 him — Sybil herself told me so." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy bit bis lip, and looked deeply vexed. 
 
 " He proposed to Sybil ? " 
 
 " I believe I am not using the right words — he gave Sybil 
 to understand that he was fond of her, and Sybil^ as plainly 
 gave him to understand that she was not fond of him. I can- 
 not say what actual words passed — but it was so." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy still looked vexed — more than vexed; he 
 took a turn round the room, then came back to his wife. 
 
 " Sybil must have him," he said doggedly. , 
 
 " She shall never have him," thought Mrs. Kennedy, setting 
 her teeth. But with that thought there passed another that 
 chilled her very marrow. Was Mr. Kennedy an all but ruined 
 man, and was this match the only pledge left of his safety ? " 
 
 " But, my love," she said, " is this house really to be Mr. 
 Dermot's — I mean is it a settled thing that he must have it ?— 
 suppose you and he disagreed ? " 
 
 " We shall not disagree." 
 
 " Well, but suppose you did ? " she persisted. 
 
 " If we disagree before a year is out, I resume all my old 
 rights, for our agreement is not to be carried out before then." 
 ' " Mrs. Kennedy breathed a relieved sigh. A year indeed ! 
 A month would do her purpose. So she resumed her pretty 
 coaxing ways, and wrung from Mr. Kennedy a promise that he 
 would not utter a word of reproach to Sybil. 
 
 " Mind, not one word," she added. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy kissed her fondly, and thought what an angel 
 he had wedded ; but for all that he did not tell her that Saint 
 Vincent, and the mill, and the French business were already 
 sold to Mr. Dermot, and that it was out of the purchase-money 
 the handsome room in which they now stood had been 
 furnished, lie did not tell her that Saint Vincent had never 
 really been his, but one of those doubtful possessions which 
 men of his speculative turn indulge in. Bie did not tell her 
 that he had lost thousands since she had first come to the 
 abbey, that his daughter's fortune was gone, and that for the 
 third time in his life the future was a blank before him.
 
 sybil's second love. 319 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy was faithful to his promise of not scolding 
 Sybil. But if he did not reprove in words, he had estranged 
 looks and cold language at his command, and he used both un- 
 sparingly the whole of the next day. His daughter's pale face 
 and sad eyes did not make him relent, though they moved Mrs. 
 Mush to pity, and stirred the very depths of Mr. Dermot's 
 heart. When, on entering the drawing-room in the evening, 
 he saw Sybil sitting apart, silent and neglected, he went at once 
 and drew a chair near hers. He caught Mrs. Keunedy's scorn- 
 ful smile, and he saw Mr. Kennedy's half-displeased look, and 
 he read, too, an uneasy meaning on Mrs. Mush's face, which 
 meant, " This will lead to no good ; " but Mr. Dermot was a 
 wilful man, and not even Sybil's languid and monosyllabic re- 
 plies could deter him from his purpose. Moreover, he knew 
 how to compel her attention. 
 
 "I have brought you a new book," he said, taking a volume 
 out of his pocket and putting it on the table before her. " I 
 think you will like it." 
 
 Sybil's face brightened, and she gave him a grateful look ; 
 but suddenly her eyes grew dim and her hand shook as it 
 opened the volume. It was very kind of Mr. Dermot, but it 
 was only kindness, and with, her father it had once been love. 
 But though Mr. Dermot saw and understood all this, he would 
 not be disheartened in his well-meant effort. Moreover, he 
 liked to guard and avenge this poor little outcast, who had 
 done nothing to deserve her fate, and who, if her father had 
 been just, and her friend true, need never have worn that deso- 
 late, heart-broken mien. He knew that it would please neither 
 Mr. Kennedy nor his wife that he should thus devote himself to 
 Sybil, and protest against their unkindness, but little indeed did 
 he care for their displeasure. 
 
 The color returned to Sybil's pale cheeks, and the old gaj - 
 ety to her voice, and every manly and generous instinct within 
 him rejoiced to think that this was his doing. 
 
 "Ah! how good you are," Sybil could not help saving, in 
 a voice too low for the rest to hear, " how very good you are to 
 
 me!" 
 
 "I wish I could be ton times hinder, my good little girl," 
 he said, casting a look of mingled indignation and scorn at Mr.
 
 320 sybil's second loye. 
 
 Kennedy and his wife. He felt no jealousy, no personal re« 
 sentraent, but it was incredible to him that Mr. Kennedy could 
 prefer to a daughter like Sybil a wife like Blanche Cains. 
 All affection partakes of love's blinduess, and imagination is a 
 great deceiver. Mr. Dermot had long clothed Miss Cains with 
 all the virtues which can adorn woman, and which a generous 
 heart can conceive. But no sooner did he see his fair mistress 
 daily, than his illusion melted away. She had helped him in a 
 sort of way — she did not care to deceive or keep him. It 
 suited her that he should open his eyes, and cease to love. 
 Jilting him was inconvenient, and she preferred that he should 
 jilt her. The glamour faded from before his eyes almost abruptly. 
 The enchantress chose to dissolve her own spell, and he knew 
 not the magic art that could restore it. Indeed, loathing and 
 scorn marked his wakening. "When he saw how he had been 
 loved, he set her free, and restored every proof of their engage- 
 ment- 
 Miss Cains played her cards so well that she carried on a 
 comfortable courtship with the new lover, and a dire though 
 silent quarrel with the old one, unsuspected by either. And 
 now that he saw what her object had been, Mr. Dermot de- 
 spised her, and, forgetting his own blindness, wondered at his 
 friend's. 
 
 "It is amazing, Sybil," he said, looking back to her; "but 
 Time will avenge you." 
 
 " I want no vengeance, Mr. Dermot." 
 
 " But you suffer, Sybil." 
 
 " I cannot help that. The whole day I have heard about 
 that ball of hers. I think, moreover, she has already expressed 
 twenty extravagant wishes, which it will take much money to 
 gratify, and which are all to be fulfilled. Her whims are laws 
 now — and my father does not even look at me, Mr. Dermot." 
 
 " I wish looking at you would do any good," said Mr. Der- 
 mot rather warmly, "for I like it, Sybil. You have a face 
 which makes the task a pleasure. I don't mean that you are 
 so amazingly pretty," he added, smiling ; " but faces are like 
 books, pleasing or painful, and I like the story which yours tells 
 me, Sybil." 
 
 " Sybil's fingers shook a little as she went on with her 
 crochet. This kindness of Mr. Dcrmot's, which was so unlike 
 love, was both her torment and her happiness. He went on : 
 
 " I said that Time would avenge you — why will you not let
 
 sybil's second love. 321 
 
 me forestall or abet Time, Sybil ? I would gratify your wishes 
 if you would but express them, aud no one would or need be 
 the wiser for it, Aud I should like it, Sybil." 
 
 " Xo — no — I must not — I dare not," stammered Sybil. 
 "I have no wishes — I want nothing." 
 
 " From me," he suggested, looking scarcely pleased. 
 
 u Ah! that is not it, indeed, no; but she is my father's 
 wife, and she has a right, I suppose, to be extravagant. And 
 what right have I to tax you so ? " 
 
 "The right I give you — Sybil, the best of all rights, it 
 seems to me. Moreover, you have never been extravagant in 
 your desires. It does not take much to please you, or to make 
 you happy, Sybil. A few flowers, a book will do it. Only 
 you will not let me." 
 
 Sybil did not know how to resist him. She felt troubled, 
 happy, and withal wretched. Why was her heart so exacting 
 that it required either more or less kindness ? She would have 
 asked no better than to let Mr. Dermot be kind to her, but 
 prudence and pride forbade it. That kindness must cease, alas ! 
 it must even be given to another, and she might have to see it. 
 Should she not, then, relinquish it betimes, and deny herself to- 
 dav, in order not to be faint and languid to-morrow ? 
 
 "Well, Sybil? "he said. 
 
 And Sybil's reply was the very reverse of that which she 
 intended, 
 
 " Yes, as you please," she said. 
 
 " What would you like ? " Mr. Dermot asked quickly. 
 
 Sybil stammered, half frightened, " Nothing." 
 
 " Any thing," he wanted to insist. 
 
 But in the mean while Mr. Kennedy was beginning to look 
 displeased, and Mrs. Kennedy grandly disdainful, at this long 
 conference. So good-natured Mrs. Mush thought she might as 
 well interfere. She rose, left her seat, and weut up to Mr. Der- 
 mot and Sybil. 
 
 " You pair of plotters," she said, ." what comedy or what 
 drama is it that you are concocting ? " 
 
 " Do you wish to help us, Mrs. Mush? " asked Mr. Dermot. 
 
 " I do not object, provided you undertake the last act. It 
 must be very pleasant to set things going, but oh ! the winding 
 up!" 
 
 "Oh! ours shall be an historical drama, and you know that 
 in this the winding op is already done." 
 14*
 
 322 stbil's second love. 
 
 " Yes, and very grandly, too, sometimes. Take the story 
 of Elizabeth and Mary, for instance." 
 
 " I hate Elizabeth," vehemently said Sybil. 
 
 " It is all very well to abuse Elizabeth," coolly replied Mrs. 
 Mush, " but what would Mary have done without her 1 " 
 
 " She would have kept her head, Mrs. Mush." 
 
 " My dear, I am looking at these two ladies dramatically, 
 and you must confess that tragic end it is which has made Mary 
 famous forever. And, then, there is something terrible in 
 the aversion of these two women. They never met — it owes 
 nothing to personal contact — no, it is a grand hatred, crossing 
 both space and time." 
 
 Mr. Dermot laughed, and confessed it was very fine, and as 
 he saw that Mrs. Mush was resolved to break his" tete-a-tete with 
 Sybil, he moved away of his own accord. Mrs. Mush remained 
 near her young cousin. 
 
 "Little girl," she half whispered, "you must not struggle 
 against fate. It only makes matters worse." 
 
 Sybil looked moody, and did not reply. 
 
 " And you must not let yourself be comforted so easily," 
 continued Mrs. Mush. " Man is vain, my dear, and too easily 
 elated." 
 
 This speech coincided too much with Sybil's secret fears 
 not to move her. 
 
 "Oh! I know," she said a little bitterly. "I rely upon 
 nothing and no one, Mrs. Mush." 
 
 Mr. Dermot, who was watching them a little uneasy, now 
 came back. 
 
 "Mrs. Mush, what are you and Miss Kennedy plotting 
 now ?" he asked. 
 
 "Tieason, to be sure," very calmly replied Mrs. Mush. 
 
 But Sybil, who felt restless under Mr. Dermot's look, rose 
 and left the room. He followed her out with her book, which 
 she had left on the table. 
 
 " Sybil," he said reproachfully, " I did not overhear Mrs. 
 Mush, but I overheard you. And you said that you relied 
 upon nothing and no one, Sybil." 
 
 " Sybil's whole heart went back to him. To hear was to 
 believe when he spoke. 
 
 "Oh! I rely upon you," she said in a broken voice, "I 
 rely upon you ; and even if you, weary of kindness, I shall never 
 murmur — I shall never reproach. Good-night — say nothing 
 more — good- nig! it."
 
 sybil's second love. 323 
 
 She left him a little abruptly, for she felt her cheek flushing, 
 and her eyes filling Avith tears, and she was both ashamed and 
 afraid. To say the truth, Mr. Dermot was a little startled. He 
 reentered the drawing-room, resolved to question Mrs. Mush as 
 he had questioned Sybil; but she gave him no opportunity to 
 do so. She sat near Mrs. Kennedy, and the two ladies and 
 Mr. Kennedy himself were deep in a most important conversa- 
 tion — the ball which was to grace Mrs. Kennedy's appearance 
 in Saint Vincent. Mrs. Kennedy wanted to triumph over her 
 old foes by asking them to her house, and her husband was 
 both too fond and too proud of her to oppose the wish. He 
 too wanted to show the world the prize he had got. Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy was not more anxious to display her luxurious furniture 
 and her diamonds — they had belonged to Sybil's mother — than 
 Mr. Kennedy to exhibit her blue eyes, blooming cheeks, and 
 white shoulders to the circle of his friends. Mr. Dermot soon 
 wearied of this topic of conversation, and perceiving he could 
 not speak to Mrs. Mush alone, he left the drawing-room. The 
 night was mild, and he crossed the silent cloister, and went out 
 into the garden. He looked up at Sybil's window. It was 
 dark. She was fast asleep by this, and, childlike, had laid by 
 all her cares on her pillow. Why should he question Mrs. 
 Mush ? He knew Sybil, he knew himself, and he wonld not 
 change one tittle in his behavior. He would be her friend, her 
 kind and true friend, and if there was sweetness or pleasure in 
 that friendship, why should he not take it ? ■ 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 All happiness has to be bought, and a heavy price did 
 Sybil now pay for her gay and careless youth. Her other 
 troubles had been unlike this : their bitterness was great, but it 
 was not incessant. It was hard to be betrayed by her betrothed. 
 It was harder still to love a man whose careless liking seemed 
 to forbid hope forever. But pride cured one grief; and there 
 is a secret balm in the wounds which love inflicts, which will 
 not let them become mortal. Men and women never have died 
 of love, whatever poets may say. Love is life, and would raise 
 and quicken the dead rather than destroy the living.
 
 324; SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 But there is no soothing power in a betrayed friendship. 
 There is nothing to allay the bitterness of such daily stings as 
 grief, jealousy, and wronged affection now inflicted upon Sybil. 
 Her father's passion, and the power of Blanche Cains, both 
 seemed to know no bounds, and Sybil had to look on and see 
 it. Ralph, her step-mother's maid, was more powerful in the 
 house than she was now. Her tastes; her likings, were consulted 
 in nothing, aud she was nothing and no one. The visitors who 
 came to Saint Vincent — and there was a tribe of them — asked 
 for Mrs. Kennedy, and Miss Kennedy might appear or not at 
 her pleasure. She was not missed, and certainly not wanted. 
 Mrs. Mush was very good-natured ; and Mr. Dermot was more 
 than good-natured. His watchful kindness was a constant pro- 
 test against the cruel change ; but he could not alter matters, 
 after all. Moreover, he lived much apart, and was deep in busi- 
 ness, whilst Mr. Kennedy was lengthening his honeymoon be- 
 yond the usual period. There were days when Sybil scarcely 
 saw him, and either lived alone or sat silent and moody with her 
 step-mother. This happened but seldom. Mrs. Kennedy had 
 at once established her footing in the little town of Saint Vin- 
 cent. She drove out daily, generally with her husband, and 
 lived in a round of visits and gayeties, from which Sybil was 
 wilfully excluded. Now and then some unexpected and wel- 
 come act of kindness from Mr. Dermot broke like a ray of sun- 
 shine on the gloom of her life ; but it was only now and then, 
 for, as we said, Mr. Dermot was very busy, " and he does not 
 care about me after all," thought Sybil. 
 
 And thus time passed till the day of the party came round. 
 
 A keen and bitter north wind blew from the sea, and swept 
 over the whole coast. On such a day the shelter of the house 
 is pleasant, and it is a hardship to go forth. Yet scarcely was 
 breakfast over when Sybil ran up to her room, put on some 
 warm clothing, then went down to the garden, thence proceeded 
 to the grounds, walked there, striving against the blast, until, 
 wearied and exhausted, she sat down on the grassy bank where 
 she had learned for the first time that Mr. Dermot was not her 
 uncle. 
 
 She remembered that evening and its splendor — her pas- 
 sion of grief and wrath at its revelation — but she remembered 
 them as a remote dream. She had lived a whole world since 
 then, and her life was as changed as the aspect of nature itself. 
 No sunset glory did she gaze on now, but a tempestuous sky,
 
 sybil's second love. 325 
 
 where clouds rolled like sea-tossed ships. No azure ocean was 
 this, hut a hillowy main, beating in wrath and foam against the 
 cliffs. 
 
 A quick step made her look round. She saw Mr. Dermot, 
 who, on perceiving her, changed his direction, and came to 
 where she sat. 
 
 " Sybil," he said, chidingly, " what are you doing here ? 
 Why, child, you are perished, and look like a little ghost." 
 
 " I hate the house," said Sybil. 
 
 " And therefore come out and make yourself numb in this 
 bitter wind. You might choose some more genial spot. Come 
 on with me." 
 
 Sybil yielded apathetically. Mr. Dermot took her arm, and 
 made her walk fast, till they reached a sheltered little nook. A 
 pale sun piercing the clouds shed its light and warmth around 
 them, and a tinge of color returned to Sybil's cheeks. He 
 asked her how she liked this, and Sybil, smiling, answered that 
 she liked it well. 
 
 Pity is said to be akin to love, and in the compassion 
 which now filled Mr. Dermot's heart there was something very 
 like love's tenderness. He felt it, and he knew it. Yes, he 
 Avould like to take and cherish this poor little wronged one, to 
 give her Jove and caresses, to gratify her wishes and receive 
 grateful looks and smiles in return. He would like to take 
 and place her beyond the reach of unkind eyes, and feel him- 
 self beloved by that true and passionate young heart. It would 
 he something to lead her back to life and joy— a task that 
 would bring its own reward. 
 
 "And so you will go on fretting," he said, looking down on 
 her (and half tempted to add, " let me comfort you"). " And so 
 you will hate yourlot, and not submit." 
 
 " I cannot help it," desperately said Sybil ; " and Mr. Der- 
 mot, would you believe it, that ball of hers makes me mad. I 
 did not think I was so mean ; but it is so. I cannot bear to 
 think that she will be admired and flattered to-night, and that I 
 shall be put by as a thing of no worth. Ah, I was not always 
 so. There was a time when I loved her, and I was proud of 
 her beauty.; and now, Mr. Dermot — despise me for saying so 
 — now I hate it." 
 
 " No, Sybil, you do not; but you hate her, I fear. Do not, 
 Sybil, do not. It was her poverty did it all. Nature gave her 
 a glorious outside and some good qualities besides, but she for-
 
 326 sybil's second love. 
 
 got to add a heart. Mrs. Kennedy is a fine statue of flesh and 
 blood ; one cannot help seeing that she is almost faultlessly 
 handsome in face and person — " 
 
 " Do not," interrupted Sybil, turning pale as death. " I 
 have just told you I cannot bear that she should be admired." 
 
 " But I do not admire her, Sybil ; and I decidedly admire 
 you," he added, smiling, and raising her hands to his lips as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " Ah, now you humble me," cried Sybil, sorely distressed, 
 " I do not want to be admired at all. I never meant that. I 
 do not feel vain now, Mr. Dermot, but I feel wronged and 
 jealous, and I detest her." 
 
 " But, Sybil, I cannot help admiring you," said Mr. Dermot, 
 rather warmly. " I am not flattering you, on my word. You 
 are too good to flatter." 
 
 There was sincerity in his tone, but there was more in his 
 looks. Very sweet is the admiration of those whom we love, 
 and Sybil felt as if a divine balm had washed her cares away. 
 A glow came over her face, not that of mere modesty, still less 
 of gratified pride, but the lovely glow of a happy heart. She 
 looked so handsome that Mr. Dermot was dazzled and bewitched. 
 His eyes sparkled, he stopped short, and looked down at Sybil, 
 his face overflowed with emotion, words trembled on his lips, 
 then suddenly he dropped her hand, which he had taken, and 
 walked a few steps away, pale and troubled. Mr. Dermot had 
 thought — 
 
 "I cannot marry her." 
 
 The will, not the power, was wanting — but the will is every 
 thing; and Mr. Dermot, though fascinated for a moment, was 
 not in love. 
 
 " Sybil," he said, coining back to her, " do not mind me — I 
 am not very well this morning." 
 
 Had Sybil guessed the truth ? Perhaps she had, for she 
 smiled sadly, with her eyes bent on the earth, and she turned 
 back to the house. 
 
 " Never again, if I can help it," she thought, " shall I meet 
 Mr. Dermot alone. I cannot trust him. He admires me just 
 enough to commit himself, and he does not know that I would 
 scorn to take advantage of such admiration. Of course he is too 
 honorable to trifle with me ; but even if he wished it, he could 
 not do it — I should detect truth from falsehood now, or, rather, 
 love from mere liking."
 
 sybil's second love. 327 
 
 " Sybil, you seem displeased witb me," said Mr. Dermot, 
 uneasily. 
 
 " I am displeased witb myself," replied Sybil, very gravely ; 
 " not witb you, Mr. Dermot." 
 
 Sbe walked away, evidently not wishing bim to follow ber; 
 and be respected tbat wisb, and remained behind. 
 
 Mr. Dermot was not accustomed to let bis feelings carry bim 
 away, and be wanted to tbink over and examine tbe sudden 
 emotion wbicb bad so nearly mastered him. He was not in 
 love witb Sybil, and could not well fancy bimself so. He liked 
 this delightful little wild-flower, but he did not care to gather it. 
 Wearisome to him was the mere thought of wedded life, and of 
 the whole matrimonial routine, which, seen from the shores of 
 celibacy, is so uninviting. Besides, why marry, when so many 
 struggles and cares lay before bim ? 
 
 Thus spoke Prudence; but witb Prudence came another 
 speaker, whose voice was not less selfish perhaps than hers, but 
 was at least infinitely more seducing. It told of a fond young 
 Sybil, who would greet him with bright eyes and a kiss, who 
 would clasp young white arms around his neck, and let him 
 sleep his cares away on her bosom. Mr. Dermot was no cynic. 
 He loved woman for tbe sense of sweetness and repose which 
 the man who loves a true woman finds in her companionship. 
 He was no Stoic either, and that ideal woman lost none of her 
 attractions for wearing Sybil's shape, and looking at him witb 
 Sybil's impassioned dark eyes. When he thought of her in that 
 relation to himself, he felt with a thrill that it would be very 
 sweet to have ber. But not to have ber coldly. Mr. Dermot 
 would not care for mere matrimonial barter. If he was to think 
 of Sybil as a wife, it must be as a wife adoring and beloved ; and 
 this thought brought him back to the very point whence be had 
 started — was it possible — nay, more, was it desirable ? 
 
 "What a pity men and women cannot discuss some ques- 
 tions in perfect frankness," thought Mr. Dermot. " What a pity 
 I could not say to Sybil awhile back, ' I am not in love with 
 you ; but say that you can love me, and in five minutes, ay, in 
 five seconds, it will be done. You see I am a drowning man. 
 He has ceased to care for that sweet shore called love — he drifts 
 away into indifference out of very hopelessness ; but show bim 
 green land again, and he will strain every nerve to reach it. 
 Tell me, Sybil, that I can be loved, and see if I will not love I 
 Say this, and such as you are in sickness or in health, for better
 
 328 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. . 
 
 or for worse, I will take you. If you are ill, I will tend you 
 if you are querulous, I will bear with you ; and if we are poor. 
 I will toil for you. You shall be flesh of my flesh, and heart of 
 my heart. I will love you in blooming youth, and beyond 
 youth and its bloom ; and, Sybil, tell me if woman can expect, 
 or if man can give more ? ' " 
 
 But alas! it was impossible to hold such language to 
 Sybil. No courtship could begin with such frankness, no girl 
 could tolerate it. Love contingent is not man's privilege, llis 
 passion, when declared, must be full-born, and not embryo. 
 All this Mr. Dermot knew — he knew more, too ; and with an 
 impatient sigh he resolved to think no more about it. . 
 
 But that he should think of it was decreed. 
 
 The preparations for Mrs. Kennedy's ball were made on a 
 grand scale, and had been going on for a week past. All this 
 Sybil had seen and known, and had hated with the cordial hate 
 of the young. But when, on leaving Mr. Dermot, she entered 
 the house and went to the library, her indignation rose at the 
 sight, she there beheld. Mrs. Kennedy had suddenly decided 
 that this was to be the ball-room. To hear was to obey with 
 her husband. To give the room due width, he ordered the 
 shelves of books to be ejected, and the books themselves to be 
 conveyed to a garret up-stairs. In the midst of the noise, dust, 
 and confusion, Sybil entered unheard. At a glance she saw 
 why and how this was taking place. This room had once been 
 hers; here she had spent her happiest hours alone, or, in the 
 days of Uncle Edward, with her father and Mr. Dermot ; and 
 now it was taken from her; this pleasant refuge was desecrated 
 and destroyed, her loved companions were banished, and she 
 must loot on and be silent ! 
 
 " You had better not stay here in the dust, Sybil," shortly 
 said her father, catching sight of her pale face, and resenting its 
 meaning. " If you will prepare your dress for to-night, you 
 will please me far more than by moping here." 
 
 " I have nothing to get ready," coldly replied Sybil. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy reddened ; he had not troubled himself about 
 his daughter's attire this time, whilst for the last week the house 
 had known nothing but Mrs. Kennedy's blue glace, trimmed 
 with white, lie turned away without a word, whilst Sybil ten- 
 derly gathered up a heap of dusty tomes from the floor, and 
 took them up to her new abiding-place. It so happened that 
 whilst she was thus engaged, Mr. Dermot, wanting a volume,
 
 sybil's second love. 329 
 
 learned, with as little satisfaction as Sybil, that the garret was 
 now the library. lie went up to seek the booh he required, and 
 unexpectedly found Sybil there. 
 
 She did not hear him pushing the door open, and he entered 
 the garret unseen. She sat on a low stool, her elbow on her 
 knee, her cheek on tbe palm of her hand, her look resting dis- 
 consolately on the book-strewn floor. The window was wide 
 open, and framed a spring landscape, with a blue sky, from 
 which the stormy clouds had passed away. It also let in the 
 spring sunshine, which fell on the dusty volumes, and on 
 Sybil's bright young head, with equal impartiality. These 
 worm-eaten books, written by men whose flesh had long been 
 dust, were as much to the careless sunbeams as the fresh young 
 beauty. 
 
 " What a pity such a glorious young creature should ever 
 die ! " thought Mr. Dermot, with a sense of pain. 
 
 Oh ! death — what is death, Mr. Dermot ? — Time, not death, 
 is the destroyer of youth and beauty. He came forward, and 
 Sybil, hearing him, looked up with a little start. 
 
 " Well, what are you doing here ? " he asked, gayly — " is 
 this your study now ? " 
 
 " It will be," replied Sybil — " these books stay here. Mrs. 
 Kennedy wants the library for the ball-room." 
 
 Mr. Dermot drew an old, worm-eaten chair from a comer, 
 and sat down on it, facing Sybil. 
 
 " Would you like them back again in their places ? " he 
 asked. " Well, imagine I am the Fairy Prince, and you poor 
 little Cinderella, and let me get them back for you." 
 ' Sybil did not answer. 
 
 ""What shall I get for my pains ? " asked Mr. Dermot. 
 
 " The glass slipper, if you like it." 
 
 "Glass slippers must be cool wear, not to speak of their 
 fragility ; but seriously, do you wish to have these books 
 back?" 
 
 "Seriouslv, I care naught about it; they have been taken 
 away — that pained me — to have them put back would not undo 
 that pain." 
 
 Mr. Dermot was the master of Saint Vincent. He wondered 
 if Sybil would like to be mistress with him ? He wondered 
 how she would like to share that sweet empire of home, extend- 
 in"' from the garret where they now sat to the utmost limits of 
 the garden, lie wondered how she would like him to adorn
 
 330 sybil's second love. 
 
 her and load her with gifts, and mate her life a long holiday, 
 like that of Blanche Cains ? Thoughts travel fast, and Mr. 
 Dermot's thoughts had journeyed very far indeed since Sybil 
 and he had parted. His meditations had proved seed cast in a 
 soil ready for them, and their growth was quickened by Mr. 
 Dermot's self-questionings. It is dangerous for a man whose 
 heart is free to ask himself how far he likes an attractive girl in 
 whose society he lives daily, and it is doubly dangerous for him 
 to do so when he is in her actual presence, as Mr. Dermot was 
 now in Sybil's. Cool men of the world, indeed, are armor- 
 proof against such temptations ; but Mr. Dermot was neither 
 cool nor worldly. He had just escaped from the toils of an 
 unworthy passion, but he knew that Sybil was pure and true, and 
 that love bestowed on her was worthily given. But would she 
 have it ? Would she like to be petted, and ruled, and caressed 
 like a darling child ? Would this view of marriage, which the 
 difference in their years suggested, be as acceptable to her as its 
 vague prospect was pleasant to him? All this passed very 
 swiftly through his mind as he sat looking at Sybil, but he 
 should speak, so he said gayly : 
 
 " You will dance to-night, of course ? " 
 
 " No, indeed." 
 
 " Not even with me ? " 
 
 " Not even with you, Mr. Dermot," she curtly replied. " I 
 must appear at that ball, of course — but no power can make me 
 dance." 
 
 Mr. Dermot did not insist, but he half smiled to himself as 
 he heard the stern declaration. He resolved that Sybil should 
 dance, and dance with none but himself. 
 
 " What will you wear? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh ! white muslin, of course." 
 
 A fair young Sybil, robed in vapory white tissues, rose be 
 fore his mind's eye, and charmed it. 
 
 "You look wonderfully well in white, with roses," he said 
 admiringly. 
 
 Sybil felt uneasy, and wanted to go. He guessed it, and 
 detained her. 
 
 " Just a few minutes," he entreated ; " this is a godsend, y du 
 know. I never sec you alone." 
 
 Sybil, who had half risen, sat down again. She knew she 
 should not have done so, that she had no right to stay there 
 with Mr. Dermot. But we do not always do that which we
 
 sybil's second love. 331 
 
 know to be right, and the temptation was strong even as the 
 harm seemed little. But she soon repented having yielded to 
 his request. Mr. Dermot said little or nothing, hut Sybil soon 
 felt that he was studying her as if she were the book he had 
 come up to read. And so she was a book to him just then, a 
 very fair, perplexing book, and he would have given much to 
 turn over a few of its pages. But, unluckily, Sybil was n^t 
 willing, and no Egyptian hieroglyphic is harder to read than a 
 reluctant girl. There is a wildness in the instinct of youth, and 
 a secrecy in that of womanhood, which, combined, are enough 
 to defy a man's wisdom. Mr. Dermot was baffled, and he 
 felt it. 
 
 " I must bide my time," he thought. 
 
 As he made no motion to let her go, but sat in abstracted 
 silence between her and the door, Sybil rose. 
 
 " Please to let me pass," she said. 
 
 He rose leisurely, and as she went by him and slipped out 
 of the room, he looked after her, and listened to her little quick 
 step going down. Mr. Dermot shook his head. No, it would 
 never do. She was too young. And yet it was a pity. No 
 longer cariug for the book he had come to seek, he, too, went 
 down-stairs. 
 
 -♦-**- 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 Much thought, and care, and consideration had been be- 
 stowed by Mrs. Kennedy on this her first party. She had 
 superintended the ball-room, the supper-table, the selection of the 
 guests, and her own toilet, all-important items, with zeal, taet, 
 and prudence. She had taken every means to insure the suc- 
 cess of this her greatest undertaking, and it is gratifying to de- 
 clare that her foresight and industry received their reward. The 
 ball-room was pronounced delicious, the supper exquisite, the 
 people delightful, and Mrs. Kennedy's pale blue silk, and pearls, 
 and diamonds something beyond describing. And in th.it gay 
 scene who thought of Sybil ? She saw the homage which had 
 once been hers, transferred to her smiling and handsome step- 
 mother. She saw herself neglected and alone, or so coldly rec- 
 ognized that no recondition would have been sweeter. She
 
 332 Sybil's second love. 
 
 would not wait for more insult ; for so, poor child, she callea 
 this little worldliness, and before the dancing began, she with- 
 drew to the drawing-room, where the deserted card-tables as 
 } T et vainly waited for devoted whist-players. 
 
 There she sat alone, unmissed and wretched. Presently the 
 orchestra struck up. There came with the music pleasant sounds 
 of girlish voices and low laughs — a vague murmur which once 
 had filled Sybil's heart with delight. That time was gone. Very 
 sad had been her experience of life for the last year. Her lover 
 had proved false ; her friend had betrayed her. She had given 
 her love to a man who loved another woman, and who, even 
 when he ceased to love, felt nothing for her beyond friendship. 
 Her father's affections had grown cold, and the world itself had 
 forsaken her. Who heeded her absence to-night? — no one. 
 
 A door opened, and Mr. Dermot entered the room. He 
 had missed her at once, and he now came for her. His looks 
 told her so, even before his words confirmed it. 
 
 " Sybil, what ails you ? " he said, anxiously. 
 
 " My head aches." 
 
 "Are you sure of it, Sybil?" he asked, sitting down by her. 
 
 Sybil did not answer. 
 
 " I think it is your heart that aches. I even think it aches 
 very bitterly just now." 
 
 " And vours, Mr. Dermot ? " 
 
 " I am cured, Sybil." 
 
 She looked at him a little moodily. 
 
 "I wish I could cure you," he resumed. "I think I could, 
 if you would let me." 
 
 " How so ? " 
 
 " I would prove she is not worth regretting, for instance." 
 
 " I know it ; but it is not Blanche Cains I regret — it is the 
 friendship." 
 
 " Take another friend." 
 
 " AVill you take another love ? " asked Sybil, her dark eyes 
 flashing:. 
 
 Mr. Dermot hesitated, and even colored a little. Tie was 
 very much inclined to take another love just then ; but he 
 was not sure enough of it to say so. 
 
 " Jf I could find a true heart," he answered, at length, 
 " I know what I should do. But that is not the question. 
 I offer you a true friend — why not take him ? " 
 
 There was a persuasive tenderness in his voice which stirred 
 the depths of Sybil's heart.
 
 sybil's second love. 333 
 
 " I do not refuse your friendship," she said ; " but — " 
 
 " No ' buts,' Sybil. I know very well you will not come 
 to me with your crochet, and show me ' that sweet stitch,' 
 nor will you open your whole heart to me as you would to 
 a sister-like Mend; but for all that we can be friends — true 
 friends ; and I wish you would let me begin my office by 
 comforting you. You are getting thin — I fear you have sleep- 
 less nights. It is a mortal pity, Sybil, to waste youth and 
 good looks for that false lady. Now, you know, your head 
 does not ache. Why should you not dance and hunt away 
 care for to-night ? Confess that music sounds very tempting." 
 
 Alas ! the temptation was not ia the waltz of Strauss. It 
 was in his kindness, in his looks, in his voice and its tones, 
 60 tender and so true, which melted all Sybil's bitterness 
 away. Sybil felt ashamed that these few words of his should 
 change as they did the current of her thoughts, and substi- 
 tute, as if by magic, joy to grief — serenity to discontent. She 
 felt ashamed, for she thought — 
 
 " It is all his goodness ; he does not care for me, but it 
 is all his goodness." 
 
 Sybil little suspected that goodness and Mr. Dermot had 
 nothing to do with each other just then. He was making a 
 venture. He was trying to succeed as a friend before he 
 assumed, if he ever he did assume, the part of a lover. He did 
 not think Sybil so very young and so very childlike now, and 
 it seemed a pity to reject this fair young creature without giv- 
 ing himself a chance of her. That her fancv for Count de 
 Renneville was over he knew, and also that it had never been 
 more than a generous, romantic girl's fancy. And yet she who 
 had been capable of it — she who now bewailed so passionately 
 the loss of her false friend — was not heartless or cold. It 
 would be pleasant — more than pleasant, it would be happiness 
 both exquisite and deep — to waken that sleeping heart and di- 
 vert it from foolish and useless repining to the fervor of a true 
 love. True, it might not be possible — not possible at least to 
 him — but the chance was worth the trial, even though that 
 trial itself was not without its dangers. Of these Mr. Dermot 
 was quite aware. He knew that in the pursuit he was now en- 
 gaged in, the heart that was sought had not always been won, 
 and the heart that was seeking had sometimes been lost. He 
 knew it, but he was willinc to run the risk for the sake of the 
 gain; and he began his enterprise by trying both to please and
 
 334 sybil's second love. 
 
 to rule the wayward girl he wished to win. He little knew how 
 easy was the task, nor how his work was already done. So 
 he did his best according to the fashion of his kind. He 
 dropped the rather abrupt kindness of his manner, and substi- 
 tuted for it, by fine, graduated changes, a manner friendly still, 
 but respectful, and more tender than kind. It was this change 
 which Sybil felt at once — it was this which accomplished, with- 
 out effort, part of his double purpose. Mr. Dermot was deter- 
 mined to make Sybil dance, with himself, of course, and he 
 again derided the headache and bade her listen to the music. 
 Poor Sybil could not resist him. Every fibre of her being 
 seemed to yield as he spoke, and when he rose and gave her 
 his arm, as a matter of course, she took it with a thrill of hap- 
 piness, and a blush of mingled joy and shame. 
 
 They entered the ball-room quietly. It was gay, bright, and 
 pretty. No sooner was this waltz over than another began, and 
 Sybil and her partner were in it. 
 
 It is an easy task for a man to make himself agreeable to the 
 girl who loves him. Mr. Dermot did his best, and for the time 
 being, at least, he made Sybil — though he was far from suspect- 
 ing it — supremely blest. 
 
 " I know I shall be wretched to-morrow," she thought, "but 
 never mind, I am happy to-night." 
 
 That she had put by her cares, Mr. Dermot saw plainly. 
 Her cheeks had got back their roses-, and their sunny lustre had 
 returned to her dark eyes. She was the prettiest girl in the 
 room. None with whom he compared her seemed to him to 
 compete with this maiden flower. Mrs. Kennedy was by far 
 handsomer, but she had not those happy young eyes, nor those 
 childlike parted lips, nor that supple grace of motion. They 
 danced together for the best part of the evening ; and when 
 Sybil, frightened at the cold look of her step-mother, asked to 
 rest, Mr. Dermot danced with no one else, but sat by her and 
 kept her company. Of course there were plenty of people who 
 saw this, and secretly drew their conclusions; but Mr. Dermot 
 did not care, and Sybil, who did care, was far from imagining that 
 these conclusions might not be very wide of the truth. Old fa- 
 miliarity, the certainty of his indifference, deceived her. If Mr. 
 Dermot had been in love with her indeed, she would soon have 
 found it out. But this test was wanting. The touchstone would 
 not apply. Mr. Dermot was not in love yet, though we will not 
 answer for the future. Love comes in many wavs. Sometimes
 
 Sybil's second love. 335 
 
 it subdues and conquers "without a warning, and sometimes again 
 it takes you by the hand and gently leads you along until your 
 bondage is completed. Amongst those who watched and conjec- 
 tured, was Mr. Kennedy. He observed his wife, his daughter, and 
 his friend. lie saw something in Mrs. Kennedy's face which he 
 did not like — a sort of haggard look, which all her smiles could 
 not disguise. He saw little Sybil's enraptured eyes, and could read 
 or guess their story. Mr. Dermot's countenance, too, had its 
 tale. A contentment, a pleasure, and a hope were there, which 
 Mr. Kennedy scarcely expected so soon. But then, whispered 
 paternal pride, Sybil was so charming ! But Mr. Kennedy's 
 was no unmixed joy. Was what he saw the cause of his wife's 
 secret torment ? It put him in a parching fever to think of it. 
 He resolved to know the truth, and to know it at once. 
 
 The supper was over, the guests were gone, and Mr. Dermot's 
 low and kind good-night still rang in Sybil's ears, filling her 
 poor little foolish heart with bliss, when her father's voice ar- 
 rested her as she was going up-stairs. 
 
 " Come in here — I want to speak to you," he said, opening 
 the door of the vacant drawing-room. 
 
 Sybil obeyed. Mr. Kennedy closed the door carefully, and 
 began without preamble. 
 
 "Mr. Dermot was very attentive to you this evening." 
 
 Sybil started at so unexpected a remark. 
 You danced with no one else. Has he proposed to you?" 
 
 " No," stammered Sybil, turning crimson. 
 
 " What, neither this evening nor at any other time ? " 
 
 " No — never." 
 
 Sybil was truth itself — so it was his wife who had told the lie. 
 
 " But have you not had reason to believe that he might 
 do so?" 
 
 " Never," said Sybil again. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy's lip quivered. For a moment he forgot Sybil, 
 and he saw himself the duped and deceived husband; but he 
 caught his daughter's wondering glance and he smiled. 
 
 "Well, Sybil," he said, " I believe that Mr. Dermot does 
 mean to propose to you — mind, he has not told me so — but I 
 believe it ; and if he should do so, I wish to tell you before- 
 hand that you cannot please me better than by accepting him." 
 
 He looked at her shrewdly ; but there was little need. 
 Sybil's blushing, guilty face required no comment. He sighed 
 heavily. His wife was jealous of his daughter, and his daughter
 
 336 Sybil's second love. 
 
 loved the man who, for all lie knew, loved his wife. It was 
 very dreary. 
 
 " That is all I bad to say to you, Sybil," be resumed, in a 
 dull tone ; " I lay no constraint upon you — I promise nothing 
 for him — you are both free. But if his attentions do not please 
 you, do not accept them, as you did to-night. Good night, 
 child — sleep well, if you can." 
 
 Sybil went up and kissed his cheet. lie scarcely heeded 
 the caress. Father and daughter slept but ill that night. One 
 lay awake in a fever of wrath, jealousy, and brooding revenge, 
 and the other, tossed on billows of uneasy bliss, could not close 
 her eyes for excess of happiness. He loved her ! — for thus she 
 construed her father's words — he loved her ! Was that why he 
 had so soon been cured of his grief for Blanche Cains ? — was 
 that his meaning when he told her to marry ? Oh ! life — sweet, 
 delicious life ! 
 
 -*♦♦- 
 
 CHAPTER X L V . 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy's ball had proved no particular source of 
 enjoyment to Denise. This discreet handmaiden held dancing 
 in horror. She was always amazed, she was, that so fatiguing 
 an exercise was taken as a pleasure by sensible people. More- 
 over, her new mistress did not stand high in her good graces, 
 and, to crown all, a terrible deal of cleaning and sweeping was 
 the inevitable result, and Denise resented extra work as a per- 
 sonal injury. 
 
 She was full of her wrongs on the morning that followed 
 the day of the party, when a voice from the cloister made her 
 look out of the open window. She saw the postman, who 
 handed her a packet of letters, and hurried away. One of these 
 letters was large and square ; and Denise, who did not know 
 how to read, was turning it over curiously, when Sybil came in 
 upon her, looking as radiant as a sunbeam. 
 
 " Well, what are you poring over these letters for ? " she 
 asked gayly — " you want me to read the directions ? These are 
 for papa, Denise, and this big one is for Monsieur Dermot, and 
 there is none for me, so good-morning." 
 
 She lightly climbed up on the window-sill, and jumped down
 
 sybil's second love. 337 
 
 into the cloister. It was full of sunshine, as Sybil's beart was 
 full of gladness. She shipped across it, singing as she went. 
 She ran down a garden path, blithe as any bird. The verdure 
 of spring was around her. April softness was in the air and in 
 the pearly sky. 
 
 " Oh ! I am so happy ! " thought Sybil ; but suddenly she 
 caught sight of Mr. Dermot, and, afraid of him, more afraid of 
 herself, she ran away before he could reach her. She had 
 slipped so cunningly between the hedgerows, that Mr. Dermot 
 never suspected her escape until he entered the path where he 
 hoped to find her. He cast a disappointed look around him — 
 a look which from the spot where she was hiding, Sybil could 
 see, and whilst he searched for her in one direction, she glided 
 away in another. 
 
 Mr. Dermot did not break his heart for her absence. He 
 sat clown on a bench, took out a cigar, and smoked, and thought 
 over it all once more. His mind was all but made up, and his 
 only wonder was that so pleasant a conclusion to thirty odd 
 years of celibacy had not occurred to him earlier. Sybil was 
 delightful, and though, of course, she could not be fond of him 
 yet, it would be very hard if, with all his opportunities, he could 
 not make her so. Mr. Dermot's cigar was out, and he had 
 plenty of work waiting for him within ; but this day-dream was 
 very sweet. It was like the morning, cloudless and fair, and he 
 could not leave that pleasant spot. A step on the gravel path 
 roused him. It was Denise with the letter. Mr. Dermot said 
 not a word as he took it, but he felt a presentiment of evil. 
 
 " If it be so," he thought, ere he broke the seal, " I shall 
 give her up." 
 
 The letter was from Mr. Dermot's Irish lawyer, and was 
 significant and brief. 
 
 "Sir: A fair young man came to the ' Moonagh Herald 
 office,' yesterday, and asked for all the numbers of that paper 
 for last July. If I learn more, I shall let you know. 
 
 Yours, etc., 
 
 John O'Kekfe." 
 " P. S. — The young man seemed disappointed to get none." 
 
 Mr. Dermot bit his lip, and tried to feel calm, but he could 
 not. Anger, powerless, though bitter, possessed him. At 
 length he compelled himself to think soberlv over it all. His 
 15
 
 338 sybil's second love. 
 
 first thought was for Sybil. The peril which had slept awhile 
 had risen anew. 
 
 "Good-by, Sybil," thought Mr. Dermot, with a pang; 
 "you are a fine pearl in a rare setting, and I was covetous, and 
 thought to call you mine, and wear you, but it cannot be." 
 
 Mr. Dermot was right. It could not be. A very dark 
 cloud hung over his life just then ; he could not bring his poor 
 little Sybil, so gentle, so tender, so softly reared, within the 
 vortex of that lowering storm. But it was hard, and his heart 
 ached. With that pang came another thought. He had not 
 gone very far with Sybil, but still his conscience told him that 
 he had taken a few steps on the road of courtship. If she 
 had not preceived it, others had. What would they say to 
 Sybil ? Would they accuse him ? and would she believe them ? 
 Why not speak openly to her ? — as openly, at least, as he 
 could ? Rather eagerly Mr. Dermot came to the conclusion 
 that it would be wise to do so. If he had searched into the 
 cause of that eagerness, he might have found hope, secret and 
 remote ; but he was more anxious to act than to question him- 
 self just then, and guessing where he should find Sybil, he 
 forthwith went to seek her. 
 
 Sybil had taken refuge in the garret. Her heart was full 
 of a feeling in which pain blended, for it was too tumultuous for 
 happiness. She sat with the books around her, and one lay 
 open on her lap ; but Sybil was not reading its pages. She 
 was turning a leaf in her own book, and she could not weary 
 of its meaning. Fairy tales had come true to her, after all, and 
 there was magic in life, and sweet romance. Mr. Dcrmot's 
 new manner confirmed her father's words. But Sybil wondered 
 when and how it would be. Had it been coming long to him 
 as to her? She knew he had always admired her — what girl 
 does not know that? — had that admiration any share in his 
 ready renunciation of Blanche Cains? Oh! what a sweet, 
 avenging thought that would be ! — what a balm to all her 
 wrongs! Not that she wished him to have been faithless, but 
 yet, if he could have liked Blanche less for her sake, she would 
 not mind it. What would he say, she wondered, when it came 
 to the point of speaking between them ? Sybil was almost 
 frightened at the thought. Her own heart was full to overflow- 
 ing, only she was a girl, and must be silent. He, the man, could 
 speak — what would he say ? Not much, she fancied, but a few 
 deep-felt words, which she would remember forever.
 
 sybil's second love. 339 
 
 As she came to this conclusion, tlie door opened, and Mr. 
 Dermot stood before her. His face told Sybil why he had 
 sought her here. Her heart leaped in her mouth, and she felt 
 herself turning crimson, but she sat with her back to the light ; 
 he could not see her well — at least, she hoped so. Mr. Dermot 
 drew the old broken chair forward, and sat down by her with- 
 out a word. Now that it had come to the point, he found it 
 very hard not to speak — but to give her up ! He might search 
 long before he found another girl like her — so genuine, so 
 bright, so pretty, too. This dream of a day had already taken 
 so strong a hold of him, that he could not bear to relinquish it. 
 But he caught Sybil's surprised look, and feeling he must say 
 something, Mr. Dermot glanced at the book on her lap. It was 
 a volume of Tasso's. At once Mr. Dermot, who had a fluent 
 tongue, grew eloquent upon the unhappy poet. 
 
 " But he should never have loved Leonora," he added, 
 rather sadly; " there are men to whom love is forbidden, Sybil," 
 he added, taking her hand — "do you remember asking me last 
 night if I would take another love ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Sybil, with a beating heart, " I do." 
 
 " Well, then, shall I tell you what that question suggested ? 
 It suggested, or rather, it confirmed a thought which was haunt- 
 ing me — namely, that it would be very sweet to have a love 
 like you. It was a temptation, Sybil, for this morning brings 
 me tidings which bid me overcome it. I must leave this place 
 — leave you for a time — perhaps forever. My lot has suddenly 
 grown so dark, that I like you far too well to have you, even if 
 you would have me, Sybil." 
 
 The hand which he held trembled, then turned like ice 
 within his clasp. A gray paleness spread over Sybil's face ; 
 her white lips quivered. The shock of so cruel a disappoint- 
 ment conquered her self-command. In a second Mr. Dermot 
 saw it all ; his heart gave a great throb, like that of a man who 
 had found a sudden treasure on his path. There seemed to 
 rush before his eyes a mist, in which her image trembled. On 
 rash -and burning wing came passion, suddenly fanning into 
 flame the secret fire which had hidden in his heart so long. 
 Sybil, Sybil, had you loved him all this time, and suffered for 
 him ? The thought enchanted him, for love is cruel, and this 
 unsought boon of a wayward girl avenged Mr. Dermot forever 
 on Blanche Cains. What cared he now for her treason, and 
 his trust betrayed? Sybil, young, lovely, and proud, had loved 
 him !
 
 3*0 sybil's second love. 
 
 Sybil by tbis Lad recovered tbe composure wbich never 
 long deserts a true woman. Sbe drew ber band from bis, and 
 said, calmly : 
 
 " Feel no uneasiness, Mr. Dei-mot, and take no blame to 
 yourself. You are, and bave ever been quite free." 
 
 Sbe looked very calm and cold. His face fell. 
 
 " And yon do not want to know wbat new trouble tbis is 
 tbat is coming to me now, Sybil % " 
 
 " No," sbe replied, rising, and going to tbe door — " tbat is 
 your business, not mine." 
 
 Sbe met tbe look of keen reproacb wbicb be cast toward 
 ber. Her hand trembled on tbe lock. Love and pride bad a 
 fierce battle in ber beart ; tben love so far conquered, tbat, with- 
 out looking at him, sbe said : 
 
 '' I am sorry for your trouble — wbat more can I say ? " 
 
 " Nothing, Sybil," be replied, a bttle reproachfully — 
 "Trouble and I are old friends. Thirty-one years this day 
 bave we been acquainted." 
 
 " Your birthday ! " said Sybil — " tbis is really your birth- 
 day?" 
 
 "What about it, Sybil? — what are our birthdays once 
 youth is over ? Ah ! then, indeed, each is a new gate to a new 
 world ; but later they may come and go — we heed them not. 
 We know that closed forever is the door which let us in to hope, 
 to desire — to all that which life does not yield twice to man." 
 
 " And does he feel so ? " thought Sybil, sadly. 
 
 He caught her look and answered it. 
 
 " Yes, Sybil ; but for all tbat, I too could be young again, 
 for, after all, I am not so old but I could take a few steps back, 
 and drink, if need be, from tbe fountain of all youth. But cui 
 bono ? I could not do so without bitter sorrow to myself and to 
 others — better remain as I am forever, Sybil ! " 
 
 She did not speak — what could she say ? 
 
 " Come, be my casuist, and resolve me tbis," he said, rising, 
 and going up to her. " Imagine my case yours ; say that there 
 is a dark spot in your life which, though hidden now, may ap- 
 pear some day ; and tell me, such being tbe case, whether you 
 must live alone, or bind your lot to that of another ?" 
 
 Sybil understood him very well. She turned pale as death, 
 but she answered, firmly: 
 
 " I should do my duty, Mr. Dermot." 
 
 "Well, then, Sybil, pity me," be said, with much emotion,
 
 sybil's second love. 341 
 
 " for I cannot do mine. Duty bids me be silent, and love bids 
 me speak. Sybil, I love you, and do not know bow to give 
 yon up. Tbis trouble may be but a passing cloud, and if it 
 sbould indeed-pass away, will you not let me remind you of to- 
 day and last night ? " 
 
 His voice was very sweet — very persuasive ; bis look over- 
 flowed witb fond entreaty. Oh ! if Sybil had dared, how she 
 would have cried, " Let me share all your troubles ! " But she 
 would not say it, so sbe replied — 
 
 " No, Mr. Dermot, Ave must not talk of tbis again. It was 
 a fancy, or the first wind of trouble would not have quenched 
 it. It was a temptation, and you overcame it — I must be more 
 than either fancy or temptation to the man who wishes for me. 
 Above all, he must not doubt his power of making me happy — 
 no, indeed, Mr. Dermot, be must not." 
 
 She spoke with a touch of her old sauciness, for she felt sure 
 of him. His old admiration had ripened fast into tenderness. 
 His old liking had melted into love, and Sybil saw it very well. 
 He had begun their explanation by claiming his liberty, and be 
 had ended it by laying that liberty at her feet. It was a flame, 
 indeed, which had been caught from the fire of her own heart, 
 and Sybil guessed it ; but what of that ? — some one must love 
 first, and what she had begun he should end, or she would 
 never have him. In that spirit she spoke, and Mr. Dermot 
 hiked her none the less for it. 
 
 " You are right, Sybil," he said, " to set a high value on 
 yourself, but you can never set it higher than I do." 
 
 " Ah ! you are too kind to me ! " cried Sybil — " do not — do 
 not ! I am not good enough to bear it." 
 
 " I want you to be very kind to me, too, some day," said 
 Mr. Dermot, smiling, " so I begin first." 
 
 Sybil began to get a little frightened. This seemed very 
 like actual love-making, and she was not sure of her fortitude. 
 It might be jest as yet to him, but it was very earnest to her. 
 But she rallied, and half in jest, half in earnest, sbe said : 
 
 " If you want me to be kind, that is not the way." 
 
 And opening the door, she half went out. 
 
 "Stav," he said, detaining her — "if that is not the way, 
 what is?" 
 
 " Oh ! you must find that out," replied Sybil, gayly, though 
 her heart rather beat as she uttered the daring speech. 
 
 She said it gayly, but her heart was full as she turned away
 
 342 Sybil's second love. 
 
 quickly, for what if lie should never care to find it out, after all 
 But he did care — he did care infinitely, though he had self- 
 command enough not to detain her. The knowledge that he 
 was beloved had wakened into young and fervent life his wearied 
 and slumbering heart. Oh ! if he could but have conquered 
 every obstacle, and consumed time, as fire consumes and devours 
 whatever we throw into it. He paced that lonely garret with 
 troubled steps, remembering how he had found her there — how 
 her little cold hand had lain dead within his — how, if he had 
 wished it, she would have given herself to him there and then. 
 A book, which nearly made him stumble, changed his thoughts. 
 It was Tasso, which had fallen from Sybil's lap on the floor. 
 Mr. Dermot picked up the little volume, and smiled as he put it 
 in his pocket. For, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, he 
 thought of the day — a speedy one, he hoped — when he would 
 return it to her with a kiss. 
 
 And the cloud, and the storm that threatened him, and the 
 enemy who was perhaps on the watch to ruin him in honor and 
 fame — had Mr. Dermot forgotten them \ He had not, but scorn 
 and hope combined in him now; he felt defiant and reckless. 
 
 " Let her," he thought, as he passed Mrs. Kennedy's door, and 
 heard her laughing within — " let her, the traitress ! I will love 
 and marry Sybil Kennedy, and she shall look on and see it ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 The future rarely fashions itself according to our fears, or to 
 our desires. When she was once more alone, Sybil felt as if she 
 must have dreamed, not heard and spoken, all that had passed 
 between herself and Mr. Dermot. How unlike her hopes was 
 their fulfilment ! How different from her imaginings the reality ! 
 
 "And yet," whispered a sweet voice, as she sat in her room, 
 her heart still beating with mingled doubt and joy — "and yet, 
 remember his look when you parted. Remember last night and 
 the day when you and he walked by the beach, and yesterday 
 in the garden, too. Remember Mrs. Mush. He has long been 
 on the brink of love, and if he long hesitated to cross it, why, 
 the greater, the surer your victory." 
 
 Lut vanity and her triumphs had no hold over Sybil's heart.
 
 sybil's second loye. 343 
 
 " I do not care about victory," she thought, " hut I want to 
 be loved, aud loved infinitely, and forever. It would make me 
 none the happier if his pride were humbled in the dust, but I 
 should like him to want me, aud not to be able to do without 
 me. I know be likes me — I know he admires me — but I know, 
 too, he could do without me any day, and I cannot endure the 
 thought." 
 
 But many are the voices which speak to a girl's heart. And 
 one, a subtle one, which spoke in whispers, and scarcely seemed 
 to use language, so faint were its suggestions, now said that since 
 there was liking, and admiration, and the will to love, Sybil 
 could help all these to ripen into affection, enduring and strong. 
 But how so ? And then came dreams of wonderful goodness, 
 and sweetness, and tender and meek bearing ; but alas for the 
 logic of her years ! Then, also, came to Sybil the firm resolve 
 aud will of beinrr as handsome as she could. The task is not 
 easy to all, for to some Nature is a step-mother, but to Sybil she 
 had been gracious. She looked at herself in the glass, and 
 blushed as she looked, and, though alone, half-turned away in 
 secret shame. 
 
 "And if I am pretty, and if he sees it, aud likes me for it, 
 can I help prizing his liking?" she thought, in self-justification. 
 
 But across this smote another thought, sudden and bitter. 
 What trouble was it that threatened him now, and might, per- 
 haps, sunder them forever? She had refused to know, and 
 now she could not go and ask him. The friend was gone for- 
 ever, and the lover was not yet her own. Chill and dreary came 
 to Sybil the couviction that she was very far from Mr. Dermot, 
 after all. But when did love and youth linger over gloomy 
 thoughts whilst there was room for hope ? lie had not told 
 her from what quarter his trouble came, but Sybil knew it. It 
 must be from Blanche Cains. Oh ! if she could help him — if 
 she could watch, or guard, or foresee ! If she could do aught 
 to help or to save him ! 
 
 " Why not I — why not ? " she thought, walking up and down 
 her room in an excited mood. "She deceived me once, not so 
 much because I was foolish as because I was trusting ; but I 
 have cleverness enough to read through her now. Why should 
 I not try ? I know Mr. Smith is in it. Well, then, nothing 
 that concerns Mr. Smith shall pass in this house without my 
 knowledge." 
 
 A little reflection might have convinced Sybil that as Mr.
 
 344 Sybil's secoxd love. 
 
 Smith's name had not been mentioned in Saint Vincent foi 
 weeks, and even months, her resolve, however earnest, was not 
 very likely to assist Mr. Dermot out of his trouble. But Sybil 
 forgot this. She only felt her own eagerness and strong will, 
 and began her watching that very moment. 
 
 Ever since her return to Saint Vincent, Mrs. Kennedy had 
 lived in a round of gayeties, and worked her way up as the ac- 
 knowledged star of that little world. She rapidly rose in Mrs. 
 Ronald's favor, and supplanted Sybil without trouble. That 
 lady coolly set Sybil aside, and covertly expressed her disap- 
 probation of Miss Kennedy's sad looks. She liked rebellion 
 and disobedience under no shape, she said, and Miss Kennedy 
 required some friend to remind her of her duty. That friend 
 she once or twice attempted to be, to Sybil's scarcely concealed 
 wrath and indignation. Now, whilst Sybil was in her room, 
 Mrs. Ronald was in the drawing-room below, and Sybil knew 
 it. At another time this would have been reason sufficient for 
 Sybil to stay up-stairs, but in her present mood she felt im- 
 pelled to go down, and down she went. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy were with their visitor ; both were 
 very cheerful. Mrs. Mush helped to entertain the autocrat of 
 Saint Vincent, and Mrs. Ronald was gracious and rather con- 
 descending; whilst her companion, Miss Spencer, nursed the 
 dog and was mute. They both acknowledged Sybil with a cool 
 politeness, which showed her once more what she was now in 
 her father's house. She sat a little apart, listening and watch- 
 ing, but the conversation ran all on last night's ball, and the 
 guests. 
 
 " I wonder how they will look if I talk of Mr. Smith ? " 
 thought Sybil, and without taking time to hesitate or reflect, she 
 suddenly said, 
 
 "I missed Mr. Smith." 
 
 " What Mr. Smith ? " asked Mrs. Ronald, with sudden in- 
 terest. " Not Mr. Smith of Hartly Manor? " 
 
 " I don't know what manor he belongs to," slowly answered 
 Sybil, already repenting what she had done. 
 
 "Death Manor, I am afraid," said Mrs. Kennedy, with a 
 solemn shake of her head. " The Mr. Smith Sybil means died 
 very miserably, I believe — I heard something of the kind in 
 England." 
 
 " Surely not that poor, vulgar man who went about Saint 
 Vincent dropping his h's?" suggested Mrs. Ronald, speaking as 
 if Mr. Smith's h's were things to be picked up.
 
 sybil's second love. 345 
 
 Mr. Kennedy now spoke for the first time. Sybil, who sat 
 Facing him, had been struck with the expression which his face 
 took, not merely when she mentioned Mr. Smith's name, but 
 when his wife uttered the rather ominous words of " Death 
 Manor." It was sudden and fierce, then a set smile followed, 
 and he said, 
 
 " No, Mrs. Ronald, that Mr. Smith is alive and well. I had 
 a letter from him this morning." 
 
 " I always pitied you, Mr. Kennedy, for having any thing 
 to do with that vulgar man," compassionately said Mrs. Ronald. 
 
 " He is vulgar," granted Mr. Kennedy ; " but you see, Mrs. 
 Ronald, business is no respecter of persons." 
 
 He spoke gayly, but his eye was on his wife all the time. 
 Mrs. Kennedy smiled till her white teeth shone again. 
 
 " I never saw him," she said, " but Sybil described him in 
 such lively terms, that I am sure I should know him again. A 
 long, sallow, vulgar man, with heavy black eyes. I was disap- 
 pointed to think he was dead, poor fellow — burned to death 
 too, was not that dreadful ? I have such a horror of fire," she 
 added with a shudder. 
 
 "Don't mention it," said Mrs. Roland, with another shudder. 
 " I saw poor Miss Dory burned to death. You remember my 
 telling you, Miss Spencer ? " 
 
 " Quite well," said Miss Spencer, calmly. She was not hard- 
 hearted, but for the last nine years she had heard Miss Dory 
 burned to death over and over again, and so she had got rather 
 used to it. Mrs. Ronald was convinced that she knew how to 
 tell a story, and she thought it her duty to display this accom- 
 plishment as often as she could. She now felt it incumbent on 
 herself to relate once more Miss Dory's lamentable end. So 
 her hearers had it all — how Miss Dory's dress took fire, how 
 she ran round the room with the flames as high as her head, 
 and how, of the twenty people present, only one, namely, Mrs. 
 Ronald, had the presence of mind to exclaim, " Don't let her 
 out;" which judicious admonition, not being heeded, led to 
 Miss Dory's perdition. 
 
 "For with the fatal instinct of people on fire, she ran out 
 into the garden, leaped into the pond, and was thence taken out 
 — extinguished, indeed, but dying." 
 
 This gloomy narrative, which would have sickened Sybil at 
 another time, was a relief to her on this day. She had felt, 
 after speaking of Mr. Smith, like the pupil of the magician who 
 " 15*
 
 346 sybil's second love. 
 
 called up a spirit he nad not the power to dismiss again ; but 
 now Mr. Smith was forgotten, and Miss Dory's fate led to a 
 dissertation on long skirts, this to another chapter on fashions, 
 after which Mrs. Ronald and Miss Spencer rose and took their 
 leave. Sybil, who never stayed longer than she could help in 
 her step-mother's presence, rose, too, and left the drawing-room. 
 She went down-stairs, and crossed the cloister, and saw Mr. 
 Dermot pacing one of the galleries with slow steps and down- 
 cast eyes. She could not resist the impulse of going up to him, 
 and tellinof him what she had done. She felt sure that he 
 would blame her, but she could not help it. Mr. Dermot heard 
 her, and sighed. 
 
 " Poor little Sybil," he said, " many more such conversa- 
 tions will ruin me and serve Mrs. Kennedy. Why, child, that 
 is what she wants — that and nothing else." 
 
 " Ah ! how can you forgive me ? — how can you care for 
 me? " she exclaimed, in her distress. 
 
 He took her hand, and raised it to his lips, half smiling at 
 the fond fear and needless confession. 
 
 "More than ever — more than ever, Sybil," he said, very 
 kindly. 
 
 Sybil hung her head, ashamed of her folly. Did he read 
 her thoughts, that he said in a very low voice, as if to make 
 sure that none could hear him, 
 
 " Do not make life too dear to me, that is all ; the war be- 
 tween her and me has begun, and God knows how it will end. 
 God knows, Sybil, if I shall dare to wish for you a week 
 hence." 
 
 There was a pathos in his voice — a longing and regret, 
 which Sybil could not mistake. Oh ! she was dear to him — 
 very dear to him, if there was truth in man's looks or language. 
 
 " And I .cannot help it — I can do nothing," she said, dis- 
 tressed at his dejected mien. 
 
 " No, nothing, Sybil — nothing but to be silent. I expect a 
 letter, which will either condemn or reprieve me — for awhile, at 
 least. Till it comes, let us forget." 
 
 Jfe spoke cheerfully, and his face remained serene, spite 
 Sybil's wistful eyes. 
 
 The morning is fine, and the cloister is pleasant," he pur- 
 sued ; " let us enjoy both whilst we may, Sybil — life is brief, 
 and its sweetness rarely comes back. Let us take the good out 
 of the present time, so have said the wise of all ages. Let us, 
 too, be wise in our generation."
 
 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 341 
 
 It seemed to Sybil as if she could not say him nay. She 
 forgot that she was to be fascinating and handsome — she only 
 felt that she must yield, and do his pleasure. So they paced 
 the cloister up and down, and thence passed into the garden, 
 and spoke, not of love, nor of Mr. Dermot's troubles, nor of the 
 future, but of the morning and its beauty, of life and its expe- 
 riences, dark or fair ; and throughout all, Mr. Dermot said, there 
 ran, like a subtle burden, his unspoken love for Sybil. She said 
 little ; her heart was full. She could not forget that there hung 
 a dark cloud over his life, and now that she partly guessed its 
 meaning, it seemed far darker than before. A weight of sorrow 
 was on her, and therewithal a sense of troubled happiness, 
 stronger than that shadow of death. Often as he spoke she 
 looked at him, and longed to say : 
 
 " Oh ! since you love me at last, take me truly to your 
 heart ; tell me your cares, and let me share them. Let not 
 mine be mere summer-love." 
 
 But humility as well as pride kept her silent. If this for- 
 bade her to solicit ungiven confidence, that said no less plainly 
 she did not deserve it. She was too childish, too weak to be 
 trusted by him. He could love her and be very kind to her, 
 but she must always be as a tender little child in his sight. 
 " Be it so," thought Sybil, " be it so." 
 
 Something of that secret submission Mr. Dermot felt, not 
 all, but enough ; for as they returned to the house together, he 
 stopped, to say very earnestly, 
 
 "Sybil, you are one of the most unselfish, self-denying 
 beings I ever knew. You ever forget yourself in others — it 
 does me good to be near you." 
 
 Sybil blushed and trembled. There was something more 
 than the admiration of beauty in his look. If she was a child, 
 indeed, in his sight, she was so too in the reverence which we 
 yield to childhood and innocence. 
 
 " Oh ! if God will be but merciful to us, and let that trouble 
 pass away, I shall be too happy," she thought, in the fulness of 
 her heart, as they entered the house together. And she did 
 not see what Mr. Dermot saw, that Mrs. Kennedy was looking 
 at them from her window, with a sullen smile on her face. 
 
 "Let her," he thought in secret scorn," all is not over be- 
 tween us yet." 
 
 But do what he would, this was not the triumphant defiance 
 of the morning.
 
 348 sybil's second love. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 Blanche did not look on alone. Her husband stood be- 
 hind her all the time, watching her as she watched the pair be- 
 low. She knew he was there, and turned round with the sullen 
 smile still on her face. 
 
 "They do not look very happy," she said; "Mr. Dermot 
 seems no very ardent lover." 
 
 " I wonder w T hy he was kissing Sybil's hand in the cloister 
 awhile ago ? " rejoined Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 A flash passed through Mrs. Kennedy's blue eyes. 
 
 " Oh ! Sybil has a very pretty hand," she said, " and I 
 dare say Mr. Dermot admires it ; but I wonder she let him — she 
 used to be a shy little lady." 
 
 "I dare say she likes it," said Mr. Kennedy, smiling. " She 
 chose to be offended with me because I took the liberty of marry- 
 ing you, my love — and I suppose she is seeking for consolation." 
 
 He looked at his wife, with his hands in his pockets, but she 
 did not heed the look. Mrs. Kennedy was a bold and unscru- 
 pulous woman, but penetration was not her gift. She could 
 hunt out a secret ; but in character she had less skill. She had 
 mistaken both Sybil and Mr. Derruot in the past, and she now 
 mistook her husband. Mr. Kennedy was essentially a secretive 
 man. He could do a foolish thing, and marry too young a 
 woman ; he could squander his fortune to gratify her caprices ; 
 lie could even so far succumb to her influence as to look on his 
 child with changed eyes, but he could not give her his confi- 
 dence. Because he had once revealed to her his intentions, 
 she thought that she held the key to his heart, and reposed 
 upon that thought with dangerous security. 
 
 " You still wish for the match ? " she said, smiling in her 
 turn. 
 
 " I never change my mind, my love." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Dermot is not a favorite of mine, nor am I a 
 favorite of lii<," rejoined Mrs. Kennedy after awhile ; "but for 
 all that he will do very well for Sybil, if she will have him." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy laughed and nodded. 
 
 " Not much fear of her saying him nay — a fine, handsome 
 fellow ! " 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy could not be silent. 
 
 " Handsome ! with red hair and green eyes ! " she said, 
 scorn ful \y ; "our ideas of beauty differ, Mr. Kennedy."
 
 sybil's second love. 349 
 
 " Sybil admires his Lair and his eyes," calmly replied Mr. 
 Kennedy. 
 
 " Well, well, there is no accounting for tastes," remarked 
 his wife, relapsing into sudden and suspicious good-humor ; 
 " only never expect me to be very gracious to him, that's all." 
 
 Gracious to him ! Mr. Kennedy resolved she should never 
 have the chance. The match which — to her — he seemed to 
 desire was the very last thing he now wished for. For Mr. Ken- 
 nedy was jealous. He did not know it, he did not say so to 
 his own thoughts, but there are subtle recesses of the brain in 
 which strange suspicions, doubts, and misgivings seethe and 
 simmer, unsuspected and unknown, till some fearful explosion 
 reveals their existence. In some such hidden reoion now brooded 
 James Kennedy's jealousy, latent but very real, and not wholly 
 groundless. In those days when he looked at Blanche Cains as 
 a dispassionate observer, he had detected one or two looks pass- 
 ing between her and Mr. Dermot, which had excited a vague 
 suspicion. Every subsequent event seeming to disprove this, 
 he had forgotten it, and even now he would not acknowledge 
 to himself that he remembered it, but he did. That recollec- 
 tion made him doubt the wisdom of giving his daughter to his 
 friend, although that friend now seemed much inclined to take 
 her. Suppose the old liking for his wife should revive ? — such 
 things have been — would it be very pleasant to have the man 
 he dreaded within his domestic circle, even though it should be 
 as his daughter's husband ? Young wives had been forgotten 
 ere this for beautiful step-mothers ; but wise men knew how to 
 exclude such chances of peril from their home, and Mr. Ken- 
 nedy, who thought himself wise, was ready to sacrifice Sybil 
 and Mr. Dermot ten times over rather than run such risk. So 
 he spoke plausibly to his wife, and heard her little half-sweet, 
 hall-acid comments on Mr. Dermot's sudden devotion to Sybil ; 
 and, drawing some bitter conclusions the while, he resolved to 
 divide his rival forever from his wife, and to begin this task by 
 separating him from his daughter. 
 
 If he had told Blanche as much it might have been well for 
 them both, but Mr. Kennedy could open his mind to none — 
 least of all to one whom he suspected. Moreover, he could not 
 forget the significant remarks she had made about Mr. Smith. 
 Mistrust of her had entered his heart as she spoke, and was to 
 leave it no more. 
 
 " Marry Sybil ! " thought Mrs. Kennedy, as her husband 
 went down-stairs, "never — let him if he dare !"
 
 350 sybil's secoxd love. 
 
 " I am afraid rny love-story is turning to a drama, and wil. 
 slip through my fingers," thought Mrs. Mush, the second day 
 after the ball. 
 
 For the last ten years this lady having been excluded from 
 active life by the death of her husband, who had worried her 
 and given her enough to think of during his lifetime, had be- 
 come what she called a looker-on. She had considerable expe- 
 rience in the line, and knew to a tittle when matters went right 
 or wrong. The first breath of discord was to her like a false 
 note in music to a refined ear; and many such false notes she 
 now detected. Sybil looked sad, and Mr. Dermot very grave, 
 but they had not quarrelled, Mrs. Mush could see that. Mrs. 
 Kennedy seemed the very picture of happiness, but she never 
 lost sight of her step-daughter, Mrs. Mush saw that too ; but 
 best of all, she saw that Mr. Kennedy watched his wife inces- 
 santly. 
 
 "There will come the hitch," she thought; u poor things, 
 they do not see it." 
 
 They saw nothing indeed, for generous natures are often 
 blind to their own cost. Something Mr. Dermot perceived, 
 but not much, and Sybil thought but of him and forgot all else. 
 These two were not often together, but no one who saw them in 
 the same room could mistake their feelings ; and Blanche Cains 
 had to look on and feel powerless. Her husband had been too 
 much for her she felt, though she did not know how far this 
 was true. She did all she could to avert the event she dreaded. 
 She was tender, she was fond, she laughed at Mr. Dermot's red 
 hair and green eyes, and Mr. Kennedy took her fondness as his 
 due, and let her believe whatever she pleased. He had a mind 
 tenacious of mistrust, and his once awakened was to sleep no 
 more. Mrs. Kennedy was not jealous, for she had never loved ; 
 but that Sybil and her old lover should wed and scorn her, as 
 they must both for her folly and her perfidy, she could not en- 
 dure. That they should wed and live in Saint Vincent, and 
 thereby banish her from that narrow world where she was al- 
 ready queen regnant, was something worse even than their 
 love and their scorn; for Mrs. Kennedy was a matter-of-fact 
 woman even in her hatred. 
 
 And yet to that double end they seemed to be tending. It 
 was impossible not to perceive that Mr. Dermot was much enam- 
 ored. He knew himself beloved, and that certainty had lured 
 hi in on further than doubt or desire. He never remembered
 
 syeil's second love. 351 
 
 Sybil's pale face and cold hand without a secret thrill of happi- 
 ness. Surely he had at last found rest, and that fond young 
 heart, so ready to receive him, was a sweet and calm refuge 
 from the stormy cares of life. There had ever been doubt and 
 secret discontent in his love for Blanche Cains, but this was all 
 security and repose. Ah ! if Fate would but be kind, what 
 happy days he could yet snatch and enjoy in that old abbey 
 with Sybil Kennedy ! 
 
 Sybil was a book no less easy to read. She had the happy 
 gift of the young to forget sorrow quickly, and look at the sunny 
 side of life. Mr. Dermot spoke no more of his trouble, and 
 Sybil began to think it must have gone by, and that happiness 
 and joy were in store for her after all. The light returned to 
 her eyes, the bloom to her cheek, and the ready smile to her 
 lips. He never spoke of love, for they never met a second 
 alone ; but she could read his face, and its meaning sank in her 
 heart, and abided there a joyful guest. Seven days had thus 
 gone by, when he met her one morning on the staircase. He 
 stopped her at once, and pointing to an open letter in his hand, 
 he said with a mocking, triumphant smile, 
 
 " The first act of the play, or the first canto of the epic is 
 over, Sybil, and Duessa is at bay. I dare not say that the false 
 witch is conqiiered ; but we can bid her defiance for a while." 
 
 He took her hand again, and again it trembled within his ; 
 but Mrs. Kennedy's door opened above. Mr. Dermot dropped 
 Sybil's hand with an impatient frown, and merely said, 
 
 " I am going out for the dav. Do you want any thing from 
 Saint Vincent?'" 
 
 " A world of things," gayly replied Sybil. " Books, seeds, 
 birds — shall I make out a list ? " 
 
 " Pray do." 
 
 She took out her pocket-book, and leaning on the banister 
 of the staircase, she wrote a list of imaginary requirements, 
 which she handed him gravely. He knew that Mrs. Kennedy 
 was watching them from above, for he even heard the rustle of 
 her dress; but he did not care. His heart swam in happiness 
 and love. It w r as going back to youth to look at Sybil's radi- 
 ant face, and read to the meaning of her soft dark cy<s. 
 
 "I shall be home early," he said, taking the list from her 
 hand ; and Sybil guessed which way he would come, and that 
 he hoped to find her on his path. But though she longed to 
 go and meet him, she resolved that she would not. No, she
 
 352 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 
 
 must not, it would not be right, and if lie bad any tbing to 
 say he must find or make bis opportunity. 
 
 "A pleasant journey to you, Mr. Dermot," she said, saucily, 
 " and pray, do not forget my list. I shall die of grief if you 
 leave out one of the items." 
 
 She nodded, and went on, and be looted after her, while 
 Mrs. Kennedy stood and looked above. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 "At last ! at last ! " was the joyful cry whieh rang through 
 Sybil's heart that day. Happy Sybil ! How many are there to 
 whom that "at last" never comes! "Who pine for it from 
 youth upward, and look back toward it in age with fond regret. 
 But you were not of these. Your " at last " was true, and made 
 you restless with happiness the whole of that long day. 
 
 As the hour of his return drew nigh, Sybil longed to go and 
 meet him, but dared not. She knew he would come through 
 the garden, and as there was no fear in her love, it would have 
 been veiy pleasant to go and greet him, but she dared not. It 
 would not be maidenly, it would not be right. 
 
 "I must stay within," thought Sybil, with a reluctant sigh. 
 " Ah ! why can one not act as one feels ? And where would 
 be the harm ? " 
 
 Sybil was standing on the threshold of the bouse as she 
 thought thus. She was standing like a young bird by the open 
 door~of its cage, wondering whether or not to take its flight in 
 the world without. A hand laid on her shoulder made her turn 
 round with a little start. She looked and saw her father. Did 
 Mr. Kennedy know why bis daughter was thus looking at the 
 garden with shy, wistful eyes ? "Whether he knew it or not, it 
 did not change his purpose. 
 
 " Sybil, your aunt Glyn has asked me to let you spend some 
 time with her, and I have promised to do so." 
 
 A look of troubled surprise passed through Sybil's eyes, 
 then she said, 
 
 "When am I to go?" 
 
 " This afternoon— now. Go in and get ready." 
 
 She could scarcely believe in so hard a sentence.
 
 sybil's second love. 353 
 
 " Oh papa, are you tired of me ? " she exclaimed, sadly. 
 
 " Tired of you, Pussy ! No. Why, I shall go over every 
 day to see you. Make haste to get ready." 
 
 She could not resist. She must obey. So she went in and 
 sorrowfully prepared for a visit of some duration. She lingered 
 in the hope of gaining time, but it did not avail her. Mr. Ken- 
 nedy came himself to her door to hurry her, and Sybil was com- 
 pelled to confess herself ready. 
 
 As they left the house Sybil started. It seemed to her that 
 she had heard Mr. Dermot's voice in the cloister. She looked 
 at Mr. Kennedy. His face remained unmoved. 
 
 " Was not that Mr. Dermot ? " she asked. " He was to 
 bring me home ever so many things from Saint Vincent. 
 
 " No," he replied calmly, " it is the foreman." 
 
 Sybil did not care to contradict him ; but as she entered the 
 carriage, she saw Mr. Dertnot standing at the gate and looking 
 after her with grave, reproachful eyes. 
 
 " Surely that was Mr. Dermot," she could not help sa}'ing. 
 
 But Mr. 'Kennedy was both deaf and blind. He saw, he 
 heard nothing, and drove off in that condition. 
 
 " That is her doing," thought Sybil, with an aching heart ; 
 " and he will think I am going away on purpose to shun him." 
 
 " She looked behind her, hoping to catch another glimpse 
 of him, but Mr. Dermot had vanished. She looked at her 
 father, and gave him an appealing glance, but Mr. Kennedy 
 only saw the landscape. 
 
 " It is her doing ! " thought Sybil again. 
 
 Her doing it was, in so far that she had ventured to sug- 
 gest this visit to Miss Glvn. But however strong miodit be her 
 wish to divide her former friend from her former lover, it was 
 not so strong as Mr. Kennedy's ; and Sybil felt it with a 
 sad and vague intuition, for which she could have given no rea- 
 son. 
 
 The journey was brief, and within not a quarter of an hour 
 Sybil had been handed over to Miss Glyn, and left in that lady's 
 care by Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 " I shall come now and then and see you, Pussy," said her 
 father, kissing her as they parted. But Sybil knew he would 
 not come. She was exiled and punished for his sin and that of 
 Blanche Cains. 
 
 At any time Sybil would have felt it a hardship to be left 
 alone with Miss Glyn. She liked her aunt, but not her aunt's
 
 354 sybil's second love. 
 
 exclusive society. Now to this hardship, which included sc 
 much sorrow, was added a peculiar infliction. Miss Glyn con- 
 sidered it a great blessing for Sybil to be out of Saint Vincent 
 and with her, and she said so. 
 
 " It could do you no good, child, to be in that house," she 
 said, calmly. " Your father never minded you much, however 
 he might pet and spoil you ; Mrs. Mush is, in n^ opinion, inca- 
 pable of the task, and I need say nothing of Mrs. Kennedy." 
 
 The upshot of these remarks was that Miss Glyn was the 
 only person who could miud Sybil. "Being minded" is one 
 of the wrongs of youth, for youth is convinced that it can mind 
 and take care of itself. Moreover, Sybil did not hold Miss 
 Glyn's judgment as a diamond of the first water. She had 
 sense enough to see that Miss Glyn had done a very foolish 
 thing in setting up in business, and why should she trust her 
 guidance to one who could not manage her own concerns ? 
 Luckily, however, for the domestic peace of these two ladies, 
 Miss Glyn's "minding" was more in words than in deeds. 
 Sybil did pretty much as she pleased in her new home, and that 
 it was to be her home she soon received proof, for before the 
 first work of her sojourn was out, her father sent her down her 
 piano. Miss Glyn, who was very fond of her niece, saw the ar- 
 rival of this instrument with considerable satisfaction, and sur- 
 veyed its entrance into her counting-house parlor with consider- 
 able interest. Not so Sybil ; she could have cried with mingled 
 grief and vexation, and scarcely restrained her tears. 
 
 Ah ! when should she see him now ? Miss Glyn would keep 
 her, and her father would leave her, and Mr. Dermot would not 
 come to her aunt's house. It was her step-mother's doing. Yes, 
 she felt it with secret though deep bitterness, that her false friend 
 was false to the last. 
 
 " She knows I like him," thought Sybil; " for was there a 
 thought, a motion of my heart, I concealed from her ; and so 
 she robs me of my only chance, and what is it to her now ? 
 She gave him up long ago, and she married my father. She 
 cannot be his wife and love Mr. Dermot. Then why make me 
 miserable ? She ought to see that he is not so very fond of me 
 after all; that he was only beginning to like me a little, a very 
 little, just because he wants to marry, I suppose, and that I was 
 the only girl at hand ! " 
 
 These were bitter thoughts, and they added to the weari- 
 ness of this dreary day. Towards evening it began to rain, and
 
 SYBIL'S SECOND LOVE. 355 
 
 Miss Glyn prosed dreadfully. Sybil, unable to bear more, went 
 up to her room. She stood by her window, and leaning her 
 forehead on the panes, she looked out on the dreary prospect. 
 In a happier mood Sybil would have found beauty in this wild 
 landscape, but now she only felt that it was savage and melan- 
 choly in the extreme. The rain had ceased, but heavy clouds 
 chased each other across a stormy sky. Stunted trees of a deep 
 and gloomy green bent before the strong wind, and broke on the 
 dull line of a low horizon. A lurid gleam of sun shot athwart 
 the sullen-looking river, and a broken foreground of white chalky 
 rock and soil. Away swept the eddying waters beyond Sybil's 
 view, through a barren and desert-looking plain. Not a human 
 figure, shepherd or sportsman, not a cottage or thatched hut, 
 with its thin wreath of smoke, broke on the desolation of this 
 wide moor. Far away she saw a few white specks, and she 
 knew what they were — the Druidical remains of the old heathen 
 worship, the mysterious signs and tokens of the dead Celtic 
 faith ; and the knowledge that they were there, only made soli- 
 tude more impressive. Sybil thought of the abbey and its old 
 garden, and the library in the old happy days of Uncle Edward, 
 and her heart yearned toward her old home and its lost joys. 
 What had she done, that she should be banished ? — and how 
 long must her exile last ? — for exile it was, though Miss Glyn 
 knew it not. If that lady had known, iudeed, how convenient 
 a tool she was in Mrs. Kennedy's hands, we may well doubt how 
 far she would have been anxious to secure the company of her 
 niece. 
 
 " And now I must go down to tea," thought Sybil drearily, 
 "and hear long stories of commercial interest. Oh, dear ! — oh, 
 dear ! how dreadful it will be ! " 
 
 As Sybil was wandering if her head did not ache, and she 
 could not stay in her room, the sound of a voice below made 
 her heart give a great throb in her bosom. Surely it was 
 impossible. It was not Mr. Dermot talking to her aunt. And 
 yet who had a voice like his, both sweet and strong \ Trem- 
 bling from head to foot with doubt and excitement, Sybil went 
 down-stairs, calling up as composed a cast of countenance as she 
 could command on such short notice. 
 
 Yes, it was Mr. Dermot. lie sat talking to Miss Glyn, and 
 talking, if not with friendliness, at least with perfect equanimity 
 on both sides. He bowed and smiled to Sybil, but without in- 
 terrupting his discourse.
 
 356 sybil's second loye. 
 
 " You see, Miss Glyn," he said, " tlieir plan is this — to secu'-a 
 as many samples as they can, and then stop payment." 
 
 " But how villanous ! " cried Miss Glyn, whose phraseology 
 when excited was strong. 
 
 " It is not honest, to be sure." 
 
 "But what am I to do about my butter?" indignantly asked 
 Miss Glyn; "I cannot sacrifice I know not how many casks, 
 can I?" 
 
 "It is an awkward case," gravely said Mr. Dermot, slowly 
 stroking his chin as he spoke "Will you let me see the 
 papers ? " 
 
 " To be sure, to be sure," eagerly replied Miss Glyn ; "they 
 are up-stairs. Sybil, do go for them — but, nOj you would not 
 know where to find them. I shall go myself." 
 
 She rose and left them. Sybil felt blushing with guilty joy 
 and confusion. It was not merely his presence that gladdened 
 her very heart — it was the certain knowledge that Mr. Dermot, 
 her friend, would never have come unbidden to her aunt's 
 house — no, it was Mr. Dermot, her lover, who had come, and 
 come to see her ! Her chair was near the window, and Sybil 
 could look out without affectation. The moon had risen, and 
 now lit the landscape, which half an hour before had seemed so 
 dreary. Oh ! how it was altered ! Was it that pale silvery 
 light which shone in patches across the dark plain, and shivered 
 in the flowing river, was it that which gave the scene such en- 
 chantment in Sybil's eyes ? Fairy legends were never half so 
 fair and sweet as the vision with which her fancy peopled the 
 scene. Undine, Titania, Oberon, were cold and dull to the joy- 
 ous dreams of the ardent girl. 
 
 " Well, Sybil," said Mr. Dermot, after watching her for a 
 while, " have you got nothing to say to me ? " 
 
 He went to her, and held out his hand. Sybil gave him 
 hers, and turning round, beheld another scene — the cool moon- 
 light stole upon the floor, but the bright lamp lit the whole 
 room, and its light fell on Mr. Dcrmot's genial and smiling face, 
 and Sybil felt warmth and brightness around her. 
 
 " I am very glad to see you," she half stammered. " I did 
 not expect it." 
 
 " We may thank Mrs. Kennedy for this move," said Mr. 
 Dermot, drawing his chair near hers. "Well, Sybil, she gave 
 me a week's work, and hard work too. I had to get deep into 
 Miss Glyn's business, and luckily for me that business is rather
 
 Sybil's second love. 357 
 
 in a sad condition. But I stormed the fairy castle after all, and 
 circumvented Mrs. Kennedy, did I not, Sybil ? " 
 
 His keen gray eyes sparkled "with such mischievous light, 
 and such triumphant meaning, that Sybil felt half frightened. 
 She began to feel very shy of her quondam friend, and as she 
 felt she looked. That maiden coyness is flattering to most men. 
 It is an acknowledgment of supremacy, which delights self-love ; 
 and it is a mute appeal for mercy, which a generous heart never 
 denies. Mr. Dermot's eyes rested with delight on Sybil's blush- 
 ing face and half-downcast eyes, for he could read their language ; 
 but he forbore making any further allusion to the motive which 
 had brought him. 
 
 "The abbey is very dull without you," he said; "I now 
 find that you must have made a great deal of noise — the place 
 is so silent. Even Narcisse has noticed it, and complains of the 
 quietness. Mademoiselle, he says, was like a butterfly, every- 
 where, and then she sang so merrily — and now it is all so tran- 
 quil." 
 
 "Then I am "better out of the house," demurely said Sybil ; 
 "besides," she added, with a flash in her dark eye, "Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy has a fine voice and will sing — she bikes duets." 
 
 Mr. Derrnot blushed. 
 
 "You remember that time," he said, deprecatingly ; "and 
 so do I. How often as we sang- I watched a little admiring figr- 
 ure sitting apart, and so generously proud of her friend that it 
 did one's heart good to see her beaming, happy face. Well, 
 what ails you?" he added, seeing with concern that tears stood 
 in Sybil's eyes. 
 
 " I cannot help it," she said vehemently ; " oh ! how I loved 
 her! how I believed in her! — what a great, what a noble crea- 
 ture she was to me — and now it is gone — all gone — and the 
 thought of that time is sickening aud loathsome. She was, as 
 you say, a Duessa — false and fair." 
 
 " And who was Una, Sybil ? Who was the Redcross Knight 
 that forsook Innocence and Truth, and was led away bv False- 
 hood?' 
 
 " I am sure I don't know," demurely replied Sybil ; " to be 
 candid, vou do not look like him a bit." 
 
 " Don't I, Sybil ? Well, who said I did ? I do not speak 
 of the look of things, but of their reality. Tales of knight-er- 
 rantry, and magic, and enchantment, and romance come true 
 every day, whatever you may think. Our ancestors wore mail
 
 358 sybil's second love. 
 
 and helmet, and we wear bats and coats ; but we have tbe same 
 passions which they bad, and wage the same wars with them. 
 Human nature is changeless through all the accidents of Time ; 
 and to come back to my argument, Duessa and Una, and tbe 
 Bedcross Knight too, are just as true as Blanche Cains, and 
 Sybil Kennedy, and Edward Dermot." 
 
 Mr. Dermot spoke thus very plainly, without hesitation or 
 pause ; and Sybil, who beard his voice, did not dare to look at 
 his face. She wondered if he meant all he said, or at least if he 
 meant it as she understood it. Was she indeed heavenly Una 
 for him, the slighted mistress of a brave, though deceived heart ? 
 Was it in truth and reality that he sought her now, or was she 
 not to set too high and deep a value on this figure of speech ? 
 He seemed to read her thoughts, though her face was bent and 
 her eyes were fastened on her hands clasped on her lap. 
 
 " I mean every word t say, Sybil," he said, impressively. 
 
 Her heart was stirred, and, spite of herself, she could not 
 help answering him : 
 
 " I believe you — I believe you." 
 
 " There they are," said Miss Glyn, coming in with her arms 
 heaped with papers ; "but I think we bad better bave tea first." 
 
 Mr. Dermot thought so too. Miss Glyn bade Sybil make 
 the tea, and he helped to sort and prepare the papers; but be 
 watched her all the time. He liked her easy and graceful mo- 
 tions, be liked too her happy young face. It had got thin in- 
 deed ; but the rosy flush that was on it now gave promise of 
 returning health and beauty. He felt sure of her, and that se- 
 curity was very sweet. Calm, pure, and free from all fever, was 
 this new love to both. After tea Sybil was left to herself, for 
 Mr. Dermot's errand was not a fictitious one, and he was deep 
 with Miss Glyn in calculations and figures. But Sybil did not 
 feel dull — not for a second. She sat by tbe window and saw 
 the two pictures — the moonlit country — a very Eden now ; the 
 bright warm room cheerfulness itself, spite its ledgers. 
 
 " Oh ! I could be forever happy so," thought Sybil : " for- 
 
 ever." 
 
 And so you could, Sybil, if the first glow and exquisite fer- 
 
 vor of such feelings were a thing of " forever.'"
 
 sybil's second love. 359 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 There was a little summer-house in MissGlyn's garden, and 
 there Sybil sat the next morning with her work upon her lap. 
 
 The spot was pleasant, the hour was delightful. In the 
 green boughs of a tall tree near her a blackbird perched and 
 began to sing. As she heard him, Sybil remembered the old 
 Irish legend of the pious maiden who went out to pray in her 
 father's orchard on a summer morning. She too heard the 
 blackbird singing. Three times he sang so sweetly that mortal 
 had never heard any thing like it, and with every song a hun- 
 dred years flew by, and when he ceased, and the maiden went 
 back to her father's house, she found a village, and strange peo- 
 ple, and a new world, that recognized her not. She told her 
 story, and old men remembered an ancient tradition of their 
 youth which confirmed it. And yet how could it be ? She 
 was blooming, and fair, and young, as if time had not touched 
 her. 
 
 " But you see,'' continued Sybil, who was telling the story 
 to some imaginary listener, " it was true, for all that ; for when 
 they gave her food, and it passed her lips, all her beauty, all her 
 youth perished in one moment, and withering into sudden age, 
 she sank and died. She had been in Paradise all the time, and 
 could not live upon earth. Blackbird, blackbird, don't you take 
 me away to Paradise ! " thought Sybil, looking up saucily at the 
 little black songster on the bough. " I don't want to leave 
 earth just yet. I am young, you see, and pretty, they say, and 
 loved perhaps, and it would never do to come back with three 
 hundred years on my head, and find graves in forgotten church- 
 yards — would it, now ? " 
 
 A brilliant trill was blackbird's reply. Alas! he was no 
 heavenly bird, we fear, and his conversation was on earth with 
 his lady-love just then, such a conversation as Mr. Dermot, who 
 now suddenly entered Sybil's bower, was much inclined for. 
 His face told her his errand. Miss Glyn had said that she 
 would drive off to Saint Vincent early, and Mr. Dermot had 
 availed himself of the knowledge. 
 
 " My aunt is out," said Sybil. 
 
 " I know it, Sybil ; but I want you, not Miss Glyn." 
 
 He sat down by her side. His voice was sad, his look was 
 grave. Sybil's heart sank. What new trouble was this ?
 
 3 GO sybil's second love. 
 
 " Sybil, I spoke to your father this morning. My prophecy 
 is fulfilling fast. That woman will make ns enemies, without 
 even taking the trouble to do so. Your father knows and sus- 
 pects the past, and he half hates, half fears me. It was to divide 
 us that he brought you here. God help him if he thought that 
 I could look on his wife with a treacherous eye ! Sybil, I love 
 you, and you know it, and you believe iu me; but though I 
 told him so, he doubted. He did all he could, Sybil, to with- 
 hold his consent, and if he gave it at last, it was because he did 
 not dare to say me nay. Ungenerous and reluctant though it 
 be, I have it, however, and now I require but yours. Before 
 you speak, Sybil, let me tell you that matters are pretty nearly 
 with me as they were on the morning after the ball. I have a 
 keen enemy, not a strong one, I hope, but the girl I marry must 
 be prepared for possible trouble and grief. Sybil, I am selfish 
 enough to ask you to be that girl ; but, oh ! think of it well," 
 he added, sadly, "do not say yes if you fear repentance or 
 regret." 
 
 Sybil looked up at him with sad, reproachful eyes. 
 
 "Mr. Dermot," she said, "be honest. You know I like 
 you, and you come to me in kindness and in affection — but 
 oh ! not in love. And yet I told you once what I would have, 
 and I will have no less." 
 
 " Not in love ! " said Mr. Dermot, his face flushing with 
 pain ; " in what then, Sybil ? For what other woman would 
 I so far humble my pride that I would come to her with the 
 confession I have just uttered? Sybil, it is man's right and 
 privilege to bring happiness and security where he loves. It is 
 his right and duty to guard his wife from all sorrow, and make 
 her life as happy as a summer's day. And I cannot do this. I 
 am cut off by a hard fate from one of the most generous privi- 
 leges of manhood. I believe I can promise that poverty shall 
 never come near you — beyond this I cannot go. Money and 
 myself are all I have to give the woman who will have me. Do 
 not think," he added, looking at her keenly, " I am not aware 
 that in acting as I act I am selfish ; but I neither can nor will 
 help it. I see sorrow in store for me, but if I can snatch a few 
 of life's blessings I will. I will have love, and beauty, and 
 youth, and sweet companionship, Sybil, and trust to God for a 
 calm future. Sybil, Sybil, when we are married, and you know 
 all, you will say that passion was strong on Edward Dermot 
 the day he asked you to marry him; and who knows, Sybil, 
 you well wish, perhaps, that he had loved you less."
 
 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 361 
 
 Sybil turned pale as death. 
 
 " You wrong me," she said, " you wrong me. I can never 
 wish that. Let what trouble, what calamity come over you 
 that it may please God to send, I can never wish that." 
 
 "Then you will marry me, Sybil?" he said, smiling. 
 
 " Give me time to be sure of you," she replied, sadly. 
 
 " Let us get married at once, Sybil, and you will be sure 
 enouo-h of me then." 
 
 But this prompt way of securing him, though it would have 
 been highly to Mr. Dermot's liking, would not suit Sybil. 
 
 u You little skeptic," he said with a touch of impatience, 
 " can I take a yard and measure love to convince you \ " 
 
 " It is all so new to you," she pleaded. 
 
 "Who knows, Sybil?" he replied, reddening slightly. "I 
 never could bear that Count de Renneville. I cannot bear even 
 now to remember that you once liked him — not much, it is 
 true, but too much by far." 
 
 He spoke with a resentful jealousy, that went to Sybil's 
 heart. She looked up at him and smiled. 
 
 "Yes, I liked him," she said calmly, "but I never loved 
 him, or I could not have forgotten him in a few days. I liked 
 him, but as we like men and women in dreams — it is all over 
 when we waken in the morning. Was it so, Mr. Dermot, that 
 you liked Blanche Cains ? " 
 
 " No," he replied honestly, " for that is not love ; and I 
 loved her, Sybil — I loved her as much as I loathe her now. 
 But let U6 forget them both, Sybil, and think of our own con- 
 cerns — life is short, and time is passing away. Listen to that 
 bird above us ; he is singing to his mistress, nay, to his wife. 
 The storm may come and shatter his nest to-morrow, he is 
 happy to-day. To me, too, the storm may come, Sybil; do 
 not grudge me a few happy hours ere it breaks. 
 
 There was a passionate longing in his voice that went to 
 Sybil's heart and convinced her. But, indeed, did she need 
 convincing ? She said not a word, but she gave him her hand. 
 Once more that little childish hand lay within his, but it was 
 warm and happy now. 
 
 "I know there is a doubt in you still," he said reproach- 
 fully ; " but I cannot deal in professions, Sybil, so you must 
 take me upon trust." 
 
 " I will — I will," replied Sybil gayly ; "and when T think 
 you like me enough, I shall tell you so. I will come to 
 16
 
 3G2 sybil's second love. 
 
 you, Mr. Dermot, and say, 'You like me enough now — quite 
 enough.' " 
 
 "Give me your word upon it, Sybil." 
 
 She gave him her word, and Sybil would keep that promise, 
 he knew. She would come to him fond, frank, and happy. 
 She would say to him, " You like me quite enough, Mr. Der- 
 rnot ; " and perhaps he would give her cause to say, " You like 
 me too much," for, alas ! Mr. Dermot just then felt in the mood 
 of every fond folly. 
 
 " What are you thinking of?" uneasily asked Sybil. 
 
 " Of revenge," severely replied Mr. Dermot. 
 
 For a vindictive man Mr. Dermot also looked a very happy 
 one ; but he was not so happy as Sybil, for he only got what 
 he had never lost, and she had won what she'had^ never hoped 
 to possess. They had both risen, and stood arm-in-arm on the 
 grass beneath the tree. Suddenly Sybil uttered a little cry. 
 One of the young birds had fallen from the nest above down to 
 her feet. Mr. Dermot picked it up, and placed it in her hand. 
 Sybil gave it a tender look, whilst the mother flew around them 
 with a piteous cry. 
 
 "Ah! put it back," said Sybil to Mr. Dermot, "put it back. 
 I should like to keep it, but I must not rob the poor mother ; 
 but can you reach the nest, Mr. Dermot ? " 
 
 He smiled, and, taking the bird from her hand, he Avas up 
 the tree and down again in a few moments. Sybil gave a little 
 sigh of regret as he "came back empty-handed, and looking into 
 her face, he read its meaning. 
 
 " Shall I get it back ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh ! no," she replied, arresting him by her hand laid on 
 his arm. " Oh ! no, do not. Let the mother keep her young 
 one." 
 
 There was something in Sybil's tone that jarred on Mr. Der- 
 mot. He stood still and looked at her with a face suddenly 
 overcast. 
 
 " Sybil," he said rather moodily, " it is not too late, you 
 are free still if you repent." 
 
 " Free ! " said Sybil vaguely, " free ! " 
 
 " Yes, Sybil, free — for truly mine is no lot to share. 
 
 He said it aud he meant it. 
 
 " I can see she is a true woman," he thought. " She will 
 love her husband, but she will love her child ten times more ; 
 and the day on which a child is born to me will be a day of 
 sorrow and humiliation."
 
 sybil's second love. 363 
 
 He bad told her she was free ! Oh ! cruel words — cruel 
 and pitiless ! Mr. Dermot repented them the moment they 
 were spoken, hut he could not call them back, Sybil gave him 
 a look full of reproach and woe. 
 
 " Why do you tell me this ? " she said pitifully ; " you know 
 I cannot help myself — that whatever lot lies before us, there is 
 none so hard as being free, as you call it. I was so happy a 
 while back." 
 
 "And so was I, Sybil," he said sadly, "the happiest man 
 alive : and now the darkness has all come back, for a thought 
 haunts me, Sybil. I cannot make you happy. Ask yourself 
 how you would feel if you thought that all wretchedness was to 
 come to me through you." 
 
 " It would pierce my heart," replied Sybil, her tears flowing 
 at the thought ; " but that is not your case, Mr. Dermot. Be- 
 lieve me, whatever fate it is you'ask me to share, I can say like 
 Ruth, 'Whithersoever thou shalt go I will go ; and where thou 
 shalt dwell, I will also dwell. Thy people shall be my people, 
 and thy God my God,' and I will never repent it," she added, 
 bending her flushed face. 
 
 " Oh ! Sybil, Sybil," he said, half sorrowfully, " do not love 
 me so much ; for surely such love as yours is like the manifold 
 blessings showered by the gods on Polycrates, the forerunner 
 of all loss." 
 
 " But you cannot lose it," said Sybil, smiling divinely ; " it 
 is yours forever, you know." 
 
 " Yes ; but you may die, Sybil," he said, with sorrowful pas- 
 sion ; "you may die, and tell me then what I should do with- 
 out you ? It is sickening to think of." 
 
 " Oh ! you will love again," said Sybil, in a sad, low voice. 
 
 "Never!" he exclaimed, standing still, and speaking with 
 much energy. " I could not — I would not, Sybil. This is my 
 last and most precious venture on that sea. I might marry, but 
 love again, never, never ! " 
 
 There was a sorrowful cadence in his voice, that was more 
 than convincing. It was certainty to hear him. Sybil looked 
 up, and he bent down. He kissed her, and as his trembling 
 lips touched her cheek, Sybil felt, "I am his forever — forever ! "
 
 361: sybil's second love. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 TVheit Miss Glyn came back, Mr. Dermot was gone, and 
 Sybil did not tell her that he had come. She could not bear 
 that any should share her great joy, or even suspect it. For 
 now it was indeed a true " at last." Even in the bitterness with 
 which he had spoken, she had read love. " And when I see 
 him again," thought Sybil, " I shall tell him he loves me quite 
 enough." Poor Miss Glyn ! she noticed Sybil's happy looks, 
 and congratulated her on the change. 
 
 " You see, my dear," she said, " you could never have got 
 on "well in Saint Vincent, never. I am glad you came here." 
 
 " And so am I," saucily said Sybil. 
 
 " I met Mr. Dermot," continued Miss Glyn ; " he was disap- 
 pointed not to have found me within, but he will call again this 
 evening. I must say Mr. Dermot improves upon acquaintance, 
 and that I am much obliged to him for the trouble he is 
 taking." 
 
 Sybil was all openness and truth. If this had been her own 
 secret, and not his as well as hers, she would have told it to 
 her aunt that moment, but she did not dare to do so, so Miss 
 Glyn went on : 
 
 " Poor Mr. Dermot ! I have a strong impression that Miss 
 Cains — I will never call her otherwise — made a fool of him. 
 Well, well, he had a narrow escape ! " 
 
 Sybil turned her face away. 
 
 " I shall never be able to hide it," she thought, " if aunt 
 goes on so." 
 
 Luckily Miss Glyn had concerns of her own to think of, and 
 Mr. Dermot was soon forgotten. 
 
 He came that evening. Another happy evening snatched 
 from time, if Sybil had but known it. Mr. Dermot improved 
 even more upon Miss Glyn's acquaintance this time than the 
 last. 
 
 "He is very pleasant," she said to Sybil, when he was 
 gone. " I think it a great pity he made himself so awfully dis- 
 agreeable formerly." 
 
 Sybil longed to say : 
 
 " Why, aunt, you were disagreeable, not he." 
 
 But apart from the fact that such a remark would have been 
 very disrespectful, Miss Glyn's perfect sincerity kept her mute.
 
 Sybil's second love. 365 
 
 It was in all good faith that Sybil's aunt daily fell into inconsis- 
 tencies, and all the time she was so certain that others were to 
 blame, and that she was sinless. 
 
 " I wonder when he will tell aunt, or when I shall go back 
 to Saint Vincent," thought Sybil, when she was up in her room. 
 " I cannot bear to deceive or cheat her — it is like Blanche 
 Cains, and I will tell him so." 
 
 In the mean time she fell asleep, and dreamed of Duessa, and 
 Una, and the Redcross Knight, and of dragons, and enchant- 
 ments, strange and dreary. 
 
 But the world was gay, and a bright sun shone, when Sybil 
 rose the next morning. She saw the river glistening in its light, 
 and the wide moor was white and gold with flowers that danced 
 in the sun. She threw a handkerchief over her head and ran 
 out. That wild solitude attracted her. The wind that swept 
 over its green wastes had music in it : the flowers were sweeter 
 than the roses of Saint Vincent. 
 
 " I am glad I was brought here," thought Sybil ; " oh ! how 
 true it is that every thing is for the best — I would not have 
 stayed there for any thing now. I wonder if that cromlech is . 
 far away." 
 
 The white stones shone in the sun and looked near; but 
 Sybil found that they looked nearer than they were. _ She 
 would not be conquered, however, and never stopped till she 
 stood at the foot of the Druidical pile. How large it looked, 
 now that she stood close to it ! How small those huge rude old 
 stones made Sybil feel as she sat at their base, and rested in 
 their shadow, thinking of the far times when men first reared 
 them in that wilderness ! Not far from where she sat, wound 
 the road, a narrow and stony path, but the only one Avhich 
 crossed the waste. Ere long the echoing gallop of a horse 
 made Sybil start up with something like fear. The country 
 was safe indeed, but she did not like being alone here, so far 
 from home at that hour, and wondered whether she ought to 
 turn back. Wiser than this course it seemed to her was to hide 
 behind the stones, and see who came along this lonely path, so 
 she slipped round the pillars of the cromlechs, and, concealed 
 by the hindermost one, she waited till the horseman should 
 have gone by. But the handkerchief which Sybil had put on 
 her head to shade it from the sun had unluckily remained be- 
 hind. The wind caught it and blew it across the road, where 
 the stranger at once saw it. It was a gay little handkerchief,
 
 366 sybil's second love. 
 
 embroidered and festooned, and no doubt seemed a prize, fof 
 Mr. Dermot alighted, picked it up, and at once went up to the 
 cromlechs, walked round, and found Sybil. 
 
 " I did not know it was you," she said, rather vexed to be 
 found hiding. 
 
 "Why, Sybil, what brings you here? You are a mile 
 away, at least." 
 
 " Well, and how many miles are you ? " 
 
 " Oh ! but I am out on business." 
 
 "And I on pleasure." 
 
 " And I am not bareheaded, Sybil." 
 
 " Nor shall I be if you will return me that handkerchief." 
 
 She held out her hand, but he did not give it to her. He 
 looked at it admiringly, and said, 
 
 " You worked that, Sybil — you have clever little fingers." 
 
 " I don't know about that, Mr. Dermot ; but I do know 
 that the sun is very hot ! " 
 
 The handkerchief was returned at once. 
 
 " You are going to my aunt's, I suppose ? " said Sybil. 
 
 " No, I am going to Saint Vincent." 
 
 " But this is the long road." 
 
 " I dislike the short one. Shall I take you home on horse- 
 back, Sybil ? " 
 
 " No, thank you. I do not trust that new horse of yours, 
 he has a wicked green eye." 
 
 " Not trust Ebony ? See how quietly he stands. That 
 horse is a lamb ! " 
 
 Sybil shook her head skeptically. Mr. Dermot, nothing 
 loath to linger near her, called Ebony, who came to him neigh- 
 ing fondly. 
 
 " Now, is he not a noble creature ? " said Mr. Dermot, look- 
 ing at him with admiration. " Did you ever see so black a 
 coat, Sybil, or one so glossy? And then he is so finely propor- 
 tioned. I found him rough, shaggy, uncared for, in a farm- 
 yard, where no one could appreciate his worth; and look at him 
 now ! " 
 
 Sybil looked, and shrank back. Ebony was very handsome, 
 but he had a strange look. 
 
 " I would not trust him," she said. 
 
 " Not trust him ! " he replied. " Why, have I not saved 
 him from misery, and indulged and petted him to his heart's 
 content? Not trust Ebony ! Look at him, Sybil."
 
 SYBIL S SECOXD LOVE. 307 
 
 He approached the horse, who stood very still. 
 
 " Take care ! " cried Sybil, but she spoke too late. Mr. 
 Dermot lay bleeding and prostrate at her feet, and Ebony was 
 oft', galloping across the moor, neighing and snorting, and toss- 
 ing his black mane in defiance. 
 
 At first Sybil could neither move nor speak, so sudden, so 
 rapid had it all been. She knelt and bent over him; he was 
 senseless, and for a moment Sybil thought him dead. But no, 
 she felt his heart, and faint though its beatings were, she 
 detected them. But, alas ! what should she do ? There was 
 no chance of a passer-by. No one had seen her come out, and 
 no one, therefore, would seek her here. Should she, then, leave 
 him alone, perhaps to die \ And yet there was no help for it — 
 hard though it was, she must. She rose and took a few steps 
 away from him, but twice she came back, weeping and wring- 
 ing her hands in anguish. Oh ! that he would waken out of 
 that deathdike sleep — that those fixed eyes, which gazed and 
 saw her not, woidd give her hope and consolation. " I must 
 go," she thought, and a third time she went, and went without 
 looking back. 
 
 It was not long ere Sybil returned, accompanied. Mr. Der- 
 mot was still in a swoon, and was conveyed unconscious to Miss 
 Glyn's house. That lady had come out for him herself, and 
 was profoundly silent the whole way home. To Sybil's breath- 
 less inquiries and scared looks she returned no other reply than 
 "How should I know? " or a shake of the head, which made 
 Sybil's heart feel like lead. Indeed, Miss Glyn thought Mr. 
 Dermot all but a dead man, and when, several hours later, a 
 doctor came from Saint Vincent, he did not say much to re- 
 move this sentence from Mr. Dermot's head. 
 
 " Even if he recovers," he said, cautiously, " I doubt if ever 
 the poor gentleman will be again what he has been." 
 
 Sybil heard him, and felt as if the words turned her into 
 stone. She looked at the couch on which Edward Dermot had 
 been laid ; she saw his pale face, pale as death, his hair dabbled 
 with blood, his inanimate limbs, and she remembered him 
 handsome, strong, and full of life, as he had stood before her 
 that morning. And even if he lived, never again should he be 
 such — never! Life was robbed of its blessings for him, and 
 health and strength were as things that had. been. She could 
 not bear to look at him, and to think that such was his fate. 
 She left the room, and walked out.
 
 368 Sybil's second love. 
 
 She went she knew not whither at first, hut she soon dis- 
 covered what feeling; had led her when she found herself in the 
 moor, walking fast toward the cromlech. She stopped short, 
 and looked around her with a bursting heart. The low-plain lay- 
 wide as a sea in the red light of the sunset. A haze of gold 
 spread from earth to heaven. The wearied sun was sinking 
 down to rest, and like a journeyer whose goal is reached, he 
 cast one long last look on the broad moor. The rapid river, 
 that darkened as it flowed, went through the waste to meet 
 night hidden far away in low misty horizons. It was a glorious 
 sunset, and glittering afar, Sybil could see the fatal cromlech. 
 " I will go — I will go," she thought, and on she went till she 
 reached it. 
 
 Oh ! how cruel is the passive indifference of all inanimate 
 objects to man's sorrow ! There they stood, the grim old 
 stones, that had beheld ages go by, and what was Sybil's grief 
 to them? She flung herself on the grass that had drunk his 
 blood that morning;, and which sweet evening dews were al- 
 ready bathing ; and what did grass, or flowers, or earth, or sky 
 care for her passionate tears, and her poor young heart's an- 
 guish? "What did they care fur that full tide of life which was 
 ebbing away in her aunt's parlor, or for the happy strength that 
 would never return. 
 
 " Oh ! I cannot stay here," suddenly thought Sybil, rising. 
 " What if he should die whilst I am away ? " 
 
 She went home at full speed, and reached the house breath- 
 less. Miss Glyn was the first person she met. Sybil looked 
 at her eagerly ; but Miss Glyn's face was mute, and said 
 nothing. 
 
 " How is Mr. Dermot?" asked Sybil at length. 
 
 " In the same state — come in here, Sybil." 
 
 She took her into a small store-room, and shut the door 
 carefully. They were both in the darkness, yet Sybil felt her- 
 self turning crimson. 
 
 " Sybil," said Miss Glynn, " may I ask what is the nature of 
 your feelings for Mr. Dermot?" 
 
 _ Sybil was silent. She would neither tell the truth nor dis- 
 guise it. 
 
 " Perhaps you can tell me what Mr. Dermot feels for you ? " 
 
 " He loves me," replied Sybil proudly. 
 
 " Well, but have you reason to believe that he wishes to 
 many you?"
 
 sybil's second loye. 369 
 
 " Yes, aunt, I Lave." But even as she said it, Sybil 
 thought, with a pang, of his pale, senseless face, and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " Well," said Miss Glynn after a pause, " he is in so deplor- 
 able a condition, poor fellow ! that I must be lenient, but I must 
 say I think it was too bad to come here after you without first 
 speaking to me ; and, Sybil, take my advice — keep your feel- 
 ings under control. You know that Mr. Dermot's recovery is, 
 unfortunately, very doubtful." 
 
 " Oh ! aunt — aunt, do not say so ! " piteously cried Sybil — 
 " do not ! It was but yesterday morning that he asked me to 
 become his wife, and that I felt so happy — do not say so ! " 
 
 Miss Glyn said nothing. She was too kind-hearted to scold, 
 and she was too much provoked to conceal it if she did speak. 
 So she took the wisest course, and was mute. 
 
 And now life and death held one of their great battles over 
 a sick-bed. Miss Glyn's commercial establishment was turned 
 into a hospital. Doctors, surgeons came, some from hundreds 
 of miles, to see Mr. Dermot. Remorse for the weakness of his 
 friendship seemed to have entered Mr. Kennedy's heart. He 
 was incessant in his watching and his cares. He took one lono- 
 journey on purpose to consult a celebrated medical man who 
 had refused to come, and by dint of prayers and entreaties, he 
 brought him, and dismissed him with a princely fee. Mrs. 
 Kennedy's flowing skirts rustled near the sick-bed, where Mr. 
 Dermot lay all but dying, and she once left the room with her 
 face buried in a cambric pocket-handkerchief. To her new 
 circle, Mrs. Ronald and the rest, she spoke of this fatal accident 
 as having nearly sent Mr. Kennedy out of his senses, and hav- 
 ing thrown her into a fainting fit of twenty minutes' duration. 
 Did she act her part well, or was it all a part ? Did she feel 
 it needful to hide a mortal hate under the guise of sorrow ? or 
 did old love waken anew in her heart, not in its early ardor, 
 indeed, but at least in its tender pity ? Alas ! human nature 
 is so complex, that both hypotheses might be true. She might 
 grieve for Mr. Dermot when he was dying, and she might hate fi 
 him when he was recoverino;. 
 
 Whatever her feelings were, her word was taken for Gospel 
 truth. Mrs. Ronald's admiration for Mrs. Kennedy went on in- 
 creasing, and her disapprobation of Sybil increased in the same 
 ratio. She learned, through what mysterious channol she did 
 10*
 
 370 sybil's secoxd loye. 
 
 not say, that Miss Kennedy never shed a tear nor showed the 
 least sign of emotion, but was as cold as a piece of marble. 
 
 There was some truth in the simile. Sybil felt stone indeed. 
 Her father's zeal, Mrs. Kennedy's stately visits, even Mrs. 
 Mush's friendly calls and genuine sympathy left her cold. By 
 none of these was Mr. Dermot loved, and she knew it. Her 
 heart opened and melted but to one, and this was a kind, self- 
 constituted nurse, who watched day and night by the sick man's 
 bed, whose tears flowed when his case seemed hopeless, whose 
 face brightened with every glimmer of hope. 
 
 " Aunt, I love you," Sybil sometimes said to her. And on 
 the day when Mr. Dei-mot was pronounced out of danger — 
 though not without the intimation that perfect recovery was 
 doubtful, and would at the best be the work of time — ou the 
 day when this qualified verdict nevertheless filled Sybil's heart 
 with joy, so long unhoped for had it been, she flung her arms 
 around Miss Glyn's neck, and, bursting into passionate sobs and 
 tears, she cried, 
 
 "Aunt, aunt, I love you next to him." 
 
 " Poor fellow," said Miss Glyn, whose eyes were dim, " he 
 was so strong, so handsome, too ; but you do well to cling to 
 him as he is, Sybil, you do well, for on my word I believe he 
 deserves it." 
 
 -♦-»*- 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 Three weeks after this day, Sybil was sitting alone with Mr. 
 Dermot, when he suddenly said to her, 
 
 " Sybil, I should not like to die, and yet I am afraid I must. 
 I feel as if the hand of death were upon me. What a pity, 
 Sybil," he added, looking out of the window at the radiant 
 landscape, then down back again to her face, on which the sun- 
 V( ;i shone, giving it as a glow of heaven, " it is such a beautiful 
 " irld, and life with vou seemed so delicious. Sybil, sickness 
 is a great betrayer of all manliness. I feel as lackadaisical as a 
 girl of fifteen just leaving school. You see man is not made 
 for such passive endurance; strife — strife is his element. And 
 I have none here. I am in the very lap of kindness and of love. 
 There never was so fund a nurse as Miss Glyn, nor so sweet a
 
 sybil's second love. 371 
 
 companion as Miss Glyn's niece. Sybil, I cannot bear to leave 
 you." 
 
 Sybil checked her tears, and tried to smile. 
 
 " You shall not leave me," she said, " the doctor — " 
 
 " My darling," he interrupted, with a sigh, " doctors are 
 the greatest deceivers. It is their trade not to tell the truth. 
 But I would not talk of all this if I had not an object in view. 
 My recovery will certainly be slow, and I may never recover. I 
 wish that we may be married at once. I am a rich man, Sybil, 
 and I want to leave you all I have if I die. Your father is not 
 wealthy, and I much fear he will die poor — and poor Miss Glyn 
 has nothing to leave you. Let your lot, at least, be safe." 
 
 " I do not want to marry you for your money," half angrily 
 said Sybil. 
 
 " Nor do I, Sybil. I want you to marry me for myself, and 
 to make me know the taste of that rare food, happiness. I 
 have had a cold hard life from youth upward, you see, a life of 
 toil and solitude, and few pleasures, but no joys. I should like 
 a change now, Sybil. I am wearied of all labor. We will do 
 nothing when we are married, Sybil, but love, and perhaps 
 travel." 
 
 " I should not like my husband to do nothing," said Sybil, 
 reddening. " I should like him to work and be useful — " 
 
 " And honored and respected," said Mr. Dermot, with much 
 irony. 
 
 " I should like that too," said Sybil ; " though I could do 
 without it ; but, Mr. Dermot, I should like him to be true to 
 God's gifts. And to think of a man of your mind, Mr. Dermot, 
 doing nothing bnt travelling and loving a little girl like me ! " 
 
 " Is shocking," he suggested. " I do not think so, Sybil. 
 I tell you it is this sickness that takes all manliness from me ; 
 but I am like the lotus-eaters. Oh ! rest is delicious, Sybil, and 
 the gardens of Armida were no fable. Depend upon it, we find 
 them whenever we shut out life's bitter cares, and take refuge 
 in a fond true heart. Let Jerusalem perish, Sybil, or let better 
 knights raise her fallen walls. I am sick of the din of war, and 
 do not grudge me that all I care for now is a few happy days, 
 since Heaven will not grant me years — with you." 
 
 There w T as a sorrow in his fondness that went to Sybil's 
 heart. 
 
 " I grudge you nothing — nothing," she cried, breaking into 
 sobs and tears, and flinging her arms around his neck, " be
 
 372 Sybil's second love. 
 
 happy with me, if I can indeed make you happy — days or years, 
 as God wills ; but, oh ! Mr. Dermot, as you love me do not 
 speak as if } 7 our love for me took all nobleness or purpose from 
 you." 
 
 " It does not, Sybil. A girl like you never yet inspired so 
 low a passion. But, Sybil, my Lard fate so hems me in that 
 you are all I can really care to live for. There are plenty of 
 men in my case, Sybil, and they go to the dogs as a rule. 
 Thank God, then, that He gave me a good little creature like 
 you to be fond of, and happy with. We must have passions 
 nine out of ten of us. Blest are they to whom passion comes 
 not under the guise of cards, or wine, or ignoble desires, but 
 under such an aspect as this," he added, smiling in her face. 
 
 " Will you never tell me your trouble ? " sha asked in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, Sybil, when we are married. You would not have 
 me if I told you now." 
 
 " You wrong me," said Sybil, her face flushing with pain, 
 " you wrong me." 
 
 And she left his side, and for all his entreaties would not go 
 back. 
 
 They sat thus apart in the gray twilight, when the door 
 opened, and Miss Glyn entered the room. 
 
 "How do you feel, Mr. Dermot?" she asked, sitting down 
 by him. 
 
 He did not answer her at once. The sound of her voice 
 struck him. 
 
 "I am better," he said at length, "and to-morrow I shall 
 bid you good-by, and return to Saint Vincent." 
 
 No hospitable entreaty passed Miss Glyn's lips. Mr. Der- 
 mot said gravely : 
 
 " You have something to tell me, Miss Glyn — had we not 
 better have a light ? " 
 
 " Yes — no — as you please," replied Miss Glyn, in a slightly 
 troubled voice. " Sybil, ring for lights, if you please ? " 
 
 Sybil rang, and left the room. She went out into the gar- 
 den, and sat on a bench outside, whilst the servant came up and 
 placed a lamp on the table. 
 
 " You have something to tell me," again said Mr. Dermot. 
 
 lie no longer leaned back in the arm-chair, but sat upright, 
 pale, grave, and collected. Miss Glyn was, on the contrary, 
 much agitated.
 
 sybil's second love. 373 
 
 " Mr. Derraot," she said at length, " I am not a woman of 
 many words ; I must now speak abruptly and briefly. I have 
 received an anonymous letter concerning you. Here it is. 
 Are its statements false or true?" 
 
 She handed him an open letter ; Mr. Dermot took it calmly, 
 and in a clear and distinct voice he read aloud : 
 
 " The Mr. Dermot who is now lying ill at Miss Glyn's house, 
 figured last July under circumstances of the strongest suspicion, 
 in the coroner's inquest, which was held at Moonagh, Ireland, 
 over the remains of Mr. Smith. 
 
 " Mr. Smith was burned to death on the seventh of July, in 
 Mr. Dermot's house. Mr. Dermot and Mr. Smith had a violent 
 quarrel half an hour before the fire was discovered. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot's house was insured a week before Mr. Smith's 
 accidental death. 
 
 "The coroner's comment was, that the case was one of 
 strong suspicion; but the jury, according to his directions, 
 returned an open verdict." 
 
 Mr. Dermot closed the letter, and returned it back to Miss 
 Glyn. He was very pale, but he was also very calm. 
 
 ■ " Mr. Dermot," impetuously cried Miss Glyn, " tell me you 
 are not that man — I mean that Mr. Dermot." 
 
 " I am he," he answered composedly. 
 
 " And Mr. Smith was burned to death ? " 
 
 " He was." 
 
 " in your house ? — after he and you had quarrelled ? " 
 
 " It was in my house ; but Ave did not quarrel — Mr. Smith 
 was loud and noisy, but there was no quarrel." 
 
 " And you had insured your house a week before ? " 
 
 " Yes — just so ; a week before, very fortunately, for it was 
 valuable." 
 
 He spoke very composedly. 
 
 Miss Glyn looked perplexed. 
 
 " Then you were not suspected," she said ; " that is all in- 
 vention about the coroner's comment and all that? " 
 
 In a moment Mr. Dermot's face was in a flame. His eyes 
 flashed, his lips quivered, his voice lost its composure. 
 
 " The coroner was my personal enemy," he said ; " he haled 
 me, and he made that hate good that day, Miss Glyn." 
 
 Trouble appeared in Miss Glyn's face.
 
 374 sybil's second love. 
 
 " God help us ! " she said, clasping her hands on her lap ; 
 " are you then a disgraced man, Mr. Dermot ? " 
 
 Mr. Dermot looked at her with ill-subdued resentment. 
 She could say it — she could dare to say it ! She could taunt 
 him with his shame by that insolent question. 
 
 " But of course you are," resumed the pitiless woman ; " and 
 that was why you came to Saint Vincent as Mr. Kennedy's 
 brother — that was why your name was suppressed — God help 
 us ! I say again." 
 
 Mr. Dermot looked at her. The veins in his forehead 
 swelled, his eyes flashed, anger trembled on his lip, and he said 
 not one word. 
 
 " I pity you," resumed Miss Glyn ; " but I can do no more 
 — in justice to my niece, I must tell her father this." 
 
 " He knows it," sharply said Mr. Dermot. 
 
 " And knowing it, he gives you his daughter ? " 
 
 " He does." 
 
 He spoke in a dry, hard voice. 
 
 " But Sybil does not know it," indignantly said Miss Glyn ; 
 " and she shall, sir — she shall ! Sybil, where ai-e you ? " 
 
 Her voice was loud — louder than was needed. Sybil, who 
 sat in the garden outside, had heard every word ; and now 
 opening the glass door, entered the room pale as death, but 
 very calm. 
 
 " You need tell me nothing, aunt," she said in a low voice ; 
 " T heard you both — I know it all — besides, I had long guessed 
 it." 
 
 They both looked at her, not knowing how to construe her 
 looks and her bearing. She seemed in no hurry to enlighten 
 them. She stood between them, pale and still, in a mute sor- 
 row, that silenced them both. Mr. Dermot spoke first. 
 
 " Sybil," he said, going up to her, and speaking very gently, 
 " I need not tell you I am guiltless ; but for all that you are 
 free, free as air." 
 
 " Free ! " she said, " free ! " And she twined her armi 
 around his neck, and clung to him as never she had clung be- 
 fore. 
 
 " Sybil, you will repent this," indignantly said her aunt. 
 
 " Never ! " cried Sybil. " Mr. Dermot is not changed be- 
 cause he is slandered, and I will believe in him till I die ! — till I 
 die f" 
 
 He looked down at her raised face with mingled tendernesi
 
 sybil's second love. 375 
 
 and reverence. This did not seem to him his little childish 
 Sybil, whom he kissed and caressed with a future liLsband's fond- 
 ness. The faith that burned in those dark eyes of hers was caught 
 from no earthly flame. It was kindled in heaven, and now 
 gave her young face something of sublime. Thus Agnes, thus 
 Cecilia, the virgin martyrs, might have looked when they con- 
 fessed their God, and smiled at the heathen. For surely that 
 was never pure human love, to which the hour of trial gives not 
 a touch of heaven. 
 
 " I have wronged you," he said, " I have wronged you. I 
 should have told you this ; but I was blind and selfish. I 
 thought it would not be known, or that if it were, men would 
 be generous enough to hold me guiltless. Poor little Sybil ! it 
 was shameful to win your affection, knowing myself a disgraced 
 wretch, whom a woman must Mush to belong to ! " 
 
 The truth rose from Syml's heart to her lips. 
 
 "You know you need not blame yourself for that," she said. 
 " I liked you long before you liked me. I gave myself long 
 before you cared for me. Oh ! Mr. Dermot, you know very 
 well that I was yours all along, and you had but to take me ! " 
 
 She spoke with a proud humility that seemed to avenge him 
 for all the scorns of Fortune. He looked from her to Miss Glyn, 
 and smiled with serene defiance. 
 
 " You see her — you hear her ! " he said. " The strength 
 of innocence itself is around her ; an angel might as soon love 
 Lucifer as this girl a murderer. I cannot give you an unstained 
 name, Sybil, but my hand is as guiltless of that man's blood as 
 this," he added, raising hers to his lips. 
 
 Miss Glyn seemed much staggered. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot," she said, " you may be innocent. I only 
 say that appearances are very strong against you ; but innocent 
 or guilty, what right had you to bind your lot to that child's ? " 
 
 "None," he sorrowfully replied. " None, but she was will- 
 ing, and her father was willing, too, and I could not resist the 
 temptation. For you see, Miss Glyn, she has all that man can 
 well desire : youth, a true heart, and more than the common 
 share of beauty ; and to crown all, she loved me, and I saw 
 it, and loved her ten times more for that love than for all 
 the rest. Another might have prized it less ; but Fortune 
 had not spoiled me." 
 
 " But, Mr. Dermot, you cannot marry her now," said Miss 
 Glyn, " you cannot."
 
 376 sybil's second love. 
 
 "Oh yes, I can," lie replied, recklessly. "I do not expect 
 to live very long. If T die I will leave Sybil money enougli to 
 wipe away the shame of my name. ; and if I live," he added, 
 with some emotion, "this little girl loves me well enough to 
 forgive me the sin." 
 
 He kissed away Sybil's silent tears ; then gently putting 
 her by, he turned to Miss Glyn, and said, calmly : 
 
 " Good-by, Miss Glyn. I forgive you — I suppose I must, 
 but it goes against me to say it. You have been the world to 
 me, and though I never cared much for its good word, I find I 
 can resent, even though I scorn its contumely. I do not ask 
 that you should keep my secret. The hand that sent you that 
 letter has many more such to send, and will not spare me. It 
 tried to blast the fair name of a dying man, and thus sufficient- 
 ly proclaimed its own cowardice and baseness. That hand has 
 pressed mine once, and been very dear, so dear that if Heaven 
 had not sent me unhoped-for compensation, I could loathe all 
 human kind for its sake. I know its handiwork, and expect no 
 mercy ; but now the day has come when I, too, shall show 
 none." 
 
 Sybil gazed at him in some fear. He looked stem and 
 pitiless, and there was hate in his eye. She went up to him, 
 and taking his arm, led him out into the garden. 
 
 " Do not," she entreated ; " let us fly out of the world some- 
 where, Mr. Dermot, but do not retaliate — let her be." 
 
 " Sybil, I am uot revenge — I am justice. I feel bound to 
 overtake and punish her treason — as to flying out of the world 
 with you, my darling, I would, if I had the life and strength of 
 a month back — but not as I am now. There is but one world 
 for me to go to, child, and that's the next ; and the day on which 
 I take that journey will be a bright day in Mrs. Kennedy's his- 
 tory. But with me does not end her chastisement. Saint Vin- 
 cent and all in and about it is mine, and shall be yours. She 
 thought to turn mo out of your father's house, and if she stays 
 in it she shall live on your bounty. Your father is poor, Sybil, 
 very poor — his last store went in the furniture and the jewels ; 
 and as you love me, I charge you not to feed that woman's 
 sensual vanity with money of mine. Throw it into the sea, 
 Sybil, before you do that. Marry again, be happy with an- 
 other husband, let your children and his be enriched with my 
 wealth. I grudge you nothing, my darling — nothing; but be- 
 tween me and the treacherous woman who has stabbed my
 
 sybil's second love. 377 
 
 honor is mortal enmity. Do not answer me — I must see your 
 father to-night — good-by." 
 
 He kissed her in the darkness, and walked away at a quick 
 pace ; and Sybil stood listening to his retreating footsteps like 
 one entranced. 
 
 -♦♦•♦- 
 
 CHATTER LII. 
 
 Sleep did not come near Miss Glyn that night. Mr. Der- 
 mot's manner all but convinced her of his innocence; but inno- 
 cent or guilty, she resolved that he should not marry her niece. 
 Sybil's romantic generosity she derided as utterly foolish. 
 
 " It will not stand the test of time," she thought. " Sybil 
 is in love now, but later, when she finds herself stung at every 
 turn by her husband's shame, she will repent her folly, and up- 
 braid us all for having allowed her to commit it." 
 
 That sin Miss Glyn resolved to avoid by seeking Mr. Ken- 
 nedy the very next morning, and informing him that no con- 
 sideration should make her tolerate Sybil's marriage with Mr. 
 Dermot. 
 
 Miss Glyn was prompt to decide, and no less prompt to act. 
 She went off on her errand at once ; but early though she was, 
 Mr. Kennedy was out. Mrs. Kennedy, though not asked for, 
 came down to receive her visitor. Her manner had a mixture 
 of courtesy and concern that struck Miss Glyn. 
 
 " I trust, I hope Mr. Dermot has not had a relapse ? " she 
 said anxiously. 
 
 " No, thank you," dryly answered Miss Glyn. " Do you 
 know, Mrs. Kennedy, if your husband will remain out long ? " 
 
 " I can form no idea, Miss Glyn ; he may stay out the whole 
 day, or be home in five minutes. And, pray, how is poor Mr. 
 Dermot this morning?" 
 
 " Mr. Dermot left me last night." 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy's surprise was unbounded. 
 
 Last night ! How sudden ! Bat surely he had not come 
 back to Saint Vincent ; and Sybil, what about poor, dear Sybil '( 
 Mrs. Kennedy supposed they would soon have her back too ! 
 
 Miss Glyn gave her a cold, mistrustful look, and rose. 
 
 " I shall call again," she said shortly ; and, without deigning 
 to answer Mrs. Kennedy, she left. She did not go home. She
 
 378 SYBIL'S SECOISTD LOVE. 
 
 went on to Saint Vincent, where she had business, and on her 
 return she passed by tbe abbey, and asked if Mr. Kennedy bad 
 come back. Narcisse replied in the negative, and being of a 
 communicative turn, he graciously added, 
 
 "Monsieur Kennedy and Monsieur Dermot went out to- 
 gether this morning." 
 
 " Tben Monsieur Dermot is here? " said Miss Glyn. 
 
 "Oh! yes. Monsieur Dermot arrived last night; and Mad- 
 ame Kennedy laughed, and said he looked just like a ghost." 
 
 Miss Glyn turned away grimly, and smiled in some scorn. 
 
 " Did Miss Cains think to impose upon me ? " sbe thought 
 as she entered her chaise and drove back to her own home. 
 " Sbe ought to know it is rather hard to do that." 
 
 Miss "Glyn found Sybil in the garden, leaning over the gate, 
 and looking out wistfully across the road over tbe broad moor. 
 Her face was flushed, and her dark eyes had a full intent look, 
 with wbich her aunt was struck. It did not seem to Miss Glyn 
 that Sybil was fretting, and yet something ailed her. 
 
 " Sybil, wbat is it ? " sbe asked. 
 
 " Nothing, aunt," replied Sybil with a little start. 
 
 " Sybil, I pity you — I even pity him ; but you must submit 
 to your fate — a bard one, I confess it ; still, as I say, you must 
 submit." 
 
 Sybil smiled wistfully. 
 
 " I mean to do so, aunt," she said, in a low voice, and mak- 
 ing way for Miss Glyn to pass ; she followed her in. 
 
 She was very quiet, though very grave, for the whole of that 
 day. Neither her face nor her manner gave any clue to her feel- 
 ings. Sbe seemed to live within herself, " like a little snail within 
 its shell," thought Miss Glyn, and looked as if sbe meant to remain 
 there silent and close till better times should come. Apathy 
 marked her bearing; she sewed assiduously, and never spoke. 
 She did not even seem to fret ; but looked like one whose 
 bark drifts down a swift stream, and who is powerless to 
 arrest its course. 
 
 Early the next morning, Miss Glyn went off to Saint Yin- 
 cent again ; but early though she was, Mr. Kennedy was out 
 when she reached the abbey. But this time, however, he bad 
 left word that he would be home within an hour ; and as the 
 day was fine, Miss Glyn said sbe would take a turn in the gar- 
 den and wait there. From the garden she soon wandered to 
 tbe grounds. A bright sun lit the avenues of trees, and the
 
 sybil's second love. 379 
 
 blue sea sparkled in the distance. It was a lovely morning, 
 both fresh and fragrant and redolent with summer ; but Miss 
 Glyn did not feel happy. Her errand was no pleasant one. 
 She had taken a strong liking to Mr. Dermot during his illness, 
 and now that liking came uppermost, spite all her efforts to curb 
 it ; and if it did not make her repent her resolve, it rendered 
 its fulfilment rather painful. 
 
 " I wish those birds would not chatter so much," impa- 
 tiently thought Miss Glyn, looking up at a' tree in whose boughs 
 a happy pair were hidden ; " but of course they know no bet- 
 ter, little senseless wretches ! " 
 
 As she came to this harsh conclusion, Miss Glyn was sud- 
 denly aware of Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Dermot, who were 
 coming home through the grounds, and now stood within a 
 few paces of her. She was much struck by their appearance. 
 Mr. Kennedy's eye was dull, and his face was haggard. 
 
 " He did not sleep last night," thought Miss Glyn. 
 
 Mr. Dermot, on the contrary, looked far better and stronger 
 than when he had left Miss Glyn's two days before. Perhaps 
 he, too, had not slept, but wakefulness had left him all the 
 power and energy of life. He bowed formally to Miss Glyn, 
 and looked her firmly in the face with his luminous gray 
 eyes. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot is not going to die just yet," thought Miss 
 Glyn, and the conviction strengthened her in her purpose. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Kennedy," she said, looking hard at him, " have 
 I news to give, or have you ? " 
 
 "Mr. Dermot has spoken to me," replied Mr. Kennedy, 
 without looking at her. 
 
 There was a pause, then Miss Glyn said, 
 
 " And what about Sybil ? " 
 
 " Nothing," sullenly answered Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 " Nothing ! Do you mean that she is to marry Mr. Dermot 
 all the same? " 
 
 This time Mr. Kennedy did not reply. Miss Glyn waxed 
 both wroth and indignant. 
 
 "And so," she said, with a derisive smile, "you give your 
 daughter to a disgraced man, and you do it with your eyes 
 open — is it for his money, Mr. Kennedy ? Never mind answer- 
 ing," she added, regardless of Mr. Kennedy's angry look, and 
 Mr. Dermot' s indignant flush. "All I sav is this, Sybil shall 
 not be sacrificed ! I will cry it out in the streets before I al- 
 low it."
 
 380 sybil's second love. 
 
 " Miss Glyn, I am a patient man," replied Mr. Kennedy, 
 with a light in his eye, " hut I will allow no interference in my 
 domestic affairs." 
 
 " And I will not allow that child to be sold," obstinately said 
 Miss Glyn; "take a step in this marriage, and I will rouse all 
 Saint Vincent against you both." 
 
 Mr. Dermot looked her firmly in the face. 
 " Sybil and I were married this morning," he said. 
 Miss Glyn stared, her mouth opened, her arms fell, then a 
 purple flush passed across her face ; for a moment she was al- 
 most speechless, and looked almost senseless. When she re- 
 covered, she said with deep scorn, 
 
 " God forgive you both — I cannot. You have sold her," 
 she said to Mr" Kennedy, " and you have bought her," she added, 
 looking at Mr. Dermot, " and you shall both answer for it on 
 the great judgment-day," she exclaimed, bursting into tears. 
 " If there be justice above, you shall answer for it ! " 
 
 Mr. Kennedy eyed her coldly, and said not one word ; but 
 Mr. Dermot's pale' face flushed with pain. He walked to and 
 fro in the path, and coming back to the bench on which Miss 
 Glyn sat, he stopped before her, and said with much emotion^ 
 " " As God is my judge, I did not buy this young girl who is 
 now my wife. As He knows all hearts, I thought not of my- 
 self, but ©f her in this morning's act. I love her much, very 
 much, Miss Glyn, far too well to tie her lot to mine if I could 
 do otherwise. I am going away this afternoon, and Sybil is 
 not coming with me. I may never return, though she need not 
 know thatfpoor child ! and in that case she will be a rich and 
 young widow. If I live, I trust that my love for her, and her 
 love for me, will give us some way of securing happiness be- 
 yond the reach of all slander. You will at least allow me to 
 hope that she will find in me a more tender and faithful husband 
 than she could ever have had in the Count de Renneville." 
 
 "Mr. Dermot, I pity you," replied Miss Glyn; "you de- 
 lude yourself by thinking 'it was needful to Sybil's happiness 
 that she should' marry you. You are not going to die just to 
 make her a rich widow. Besides, you could leave her every 
 farthing you have without marrying her. No, Mr. Dermot, the 
 plain truth is, you are fond of the poor girl, and as she is fond 
 of you, you take advantage of her folly to get her. Sybil will 
 never reproach you, but she will repent it bitterly, and perhaps 
 you will see it, and have to bear the punishment of your self- 
 ishness."
 
 sybil's second love. 381 
 
 Mr. Dermot could have answered this, for lie had more rea- 
 sons for marrying Sybil than he had stated to Miss Glyn ; but 
 he did not choose to ertcr into further justification. 
 
 " Think what you please," he said recklessly ; " Sybil is my 
 wife now, and though we mean to keep our marriage private, if 
 it pleases you to proclaim it, I for one am not ashamed of what 
 I have done this morning." 
 
 "I shall not betray you," said Miss Glyn, coldly; "but 
 where is Sybil ? " 
 
 " You will find her in your house when you go back," re- 
 plied Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 Miss Glyn shook her head. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot's wife ought to have a house of her own," she 
 said ironically ; " at all events, I decline to receive her. She 
 must come here, or go with her husband." 
 
 " She shall come here," sullenly said Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 " May I ask if Mrs. Kennedy knows this 1 " inquired Miss 
 Glyn, with great stateliness. 
 
 " No," was Mr. Kennedy's sharp reply. 
 
 "Then my opinion is, that you cannot, without wronging 
 Mrs. Kennedy, bring Mrs. Dermot into her house," said Miss 
 Glyn gravely ; " and, indeed, I shall feel it my duty — " 
 
 " Nonsense ! " interrupted Mr. Kennedy, losing his temper ; 
 " you meddle in what you know nothing of, Miss Glyn. This 
 house is not Mrs. Kennedy's. It is Mr. Dermot's. His wife, 
 not mine, is the mistress of it ; and you are sitting iu Mr. Der- 
 mot's grounds, and on Mr. Dermot's bench." 
 
 Miss Glyn rose, pale with anger. 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy, shall I tell you what I think of all this ? " 
 she cried, in her indiguation ; " I think it is you, and not Mr. 
 Dermot, who killed Mr. Smith ! " 
 
 We often speak, scarcely knowing what we say, and after we 
 have spoken, we learn by their effect that our words were keen 
 arrows with a sure aim. Miss Glyn remained aghast as she saw 
 how fell a speech she had uttered. Mr. Kennedy's eyes rolled 
 wildly, drops of perspiration stood thick on his brow, terror avis 
 in his whole aspect. Mr. Dermot's voice recalled him to himself. 
 
 " Scorn it," said his frieud, " scorn it, James." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy drew a deep breath, and tried to laugh. 
 
 "Thank you, Miss Glyn," he said, "thank you." 
 
 And Miss Glyn was too much shocked to speak, for in her 
 heart she thought, "It is true he killed him, and he is iu tbat 
 man's power."
 
 382 sybil's second love. 
 
 "I wash my Lands of it all," she said, rising; "I could 
 admire you, Mr. Dermot, if you had not paid yourself for 
 your silence ; and you, Mr. Kennedy, could pity, if you had 
 been more generous. As it is, take care of yourself. I am 
 much mistaken if the writer of the letter I received the day be- 
 fore yesterday is not to be found within a mile of this spot." 
 
 " Miss Glyn, what is your meaning ? " asked Mr. Kennedy, 
 turning livid. " Am I to understand that you tp.x me with it? " 
 
 " You ! " And Miss Glyn stared at him. " You ! Don't 
 be absurd, Mr. Kennedy, you know my meaning very well." 
 
 She walked away without further adieu, and Mr. Kennedy 
 looked at Mr. Dermot as if to say, " Deny it — say it is false — 
 deny it ! " 
 
 But Mr. Dermot was mute, and Mr. Kennedy hung his head 
 and bit his lip, for he too believed it. 
 
 CHAPTER L 1 1 1 . 
 
 Sybil was sitting in her room at her aunt's house, still 
 amazed at the morning's work. The suddenness of this mar- 
 nage took from its joy. Nor could she forget her father's face, 
 still less Mr. Dermot's. She had yielded to their joint wishes, 
 but her heart felt heavy and sad. Oh ! happy were the brides 
 who were wedded in the face of all, whom the joy of friends, 
 and their cordial good-will welcomed on the threshold of the 
 new life. Ay ! truly happy were they ! " 
 
 A knock at her door disturbed Sybil's thoughts. She took 
 off her ring, which she had put on, and opened it. She saw 
 her aunt's servant-maid, who handed her a slip of paper, on 
 which Mr. Dermot had written, in English, " Come to me." 
 
 " He was waiting at the gate," said the girl. Sybil's eyes 
 sparkled with joy. She did not know why he wanted her, but 
 he bade her come, and it was happiness to obey him, on this 
 the first day of their wedded life. She ran out bareheaded in 
 the sun, and found him standing outside the limits of Miss 
 Glyn's abode. She reached him breathless, and gave him a 
 quick, anxious look. 
 
 " You have not put on your hat and cloak," he said, sur- 
 prised.
 
 sybil's second love. 3S3 
 
 "No. Did you come to take me away?" she cried, joy- 
 fully. 
 
 " I did." 
 
 "For good?" 
 
 " For good, as you say, Sybil." 
 
 He spoke sadiy, but in her joy Sybil did not heed that. 
 She thought they were going away together somewhere — out 
 of the world, as she called it — and a weight of care left her 
 with that thought. She flew back to the house, and came back 
 to him in a few minutes. He took her arm and led her away. 
 
 " Shall I leave a message for my aunt ? " asked Sybil, stand- 
 ing still. 
 
 " )Tou need not ; she knows we are married." 
 
 This was another relief. Sybil could not bear disguise or 
 secrecy. But there was something in Mr. Dermot's face that 
 soon checked her joy. She had noticed a clouded happiness 
 about him when they were married that morning, but now it 
 seemed to Sybil that the happiness was all gone, and that the 
 cloud alone remained. She did not dare to ask where thev 
 were going. She walked by his side, her arm in his, and she 
 felt sad and troubled. 
 
 A path led to the sea; this Mr. Dermot took. "When they 
 were both on the shore, within the shadow of the cliffs, he asked 
 Sybil if she would sit or walk. Sybil felt faint, and she pre- 
 ferred sitting. He sat down by her side, and looking at her 
 sadly, spoke. 
 
 " Heaven is my witness, Sybil, that when I first thought of 
 asking you to become my wife, I never contemplated all this. 
 I did not think that I should marry you in secret, and that I 
 could not openly give you a home on your wedding-day. And 
 what a wedding-day ! If I wish to speak to you, I must do so 
 in such a wild place as this, where the sea-mew, who screams 
 around us, will never tell it. Poor little Sybil, the shadow of 
 wrong never came near you, and just now I saw you give a start 
 and a frightened look, lest any one should come and find you 
 sitting here with your husband. God forgive me, Sybil ! I 
 half fear that your aunt's bitter reproaches were justified, and 
 that I thought of myself, and not of you, this morning." 
 
 " And why should you not?" asked Sybil, a little indignant- 
 ly — " why should you marry me if I cannot give you some hap- 
 piness % — though 'tis not much, I dare say, or you would not 
 speak so."
 
 3S-A sybil's second love. 
 
 Tears stood in her eyes as she uttered these words. 
 
 " Some happiness ! " he repeated — " some happiness ! Oh ! 
 Sybil, if I had only married you in the face of the world, and 
 not by stealth — if I could only say to every one, ' This is my 
 wife,' and take you away somewhere — " 
 
 " Do," interrupted Sybil — " do, Mr. Dermot, take me away ; 
 I do not care where — only take me ! " 
 
 " I will," he replied, taking her in his arms, and forgetting 
 his hard lot in the sweetness of that fond entreaty — " I will, my 
 darling," and for a moment he looked down at her, a proud 
 and happy husband. 
 
 " And where are we going?" softly whispered Sybil. 
 
 The troubled look came back at once to Mr. Dermot's face. 
 Alas ! he was no blest lover bearing his young bride away to 
 some calm retreat. He was a hunted man, who had married the 
 girl he loved — not to have her, but to save her from a worse lot. 
 He had made her his wife, not to spend happy days with her, 
 but to take her out of her father's hands, and give her a safe ref- 
 uge beyond the reach of Blanche Cains. Whatever Miss Glyn 
 might think, Mr. Dermot had no illusions. He knew that if 
 his days were numbered, as he thought, Sybil was too young 
 not to marry again. She would marry, and, of course, she 
 would love. The wealth wdnch he had amassed with painful 
 toil, and was now leaving her, would enrich a happier man. 
 
 Children, not of his blood, would play in these rooms where 
 young Sybil had once called him Uncle Edward, and given 
 him her unsought heart. And he would sleep in his dishonored 
 grave, not forgotten, perhaps, but surely never mentioned ! 
 These were bitter thoughts to a man in love, who had been 
 wedded a few hours, and who, calm though he often looked, 
 felt the passionate blood of youth flowing in his veins. He 
 gently put Sybil by, and said, very sadly : 
 
 " You are right enough, Sybil ; you can give me no happi- 
 ness — none, for to have you so is very bitter ; but for all that, 
 you will never know how much I have loved you." 
 
 The passionate earnestness of his look, the still more pas- 
 sionate regret of his voice, stirred the depths of Sybil's heart. 
 
 "God himself joined us this morning," she said — "let us 
 hold fast by that, and let the world go by." 
 
 " I cannot — I must not — I did not marry you for that," he 
 replied, in a broken voice; " pride, honor, love — all bid me give 
 you another destiny, my darling. Two days back I wanted
 
 sybil's second love. 385 
 
 you for myself, but after that letter I should not dare to wish 
 for you so. It may be that some selfish hope or desire was in 
 my heart this morning ; but if so, it is not too late to atone for 
 either. Do not look at me so reproachfully, Sybil. I may not 
 always be generous — I may come some day and take you away, 
 and hide you, as the miser hides his gold, and then we will let 
 the world go by, as you say." 
 
 "Be it so," said Sybil, smiling, undismayed at the dreary 
 prospect. 
 
 "Yes, Sybil, be it so. But I have much to say — let me 
 speak. Did you wonder, Sybil, that when we parted this 
 morning, I let your father take you to Miss Glyn's ? I could 
 not help it — I had much to do — I had my will to make." 
 
 Sybil felt sick and faint. 
 
 " Then you do think, Mr. Dermot," she said — " you do 
 think that—" 
 
 She did not say what, but he knew her meaning, and was 
 silent. 
 
 " God alone knows," he said at length ; " but do not look so 
 woeful — above all, do not grudge me the thought that, if I could 
 do nothing else for you, I could make you "rich. Whether I 
 live or die, you are a rich woman now, Sybil." 
 
 " Rich ! — and if you die ! — if you die, Mr. Dermot ?" 
 
 She could say no more. 
 
 " And if I live," he said, gloomily — " if I live, scorned and 
 dishonored, Sybil?" 
 
 " Mr. Dermot," fervently cried Sybil, for she had not yet 
 learned to call him otherwise, " God will clear you yet." 
 
 But Mr. Dermot heard, and did not believe her. He did 
 not think that Providence always justified the innocent and con- 
 founded the guilty. If he was silent, was Providence bound to 
 speak for him ? There was iron in him, as he had once told 
 Sybil, and he could bear his lot ; but one aspect of that lot re- 
 volted him. It was that he should give his wife a disgraced 
 name, and that he should entail that inheritance of shame on 
 children yet unborn. Passion aud Hope had conspired to lure 
 him on, but one was dead now, and the other, though strong, 
 could not stifle conscience and pride. It was well for Sybil 
 that she could not guess with what bitterness of heart he had 
 made her his. She could not guess it, but still something she 
 read in his troubled eye. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot," she implored, " let us go away and never be 
 heard of more." 
 17
 
 3 SO sybil's second love. 
 
 " There was a time when these things could be," he an- 
 swered with bitter impatience ; " now, what spot is there where 
 slander will not pursue its victim ? But let me speak on, Sybil 
 — I have much to say, and time is passing. See what a line of 
 foam and spray these receding waves have made on the shingle. 
 They are rolling away from us." 
 
 "Yes," said Sybil, "and my short happiness with them — 
 f< >r you are going to leave me, Mr. Derniot, I know that." 
 
 "I must, to my sorrow. I thought to leave you at Miss 
 Glyn's, but she compelled me to acknowledge our marriage to 
 her, and she will not give a home to the wife of a disgraced 
 man. And now, Sybil, mark my words. If I die, you are, by 
 the tenor of my will, placed forever beyond the reach of that 
 woman." 
 
 " You shall not die — you must not ! " cried Sybil. " And 
 do not leave me here or anywhere. Do not forsake me." 
 
 " Forsake you ! Why, every thought I have is watchfulness 
 or tenderness for you !" 
 
 " Then watch over me yourself. If I gave you that right 
 and that duty this morning, I gave it to none other. You 
 told me I was your treasure— ^deal with me as the miser deals 
 with his gold, Mr. Dermot." 
 
 "I cannot — I must not; not yet at least, my darling. I 
 have placed you beyond the reach of that woman, who would 
 barter or betray you. I have made you rich, and the world 
 which would not forgive my wife will be very lenient to my 
 widow — " 
 
 " Then you married me for pity ? " interrupted Sybil, pale 
 as death — " you married me because you think you will die ? " 
 
 " I may live, Sybil — I may come back to you with my bur- 
 den of disgrace, and bid you share it. I wonder if you will 
 think or say that I married vou for pity when that day comes ? " 
 
 "Then you will come back?" she said with a sigh of re- 
 lief — " you will come back? " 
 
 " Did you doubt it ? " 
 
 " How can I tell ? I thought I was your wife, bound to 
 share your lot, whatever that lot might be. But when I hear 
 you speak, I think I must have dreamed that we were married 
 this morning." 
 
 She spoke with sorrowful calmness, without reproach, but 
 as one who states some sad fact beyond all remedy. 
 
 " You are my wife," he said, deeply affected—" my wife,
 
 sybil's second love. 387 
 
 honored and beloved, and whether I live or die I will convince 
 you that you are infinitely dear to your husband's heart." 
 
 " I believe you — I must believe you ! " she exclaimed, her 
 tears flowing ; "it would be too hard to think otherwise, for Mr. 
 Dcrmot I feel sure that you will live — ay, and triumph over 
 your enemies," she added, smiling through her tears ; " and it 
 would be too bitter to think myself a clog upon you then." 
 
 He wiped her tears away, an.d smiled too. The happy fu- 
 ture her words called up made him half forget present sorrow. 
 Oh ! how sweet it would be to live an honored man in that 
 gray old abbey, with this fond and true young wife forever by 
 his side ! And it was possible, hope whispered ; stranger things 
 have come to pass. Ever since Miss Glyn had taxed him with 
 his shame, he had felt life doubly strong within him. Strength, 
 will, purpose had returned. Why should he not live to prevail 
 over fate, and sit down to enjoy the prize he had snatched to- 
 day ? Ah ! what a close that would be to the long and bitter 
 story of the last year ! 
 
 "Sybil," he said with a kindling look, "you will make a 
 true wife. I came here dark and depressed ; now I feel as if I 
 must live and prevail against her. Do not think, however," he 
 added with the defiant smile she knew of old, "that I meant 
 to fly like a coward before Mrs. Kennedy. If I go, if I leave 
 you, if I keep our marriage secret — it is to defeat her, Sybil. 
 She sent that letter to Miss Glyn, to prevent me from having you 
 — let her think that she has prevailed and that I am beaten, else 
 the evil spirit which is within her will know no bounds. Let 
 her think it, I say. Your father and I have set a snare Avhich 
 she cannot escape. I go to act my part, but I would not go, 
 without securing your fate, my darling." 
 
 " Does my father know ? " asked Sybil. 
 
 " He suspects her — I had no need to accuse her. Wretched 
 woman ! she does not know that my danger is his — that we 
 stand and fall together. And he would rather die than trust 
 her. In that he does well. Have no faith in the wicked. They 
 cannot be true." 
 
 Sybil turned very pale. 
 
 "How did Mr. Smith die?" she whispered. 
 
 " Sybil, I do not know — no more than you — but I cannot 
 doubt your father." 
 
 "Ah! you have been grand — you have been generous'" 
 she cried.
 
 3S8 sybil's second love. 
 
 " No," he interrupted calmly ; " but when suspicion fell on 
 me, I threw it on no other. I did that, and no more. Forget 
 all that, Sybil. Let nothing so dark or so dismal be mentioned 
 between us to-day. But if you love me, if you love your 
 father, be prudent till I come back. Then I can defy her, I 
 trust, and claim you." 
 
 "You will — you shall ! " cried Sybil ardently ; "no one shall 
 doubt you, and she shall know nothing from me; and we shall 
 be very happy yet." 
 
 He heard her smiling, and he surrendered hirnself to the 
 dear illusion. He was not half deceived, and all the time he 
 knew that the wakening was at hand, but he felt weary of fore- 
 sight and sacrifice. He let Sybil grow eloquent on a golden 
 future, which to her seemed as certain as if it 'lay within their 
 grasp. He put by the certainty that they must part within a 
 few hours, and he enjoyed the present time. The day was calm 
 and fair, the waves danced joyously on the beach, and Sybil sat 
 by his side and often turned toward him a radiant face. For 
 if he could not deceive himself, Mr. Derrnot fully cheated her. 
 He needed to act no part to be once more the fond lover of a 
 few days back. She forgot all he had been saying as we forget 
 baleful dreams, and went back to hope and joy as easily as a 
 child. Compassion mingled with his tenderness, and forbade 
 him to renew her sorrow. 
 
 " Let there have been sunshine on her wedding-day," he 
 thought, " the darkness and the cloud will come soon enough." 
 
 And he, too, wore a happy look, and seemed, to have put by 
 all care. 
 
 And if fond vows and tender caresses could have confirmed 
 Sybil's faith in the future, they were not wanted then. But 
 these appeals to joys he might never possess were more than 
 Mr. Derrnot could eudure. It unmanned him to see and hear 
 this girl whom he loved so fondly, sitting there by his side, re- 
 calling their pleasant friendship, and trusting to their married 
 love with such calm faith. 
 
 " I believe you had better go in," he said, rising and trying 
 to seem unconcerned. " See how far the tide is out !" 
 
 "Are you not coming in with me?" she asked doubtfully. 
 
 " I am going in, but not with you." 
 
 She did not oppose his wish. They walked on together for 
 a while, and then he left her still smiling. 
 
 " But I shall see you before you leave Saint Vincent? "
 
 sybil's second love. 380 
 
 He laughed at the question, and walked away with a careless 
 look. Sybil watched him till he vanished, and if she had dared, 
 she would have called him back, for sudden fear had come over 
 her as she thought : 
 
 " If I should never see him again ! " 
 
 The presentiment was not all unfulfilled. That day Sybil 
 saw Mr. Dermot no more, and when she rose the next morning 
 she found a slip of paper thrust under the door. " Good-by ! 
 God bless you ! " was all Mr. Dermot had written, and he was 
 gone. 
 
 " Oh ! if it were forever," thought Sybil, with a dea:lly 
 chill at her heart. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 Never, it seemed to Sybil, in after-life, was there so dream- 
 like a period of her existence as this, for never w T as the real 
 world less, and that other w r orld which lies within the compass 
 of our own thoughts, more to her than it was then. A dark 
 and troubled world she found it. One peopled with spectres 
 and overshadowed with gloomy forebodings. Again and again 
 she went over the tragic close of Mr. Smith's history, and again 
 and again her heart sickened when she thought of the dark 
 shadow which that sad end threw over her husband's life. Oh ! 
 would he ever stand clear once more in his honor and fair 
 name? 
 
 Would he win bnck the love of that haughty princess, Opin- 
 ion, of whom he had once spoken to Sybil? She feared not. 
 She hoped, and she despaired daily, and daily, too, the suspense 
 and anxiety to which his lengthened absence and silence sub- 
 jected her, told upon her. She grew so wan and pale that 
 every one saw it, and every one, too, thought he or she could 
 guess the cause of Miss Kennedy's sorrow. She was in love 
 with Mr. Dermot, and Mr. Dermot had promised to marry her, 
 and had brokeu his promise at the eleventh hour, and so Miss 
 Kennedy was fretting. Tims, at least, the friends and visitors 
 of Mrs. Kennedy, those from whom she received, and to whom 
 she gave parties and grand dinners, where Sybil sat like a pale 
 little ghost, compelled to appear at mortal festivals — thus, at 
 least, they coustrued the sail girl's altered looks.
 
 390 sybil's second love. 
 
 Mr. Dermot had been gone exactly two weeks, when Mrs 
 Kennedy gave one of her weekly dinners. Mrs. Rouald and a 
 few more of her set were the guests. Mrs. Ronald had been 
 silent concerning Sybil till then ; but now she chose to speak. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Kennedy," she said to her in her most 
 amiable and confidential tone, " what is the matter with Miss 
 Kennedy?" 
 
 Now Mrs. Ronald put the question in a manner which im- 
 plied that she could have given the answer if she chose. Mrs. 
 Kennedy sighed and gave Sybil, who sat at the other end of the 
 table, pale and rather stern, a look full of tender, motherly com- 
 passion. 
 
 " She is a dear, wayward little thing," she replied ; " and 
 there is no arguing with her, Mrs. Ronald. None." 
 
 "Mrs. Kennedy," said Mrs. Ronald, "I married a widower 
 with grown-up daughters, who were all dear, good girls, but 
 most provoking — I can feel for you." 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy smiled sweetly, and no more was said on that 
 subject. But Mrs. Mush had watched them, and as soon as 
 dinner was over, she coaxed Sybil out into the garden. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " I am going away to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow? " interrupted Sybil. She had known it, but 
 she had forgotten it too, as she forgot every thing now. 
 
 " Yes, child, to-morrow : it is decreed that Saint Vincent is 
 to be no abiding-place for me — when your father wants me, he 
 asks me ; and when my time of usefulness is out, I must go." 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Mush, if ever I have Saint Vincent, you shall 
 come to it and stay as long as you please," warmly said 
 Sybil. 
 
 " You are very kind, my dear ; but Mrs. Kennedy has a 
 good hold of Saint Vincent, and isn't going to give it up just 
 yet. However, as I said, I am going away to-morrow, and I 
 must give you fair warning that Mrs. Ronald and her set are 
 watching you. Be proud, feel much, show little; and if he 
 should come back, be on your guard. He is a good and honor- 
 able man, but there may be reasons why he cannot marry, you 
 see." 
 
 So she too knew or suspected his disgrace. Ay, Sybil re- 
 membered the Moonagh Herald, and the words she had read. 
 Oh ! God help them both ! What a lot was theirs ! 
 
 "And so, my dear — " resumed Mrs. Mush. 
 
 "Mrs. Mush, I cannot bear it," passionately interrupted 
 Sybil ; " I cannot bear it."
 
 Sybil's second love. 391 
 
 " But if lie should come back," persisted Mrs. Mush ; she 
 ceased rather abruptly, for Mr. Dermot himself was walking slowly 
 toward them in the grayness of a shady path. And Sybil had 
 to stand still, and not to spring toward him. She had to wait 
 his coming, and greet her husband as an acquaintance or a 
 stranger ; Avhilst her heart beat with a joy that almost stifled her. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the composure of his manner as he 
 bade the two ladies a good-evening. He looked as well, and as 
 cool too, as ever. And he showed not the least emotion on 
 seeing Sybil. 
 
 " Oh ! how can he do it ? " she thought ; " how can he do 
 it ? Oh ! if Mrs. Mush would but go ! " 
 
 But Mrs. Mush did not go; she stayed on purpose with 
 Sybil, and all three walked together toward the house. "When 
 they crossed the cloister, Mr. Dermot went up to his room, and 
 Sybil and Mrs. Mush joined the guests in the drawing-room. 
 Mrs. Mush seemed very much inclined to keep close to Sybil 
 there too ; but the young girl knew her weak point. She 
 started an argument with the gentleman near whom she was 
 sitting, a rather drowsy old man, who lingered over an idea. 
 Mrs. Mush fell into the trap, and began talking away. Sybil, 
 in the mean while, slipped out quietly, and ran breathlessly up 
 to her room. 
 
 " I know I looked pale and ill," she thought ; and this gray 
 barege makes me look worse. He likes me in white, and if I 
 change my dress, who save he will see it ? " 
 
 Sybil never dressed slowly. In ten minutes the change was 
 effected — the gray barege was put by for the white muslin. 
 She put a rose in her dark hair, she fastened another in her 
 flowing sash, and the gladness of his return shone in her eyes, 
 and gave her something beyond the tirewoman's art. " He will 
 not think I look pale and ill now," thought Sybil, as she turned 
 away from her mirror and blushed with secret joy at the fair 
 image it shoAved her ; " but perhaps he will see that I have 
 changed my dress, and guess why. What if he does ? Am I 
 not his wife ? — is he not my husband ? Have I not a right to 
 dress for him ? " 
 
 She would not listen to Prudence, who whispered a re- 
 monstrance about the gray barege. She slipped out of the 
 room into the half-dark landing, and had scarcely gone 
 a few steps when she found herself face to face with Mr. Der- 
 mot.
 
 392 Sybil's second love. 
 
 He gave a quick look round, then took lier in his anus 
 and kissed her gladly and fondly. 
 
 " Well ? " she whispered, breathlessly. 
 
 " Well," he replied, " I am like a man who holds a bird 
 in his hand. If he opens his fingers so, it goes, and his 
 trouble is vaiu. Sybil, I come back to defeat her — be patient 
 two days — I ask for no more." 
 
 Sybil did not question, though she longed to know. 
 " It may be in an hour, and it may be in two days," he 
 resumed; "she cannot escape me — be patient, Sybil." 
 
 " She is always out," said Sybil ; " she is going out to- 
 morrow, and after to-morrow there will be a concert rehearsal 
 here." 
 
 " Sybil, no opportunity must tempt us — she -must know or 
 suspect nothing." 
 
 " Very well," replied Sybil. 
 
 " I may go away again, and you must not fret," he said. 
 
 " Very well," she replied again ; but she spoke rather 
 faintly. 
 
 "And now you must leave me and go down." 
 
 " Xow ? And will you go away without my seeing you ? " 
 
 She looked at him with a sort of terror. 
 
 " You mean to-night ? Why, I am going down, too. I am 
 curious to see how far the kind lady has proceeded in my ab- 
 sence." 
 
 He spoke with his defiant smile — a smile that always became 
 him, because it was ever tempered with sweetness. Sybil lin- 
 gered to look at him. 
 
 " He will never admire me as I admire him," she thought, 
 " never." 
 
 Until then Mr. Dermot had not noticed the change in her 
 dress, but as she stood thus at the head of the staircase, her 
 band on the banisters, her head half turned to look at him, he 
 suddenly perceived the rose in her hair, the flowing sash, and 
 the white muslin. He gave her a quick, keen look, which made 
 her turn crimson. 
 
 " My poor darling," he sighed, " what have von been 
 doing ? " 
 
 Sybil felt ready to cry with mortification and shame. 
 
 " Has any one seen you so ? " he asked. 
 
 " No," faintly -replied Sybil. 
 
 " Then, pray, go and resume the gray dress," he entreated, 
 seeming much relieved, "pray do, Sybil."
 
 sybil's second love. 303 
 
 Sybil went. All her little joy and triumph were gone in a 
 moment. If she had looked back, and seen him standing there, 
 his look following her light, young figure going down the dark 
 landing, Sybil might not have felt so sad, for as be looked, Mr 
 Dermot thought : 
 
 " Ah ! if it were not for this cross, all this would be very 
 sweet — too sweet." 
 
 For sweet are youth and beauty, and sweet is love with all 
 its little fond follies. And Sybil did not know till years later 
 how her white dress and her rose had moved her husband's very 
 heart. Sadly and heavily she put by her little finery, and re- 
 sumed the gray barege. She saw no sign of Mr. Dermot this 
 time when she went down. He was in the drawing-room when 
 she entered it, talking to Mrs. Ronald, who congratulated him 
 on his return. 
 
 " You are back in time, Mr. Dermot," she said ; " we are 
 going to have a concert in the new casino before it is opened 
 to the public — shall we have the pleasure of hearing you ? " 
 
 Before Mr. Dermot could reply, Mrs. Kennedy said : 
 
 " Mr. Dermot has a very fine voice, indeed." 
 
 " Then we must hear him," rejoined Mrs. Ronald, with the 
 graciousness of an empress. 
 
 Mr. Dermot received these tokens of favor with quiet re- 
 serve. But Sybil looked at him with happy, admiring eyes. 
 Indeed, Mrs. Mush considered her looks so expressive, that she 
 came and wdiispered a warning. 
 
 " My dear, do be careful," she entreated. 
 
 Sybil turned upon her with a flashing look. 
 
 "Careful, Mrs. Mush \ " she said—" careful of what ? " 
 
 " My dear, see how people are looking at you." 
 
 " They are welcome ; but, Mrs. Mush, docs it not seem to 
 you that Mrs. Ronald is very civil to him this evening?" 
 
 " Mv dear, Mr. Dermot is universally admired, and no won- 
 der ! " 
 
 Sybil's cheeks glowed. She looked at Mrs. Mush with a 
 happy gratitude nothing could check. 
 
 " My dear," urged the lady, " do see how cold he is to you." 
 
 Sybil smiled in pretty scorn, but, for all that, she felt it. 
 Yes, there was marked coldness in Mr. Dermot's mannerto her. 
 His eyes shunned hers, or fell upon her as if they saw her not. 
 In vain she knew why — she could not bear it. "When the party 
 broke up, she hoped that, whilst Mrs. Kennedy was engaged
 
 39-i sybil's second love. 
 
 with her guests, he would at least say a few words to her — 
 words which any one might hear, but which would gladden her 
 heart. She rose, and went up to a table not far from where he 
 stood, but he did not seem to see her. She looked at hira, and 
 could not catch his eye. She could read his face, however, and 
 she was struck with its meaning. The animation, which it had 
 displayed a wdiile back was all gone, and in its stead Sybil read 
 a rigid sternness, that almost frightened hei\ She softly went 
 up to him, and laying her hand on his sleeve, looked up ques- 
 tioning. He looked down at her silently. 
 
 " "What are you thinking of? " she whispered. 
 
 " That, if she likes it, Sybil, all these people will spit at me 
 to-morrow." 
 
 He spoke low, though there was no one near them. Sybil 
 drew r back with a reproachful look, which he did not heed. 
 Lest she should be tempted to address him again, he walked 
 away, and Sybil remained standing there in mute grief. What 
 was her childish fondness to this bitter, gnawing care ? — ah ! 
 nothing — truly nothing ! 
 
 " I must be reasonable — I must be calm," thought Sybil, as 
 she went up to her room. " I must remember what he has been, 
 not what he is now, Avith that thought upon him. I must be 
 reasonable." 
 
 Alas ! what has reason to do with such things ? Svbil sob- 
 bed herself to sleep that night, and dreamed that Mr. Dermot 
 came and stood by the bed on which she lay sleeping, and look- 
 ing down at her, said, 
 
 " I wish you were dead, Sybil, and that I were dead with 
 you." 
 
 And who kn6ws if, as he sat in his room unable to sleep, 
 thinking of his young wife, and the doubtful future, who knows 
 if some such thought was not upon Edward Dermot? 
 
 But light is the heart of youth, and when Sybil awoke the 
 next morning, hope was strong within her, and prudence, alas ! 
 was very far away. " You will come again to Saint Vincent? " 
 she gayly whispered, as she bade Mrs. Mush good-by in the morn- 
 ing, and the joy with which her husband's return had filled her 
 shone in her whole aspect throughout that day. In vain she 
 saw that Mrs. Kennedy watched her incessantly, in vain she per- 
 ceived that Mr. Dermot shunned her with the most obstinate 
 care. Sybil could not help being and seeming glad. More- 
 over, Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy were going out that night, and if
 
 sybil's second love. 395 
 
 she staved at home, he surely would never resist the temptation 
 of seeking her society ! So when it was time to dress and go, 
 Sybil was unwell, and stayed within. And this was no fiction. 
 Her joy had made her feverish and restless, and no one who saw 
 her flushed cheeks, and unnaturally bright eyes, could doubt it. 
 
 " If you are not well, go to bed," dryly said her father. 
 Mrs. Kennedy said nothing, but smiled coldly. 
 
 Mr. Derinot was not present, but surely he must know she 
 was staying within ! She breathed freely when Mr. and Mrs. 
 Kennedy went up to dress, and too impatient to wait for their 
 departure, she went out into the grounds, reckless of the chill 
 white mists which stole from the sea. The scent of a cigar led 
 her down a dark and narrow path. 
 
 " Mr. Dermot," she said, softly. 
 
 She got no answer, but Sybil was sure she heard a reccdiipj; 
 step. He could not be shunning her on purpose ? No, that was im- 
 possible ! But the step was going toward the house, so she went 
 back to her room, and left the door ajar to listen. For some time 
 all was quiet ; then Mrs. Kennedy's silk dress rustled down the 
 staircase, and Mr. Kennedy's voice was heard below, and in a 
 few minutes more carriage-wheels rolled away from the gates of 
 Saint Vincent, and all was still. "With a beating heart, Sybil 
 softly stole down-stairs. She timidly entered the drawing-room. 
 It was dark, and seemingly vacant. " Mr. Dermot," she softly 
 called, but she got no answer. Twice she repeated the summons 
 in vain. Sybil would not be disheartened. She went over all 
 the rooms, she even ventured into the dark cloister, and the 
 chill garden. There she got the key of the enigma. A light 
 burned in Mr. Dermot's room, and she could see his shadow 
 moving across the curtains. She watched him for a time, 
 hoping the light would vanish, and that he would come down ; 
 but after taking a few turns around the room, Mr. Dermot sat, 
 down and began to write, as Sybil could see from the motion of 
 his hand. 
 
 " He heard me in the garden, but he does not want to see 
 me," she thought, with a swelling heart. Noiseless as a shadow 
 she crept back to her room, and there gave way to her grief. 
 She did not think that perhaps Mr. Dermot feared his own im- 
 prudence even more than he dreaded hers ; she thought : ' 
 have wearied him with my fondness, and now he is tired "i 
 me ! " Alas ! Mr. Dermot- had had neither time nor opportu- 
 nity to grow tired. His had been do blessed honeymoon, but
 
 396 sybil's second love. 
 
 a season of sorrow arid tribulation. This atoning thought also 
 came to Sybil's mind ; but, ingenious in self-torment, she an- 
 swered it : " Yes, that is it ! His cares have been too much 
 for his love. His heart has grown wearied and languid, and 
 there is no room for me ! Oh ! I cannot bear it !— -I cannot 
 bear it ! " 
 
 Time passed. The hours went by. Twelve struck. If she 
 had had a vague hope of seeing him again, it vanished. She 
 flung herself on her knees and asked for strength to bear this 
 great anguish, this doubt of his affection, which, lulled awhile, 
 had again sprung up, bitter and tormenting ; but strength came 
 not, and she only wept and sobbed as if her heart would break. 
 
 " Sybil," said his reproachful voice. 
 
 She looked round with a 'start, and saw Mr.'Dermot stand- 
 ing at the door, and looking in at her gravely. 
 
 Sybil rose, ' ashamed and mute. Alas ! what construction 
 would he put on this grief? Could she be always telling him 
 that he did not care for her ? Is not the reproach of cofdness 
 mere begging for love ? But she needed to say nothing. He 
 knew all, and said so. 
 
 " I know what you feel and think," he said sadly ; " but do 
 not doubt me, Sybil. Eemember that, much as I love you, 
 that love cannot be every thing to me just now. Do not doubt 
 
 me " 
 
 Sybil could not answer him for mortification. Was it her 
 part to be ever a suppliant for love ? If he could not give it in 
 that full measure which she craved, ought she not, even though 
 a wife, to bear her fate with a woman's pride ? 
 
 " I do not want your love for me to be every thing to you," 
 she said a little indignantly ; " I only want you to'remember 
 that when you married me you took me to share your lot and 
 your counsel, and I complain that you do neither. You go, 
 and I do not know whither. We part, and I do not know 
 when we are to meet again. I do not complain that you do 
 not love me, Mr. Dermot, but that you do not trust me." 
 
 Alas ! Sybil was truthful, but this was not quite the truth. 
 Sybil did complain in her heart that her husband did not love 
 her enough ; but she could not bear to say so, and she built up 
 her wrongs on his want of confidence. Mr. Dermot believed 
 her, and was pained. He came forward, and, leaving the door 
 ajar to hear any coming step, he said' tenderly, 
 
 " Was that why I heard you sobbing through my open win 
 dow '] My darling, yon shall know every thing later."
 
 Sybil's second love. 397 
 
 " Ay, there it is," replied Sybil, waxing wroth ; " I am 
 such a baby that you cannot trust me ? " 
 
 " No, no, that is not it," he said soothingly ; " but you are 
 open as day ; and how she has been watching you since I came 
 back ! Sybil, till I can defy her to-morrow, a word, a breath, 
 may undo me." 
 
 " Then tell me nothing, Mr. Dermot." 
 
 She spoke bitterly, yet Mr. Dermot was tempted to take her 
 at her word, but he remembered the weeping he had overheard, 
 and of which her cheeks still kept traces, and he said, 
 
 " And if I do not tell you, how will you feel, Sybil ? " 
 
 lie stood by her side, and looked down in her face. She 
 looked up at him and smiled. 
 
 "Tell me — trust me," she half whispered. 
 
 He could not resist her. The weakness, the fondness of his 
 love were strong upon him then. He forgot the spot, and the 
 hour, and Hatred, ever on the watch ; he only remembered that 
 his young wife looked up at him with those soft, beseeching 
 eyes, and with that entreating smile. 
 
 " You little siren," he said fondly, " I must be on my 
 guard against you another time. And yet it will be of no use. 
 You will shed a few tears, or coax me, and of course I shall 
 yield — as I do now." 
 
 " But you are not telling me, sir." 
 
 " Well, that proof of her treachery which I went to seek I 
 shall have within a few hours. I was not mistaken — her 
 brother wrote that letter, and we can tax her with it. I do be- 
 lieve, Sybil, that when the serpent has lost its fangs it -will be 
 harmless. Whether she submits or not, she leaves this house. 
 To-morrow, Sybil, we shall be alone in Saint Vincent." 
 
 Sybil felt breathless. To-morrow ! She had thought of 
 that future as of a thing remote and almost doubtful, and now 
 it was to be to-morrow ! The new life was to begin so soon ! 
 He watched her troubled face, and asked what ailed her. 
 
 " I am afraid. I fear, I do, that you have made a poor 
 bargain in me. I am full of faults. I am wayward and unjust. 
 Indeed, I have a hundred imperfections." 
 
 "I always heard that voyages of discovery were pleasant, 
 things," he replied smiling. "1 have no doubt that you will 
 give me a variety of experiences, and, as we shall live much 
 alone, it is well that we should not have too much monotony." 
 
 She knew what he meant by " living much alone."
 
 398 stbil's second love. 
 
 "Ah ! what a life for you, Mr. Dertnot," she said, looking 
 up at him with sad, wistful eyes, " what a fate for you, who wen 
 meant to move amongst and to rule your fellow-men — to have 
 nothing left save a poor little girl such as I am ! " 
 
 " Sybil, it is something to be lord of a true heart. It is 
 something to have love. I know that many weary of that em- 
 pire and that possession, but I do not feel as if I should ever 
 weary of you. It seems impossible," he added, lookiag down 
 at her with infinite tenderness. " I know that youth and 
 beauty will fade — and m ore's the pity when both are so 
 charming — but vet I could not stow tired of vou, Sybil. If 
 you were no longer pleasant to look at, you would still be de- 
 lightful to listen to." 
 
 " xVh ! but suppose I get dumb ? " 
 
 " There is not much fear of that, my dear." 
 
 Sybil laughed, and she had a laugh both musical and low, 
 which justified Mr. Dermot's praises. It was, indeed, her happy 
 fate to charm all his senses. There was something in her 
 whole being which harmonized with his tastes and feelings. 
 Long before he loved her, he had admired, and half envied the 
 mau who would win so bright a prize. And now he liked her 
 fair young face and her dark eyes, the pretty turn of her neck, 
 and her light step aud graceful carriage. The very sweep of 
 her skirts had something in it that was a pleasure to his eye, as 
 the sound of her voice was sweet in his ear. 
 
 " Sybil," he said, from the fulness of his heart, " I k\jow you 
 think I do not care enough about you — but believe me, hard as 
 my fate is, I shall be very happy, deeply happy to-morrow. I 
 mean to go to Lethe and drink a full cup, and forget all save 
 that, if my fate is hard, I have snatched one prize, at least, from 
 her reluctant grasp." 
 
 He gently laid his hand on her shoulder, and looked down 
 at her. He loved her much, very much, and he forgot to leave 
 her. 
 
 The rustling of a silk dress roused them both. Mr. Dermot 
 knew what it was, and without moving his hand from Sybil's 
 shoulder, slowly and calmly turned round. 
 
 " She stood before them, haughty and smiling in her iron- 
 ical triumph. She had just come home from Mrs. Ronald's 
 party, and was splendidly dressed. Her rich white silk swept 
 the floor, and half filled Sybil's room. She was covered with 
 jewels, and a diamond star sparkled with every motion of her 
 fair head.
 
 sybil's second love. 399 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she said, graciously, " I am very rude, 
 but hearing a man's voice in Miss Kennedy's room, I was so 
 surprised that I came in without knocking." 
 
 " Mrs. Dermot's room," he quietly corrected. She looked 
 at them both, and smiled again, but very bitterly. So they 
 had baffled her after all — they were married. 
 
 " Mrs. Dermot," she repeated with ironical emphasis, " you 
 amaze me, I did not know that this lady did me the honor of 
 being my guest." 
 
 " The honor is hers, not yours," he replied, in the same 
 quiet tone ; " for she is the hostess, and you are the guest, Mrs. 
 Kennedy." 
 
 "This house is yours, Mr. Dermot ?" 
 
 He bowed. She turned to the door, and her voice rang 
 loud and clear on the landing. 
 
 "Mr. Kennedy ! " she called ; " Mr. Kennedy ! " 
 
 He was slowly coming up the staircase, and he now stood 
 at its head confronting her. She faced him in all her imperious 
 beauty. 
 
 " This house is Mr. Dermot's ? " she said. 
 
 " It is." 
 
 And his voice and look were equally sullen. 
 
 " And how dare you bring me to Mr. Dermot's house ? " she 
 asked, her eyes flashing with fury. 
 
 " And how dare you, madame, question my right to bring 
 you anywhere I choose ?" he replied, doggedly. 
 
 She looked at him in scornful amazement, then turned away. 
 
 " Of course, you know he is your daughter's husband," she 
 said, as she passed by him. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy looked at her moodily, without replying. She 
 was jealous — he knew she was jealous. 
 
 " After that," she continued, with a short, disdainful laugh, 
 " I must wonder at nothing." 
 
 She went on, and entered her room. 
 
 " What wretched folly brought you here ? " angrily asked 
 Mr. Kennedy, addressing Mr. Dermot ; " come down, I want 
 
 you." 
 
 lie went, but Mr. Dermot lingered behind. 
 
 " Oh, I have ruined all! " pitifully exclaimed Sybil. '' T" 
 angry with me — very angry, Mr. Dermot, it will do me goo<l." 
 
 Angry? There was no anger in his downward gaze. She 
 had ruined all, as she said, or rather the tenderness of his love
 
 400 sybil's second love. 
 
 had conquered his prudence, and destroyed all his plans, but he 
 could feel no anger. 
 
 " So have perished conspiracies," he said, looking down at 
 her face flushed with weeping ; " a few tears, a fond prayer, 
 have undone the deepest scheming of the wise. "Whose is the 
 weakness and the folly, man's or woman's ? " 
 
 " Ah, do not say that I have undone you ! " she exclaimed, 
 piteously, " do not." 
 
 " What am I to say, then ? Neither your father nor I can 
 tax her with her guilt, till its proof lies within our grasp. It 
 would not be safe to do so. She is a reckless woman, and to 
 drive her desperate might ruin all. Her brother will write to- 
 morrow to a man in Saint Vincent, and that letter I can get by 
 not seeming to care for it. But let her know or suspect so 
 much, and I cannot stretch a finger to secure it. Till I have it 
 J am at her mercy. She does not know all, but she knows too 
 much. She can spread it over all Saint Vincent that I have 
 been suspected of a foul crime — and can I deny it, Sybil ? 
 There lies my weakness and her strength. And there is every 
 thing to exasperate her. She knows you are my wife, and that 
 this house is ours. She knows, I dare say, that her husband is 
 poor — well, let her do her worst. Since I w r as so foolish as to 
 enter your room, and put us both in Mrs. Kennedy's power, I 
 must pay the penalty." 
 
 "But you are not angry with me ?" she said again. 
 
 " Angry, poor child, angry with you who are the victim of 
 it all? No, Sybil, no — ten times no. Only be prepared for 
 sorrow and humiliation, for both are in store for us. That is 
 your father calling me — $jood-uia;ht." 
 
 1 lis lips touched her forehead, and he was gone. Sybil flung 
 herself on her knees, and wept as if her heart would break. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 There was wrath in Mrs. Kennedy's heart, and jealousy in 
 It husband's, and Sybil grieved in her room, while Mr. Der- 
 not smoked in the cloister ; but for all that, the concert rehear- 
 sal was to take place, and there was no talk of putting off so 
 vital an item of Mrs. Kennedy's social duties. She went off to
 
 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. . 401 
 
 Saint Vincent herself early in the morning. She told her maid 
 the pastrj'-cook required her last instructions, and that she could 
 trust so important a matter to no one else ; but excellent as 
 her motives were, Mr. Kennedy would probably have disap- 
 proved of this early walk had he known of it in time. lie 
 was out himself, however, and only learned it when his wife 
 came back, and they met at the gate. 
 
 " May I ask what took you out ? " he inquired, sharply. 
 
 "I wcut to the pastry-cook's, dear," she replied, with a 
 smile. 
 
 The last night's storm seemed to have passed from her mind. 
 She looked as happy and as good-humored as ever. But though 
 her husband smiled too, he did not trust her. They entered 
 the house together, and parted in the hall, Mr. Kennedy to en- 
 ter his sitting-room, his wife to go up-stairs and consult with 
 Ralph. 
 
 "Now what ought I to wear?" she said, seeming much per- 
 plexed ; "lam tired of blue — besides, this is only a rehearsal, 
 and I am at home, and must not be fine, must I, Ralph ? " 
 
 When Mrs. Kennedy said she was tired of blue, it was sure 
 proof that she wanted to wear white. So Ralph promptly sug- 
 gested a delicate white silk, of almost gauzy texture, as the very 
 thing for her mistress. 
 
 " Yes, but you must take off the trimming, Ralph. It must 
 be quite plain." 
 
 To take off the trimming, and, at the same time, not injure 
 the dress, was a work of time and patience, which required the 
 joint exertions of Ralph and her mistress. It was nearly com- 
 pleted, however, when a sound of voices in the hall below at- 
 tracted Mrs. Kennedy's quick ear. She rose, went out on the 
 landing, and listened. She heard a heavy step, and the shrill 
 voice of Denise expostulating. 
 
 " I tell you, Monsieur must sign the book," said a man's 
 rough tones. 
 
 " And I tell you to come again. Monsieur is busy." 
 
 The man declared, with an oath, he would do no such thing. 
 
 M And what is in the box ? " urged Denise. 
 
 " Can't you look at the paper ? Newspapers, I believe ; yes, 
 newspapers, that is it. Odd to send newspapers all that way, 
 eh?" 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy heard no more, for her husband's voice now 
 mingled with that of the other speakers. She looked over the
 
 402 Sybil's second love. 
 
 banisters, and saw him in the hall directing the railway porter 
 to carry the box into his sitting-room. It was useless to linger 
 now, yet she went back to her room very slowly, pausing to 
 think with every step she took. What could Mr. Kennedy want 
 with newspapers ? 
 
 Mr. Kennedy, after paying and dismissing the railway por- 
 ter, entered his study, and opened the box with the key he had 
 received along with it. It was fall of newspapers. Yes, there 
 they were, these soiled, half-torn numbers of the Moonagh Her- 
 ald, all bearing the same date, all containing on the third col- 
 umn of the fourth page a paragraph entitled " Latest Particulars," 
 and which Mr. Kennedy knew but too well. How he hated these 
 wretched papers, stained with public-house beer, thumbed with 
 peasant fingers, and which had cost him dearer than his wife's 
 diamonds ! He wondered if he could trust the ao;ent who had 
 hunted them out of their obscurity for him ; he wondered if, pur- 
 posely mingled as they were with other worthless papers, the 
 French custom-house officers had detected and read them ; and, 
 above all, he wondered what secret foe it was who was thus 
 compelling him to seek out the black spot of his life. 
 
 "Mr. Kennedy," sweetly said his wife, looking in, "you are 
 wanted." 
 
 He thrust the papers back into the box, locked it hastily, 
 and looked at her. The calmness of innocence was on her face. 
 
 " Who wants me ? " he asked. 
 
 " One of the clerks." 
 
 "AVhereishe?" 
 
 "He is gone back to the counting-house — I undertook to 
 be messenger." 
 
 " I shall go presently." 
 
 He thought she would leave him, but she sat doAvn and be- 
 wail talking of the rehearsal. He rose, still she did not move. 
 
 " You are not dressing?" he said. 
 
 " Oh! there's plenty of time — I shall take a turn in the gar- 
 den with you." 
 
 She left llie room and waited for him outside; but, softly 
 though he did it, she heard him locking the door and taking 
 out the key. 
 
 " The window is open," thought Mrs. Kennedy. 
 
 They went out into the garden together. The day was fine, 
 and Mrs. Kennedy was merry. She walked with her husband 
 till they were in sight of the counting-house, and she talked and 
 laughed all the way.
 
 sybil's second love. 403 
 
 Mr. Kennedy was silent. 
 
 " What ails you ? " she said coaxingly ; " you are quite grim 
 — I cannot let you be grim, darling." 
 
 Her handsome face was close to his. lie kissed it and 
 seemed very fond, but there is little fondness where there is 
 fear, and Mr. Kennedy feared his wife just then. 
 
 " I think you had better go in now," he said. 
 
 " I suppose I must. Come back a little way with me." 
 
 " I cannot, my love — we have no time to spare. The people 
 will be coming." 
 
 " That tiresome concert ! " she said. " Don't be long." 
 
 " No longer than I can help, my love." 
 
 She walked away slowly, but no sooner was she out of sight 
 than she ran. Instead of crossing the garden she turned into 
 the cloister. It was sunlit and quiet. Mrs. Kennedy stole like 
 a shadow along the arched gallery till she reached the window 
 of her husband's sitting-room. It was ajar, and, pushing it wide 
 open, she was going to step up on the ledge when she saw Mr. 
 Dermot leaning against the wall, and smoking quietly. He was 
 not looking at her, but he must have seen her. "What was he 
 doing there ? "Watching, no doubt, whilst her husband was 
 awav. She stood still a minute, wondering if he would go ; but 
 Mr. Dermot did not stir, and Mrs. Kennedy was compelled to 
 turn back. 
 
 " Let hira watch," she thought defiantly ; " he will find that 
 I have been beforehand with him." 
 
 She thought, too, that Mr. Dermot could not stay there for 
 ever, and that it would be hard' if she could not find some other 
 opportunity before the morning was out. But vigilant though 
 she was, that opportunity did not come. Twice she and Mr. 
 Kennedy met near his sitting-room door, and twice each baffled 
 the other ; for Mrs. Kennedy wanted to ascertain the contents 
 of the box, and Mr. Kennedy to destroy them. He longed for 
 fire to consume these treacherous tokens of the past, and yet he 
 did not dare to go and lock himself in and burn them at once ou 
 the hearth. This was summer time, the flames and the smoke 
 would betray him, not merely to his wife, but to Mr. Dermot, 
 to whom the presence in Saint Vincent of these papers was un- 
 known. Besides, a little while more, aud the guests would be 
 coming. He could do it when they were gone — better still, 
 when the whole house was fast asleep that night. It was one 
 then; all the heat of noon was abroad, and never did lover long
 
 40-i sybil's second love. 
 
 for the darkness which was to bring him to the try sting-place, 
 as Mr. Kennedy longed for the silent loneliness of that night. In 
 the mean while he was alive to every sound and token about the 
 house ; above all, he watched his wife. 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy was very busy. She seemed resolved, indeed, 
 that this, if it was to be her last appearance as the mistress of 
 Saint Vincent, should be a triumph. The so-called rehearsal 
 was, in reality, a brilliant though select party. Mrs. Kennedy 
 showed the greatest anxiety about it, and no doubt because Mr. 
 Dermot had a fine voice, she twice asked Denise if he had not 
 come back, for he had been out since twelve. 
 
 " What do you want him for, Blanche ? " asked her husband, 
 laving his hand on her shoulder. 
 
 She looked round full in his face, and smiled rather bitterly. 
 '. " Surely the master of the house ought to be present," she 
 said. 
 
 " Yes, but what do you want him so particularly for, Mrs. 
 
 Kennedy ? " 
 
 " And why do you not want him ? " she retorted ; " he is 
 your son-in-law, Mr. Kennedy ! " 
 
 "And your brother, Blanche — where is your brother ? " 
 
 She started, her lips parted, her color faded beneath his keen 
 look. She had never spoken of that brother to her husband — 
 how did he know of his existence? Mr. Dermot must have 
 told him, and if so, how far had his revelations extended? Her 
 color slowly returned, her eyes sparkled. 
 
 " I am much obliged to you for the inquiry," she said, with 
 a smile. " I trust my brother will make his appearance some 
 day." 
 
 " I trust he will have no cause not to do so," significantly 
 replied her husband. 
 
 He left her and walked up-stairs, and his wife heard him 
 knock at his daughter's door. 
 
 She did not take time to think, discovery hemmed her m, 
 and she resolved to forestall it by securing at least her revenge. 
 This time she would stop at nothing. She tried the door of her 
 husband's sitting-room, it was still fast, but she remembered the 
 window through which she could have entered it so easily a few 
 hours ago. She went round to the cloister. This time Mr. 
 Dermot was not smoking there. The cloister was vacant, and~ 
 tho window was half open. In a second she stood on the ledge, 
 and jumped into the room. In another moment she was on her
 
 SYBILS SECOND LOVE. 405 
 
 knees on the floor, ready and resolved to break the box open. 
 But there was no need to do so. In his hurry and alarm, Mr. 
 Kennedy had locked the box -without fastening the hasp, and 
 she had but to raise the lid in order to be mistress of its contents. 
 She laughed aloud on seeing the heap of papers it contained. 
 What blindness, what infatuation, had brought these Moonagh 
 Heralds, which she had never been able to secure, so scarce had 
 they become, within her reach ? " They must be mad ! " she 
 thought, " they must be mad ! " She took two, and rose to 
 go ; but she could not bear to leave with so poor a prey. She 
 came back and took three more, and as she reached the window 
 she returned to take another. Fear of immediate, not ultimate 
 detection, alone prevented her from taking the whole. Her 
 hatred was strong, and she felt as if nothing could sate her 
 revenge. 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy went up to her room ; Ralph's task was 
 finished, and her mistress could lock her door and examine her 
 booty. The Moonagh Heralds all bore the same date. She 
 looked at one. In a moment she found what she wanted — the 
 coroner's inquest on Mr. Smith. 
 
 This event, though so little known abroad, had produced a 
 sensation in Moonagh. It filled up three columns of this ob- 
 scure paper, and had evidently taken a strong hold of the pub- 
 lic mind. And how terribly suspicious it looked ! True, it 
 ended in an open verdict, but that open verdict was the death 
 of Mr. Dermot's fame ! Mrs. Kennedy's eyes sparkled. He 
 had cheated and deceived her. He had not given her his confi- 
 dence ; he had not lamented her treason," but had' at once 
 sought and found consolation in another love. Above all, he 
 had singled out the girl whom she would have denied him for- 
 ever ; he had married Sybil, and he was the master of Saint 
 Vincent ! For all these sins he should now suffer. Anony- 
 mous letters might be despised, but who would dare to impugn 
 the cruelly accurate testimony of this Moonagh Herald, which 
 described Mr. Dermot's person, and gave the very color of his 
 hair, as he appeared at the inquest "She felt no" pity for him, 
 not an atom. She took the six newspapers, made six separate 
 packets of them, and, lest her husband should detect her theft, 
 she resolved to dispose of them that same day. She unlocked 
 her door, rang for her maid, and began dressing; and even 
 Ralph noticed in what high spirits his mistress was^ 
 
 Whilst she triumphed, there was sorrow in Sybil's heart
 
 406 sybil's second love. 
 
 She resolved not to appear at the rehearsal. She was weary 
 of all this, and almost longed for some catastrophe to end it 
 In that mood her father found her, when, leaving his wife, he 
 went up to the room and bade her dress and come down. 
 
 " I cannot," she replied, apathetically. 
 
 He pressed her, still she resisted. At length he said, 
 
 " You must. Dermot said you should." 
 
 Sybil only half believed it, but that half belief ruled her, 
 and she hesitatingly said she would sec. As he left her, Mr. 
 Kennedy passed by his wife's door, and heard her talking and 
 laughing within. 
 
 ""Why is she so merry?" he thought, with an anxious 
 frown ; for it had come to this between him and Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy, that for some time past he had never seen her glad with- 
 out "feeling a secret dread. At once his thoughts flew back to 
 the papers below. It seemed impossible that she should have 
 touched them, yet he could not tell. He went down, tried the 
 door of his room, and found it fast. " Shall I burn them now, 
 or wait till night ? " he thought, hesitatingly. He had not time 
 to resolve tbequestion. A carriage drew up at the gates, and 
 from where he stood he saw Mrs. Ronald alighting, whilst Miss 
 Spencer remained in the carriage. What did she come so 
 early for, and why did the companion remain behind ? It could 
 bode no good, and might certainly bode evil. But none better 
 than Mr. "Kennedy knew how to rule his countenance ; and it 
 was with the most genial, cheerful smile that he went to meet 
 Mrs. Ronald. She was cold and stately, but Mr. Kennedy saw 
 nothing of it. 
 
 " May I request five minutes' private conversation with you, 
 Mr. Kennedy ? " she said gravely. 
 
 " Certainly, my dear madame — pray come up to the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 " I want to be alone with you, Mr. Kennedy — alone, be- 
 fore the rest of the company comes." 
 
 " Mr. Kennedv took out the kev of his sitting-room, and 
 snowed Mrs. Ronald in. 
 
 "Mr. Kennedv," said that lady, when she was seated. 
 "allow me to ask who Mr. Dermot is ? 
 
 " A gentleman of good family, Mrs. Ronald, and my friend," 
 was the istiil* reply. 
 
 Mrs. Ronald looked a little flurried, and said in a less au- 
 thoritative tone.
 
 Sybil's second love. 407 
 
 " Then I suppose this cannot apply to him." 
 
 " She handed Mr. Kennedy an open letter, in the same 
 
 handwriting as that which had been sent to Miss Glvn, and 
 
 which ran thus : 
 
 " Is Madame de Lonville aware of the real character of the 
 gentleman who resides at Saint Vincent ? Is she aware that he 
 is suspected of the foulest crime ? Is she aware that a year 
 ago he was publicly accused of murder in Ireland? Is she 
 aware that the unfortunate Mr. Smith was burned to death, and 
 that Mr. Dermot was accused of having set fire to the house? 
 But no, Madame de Lonville cannot know it. Let her therefore 
 take warning of A Friend." 
 
 Drops of anguish and fear gathered on Mr. Kennedy's fore- 
 head, but he was silent. 
 
 " This letter," resumed Mrs. Ronald, " was brought to me 
 an hour ago by Madame de Lonville. She came, apparently, 
 to have it translated, but I may as well tell you that the poor 
 woman's failing is talking and news-spreading, and that she had 
 been all over Saint Vincent with it before she came to me. It 
 was thrown in through her open parlor window this morning, by 
 whom no one knows." 
 
 But Mr. Kennedy knew; he knew very well who had done 
 this. Now, however, was not the time for resentment, but for 
 vigilance, and a bold front. lie looked at Mrs. Ronald, and 
 smiled. 
 
 " Do you attach any importance to this wretched slander?" 
 he said. 
 
 His tone was cold and careless. That carelessness undid 
 him. Mrs. Ronald was offended. 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy," she said, rising, " I despise anonymous let- 
 ters, but I regard opinion, and I warn you that, if you continue 
 to make Mr. Dermot your guest, you will find yourself alone in 
 Saint Vincent." 
 
 " Mr. Dermot and I will part in a day or two," ambiguously 
 replied Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 "I hope so, for your sake, Mr. Kennedy," pointedly said 
 Mis. Roland — "and I hope so, too, for that of Mrs. Kennedy. 
 Indeed, Mr. Kennedy, I think you are bound to be generous to 
 your young wife, as well as to your friend. It would be cruel t" 
 shut her out from the world. She is as good as she is beautiful 
 I know few young persons of her years for whom I have so 
 great a regard as for Mrs. Kennedy."
 
 408 sybil's second love. 
 
 Mrs. Roland was quite affected as she came to the close of 
 this speech, which Mr. Kennedy heard with his unchanging- 
 smile. 
 
 " Mrs. Kennedy is much indehted to you for your good 
 opinion," he said, courteously, " and will not, I trust, meet so 
 hard a fate as that you predict." 
 
 " Not if the connection between you and Mr. Dermot 
 ceases," said Mrs. Ronald. "I say it again, I despise anony- 
 mous letters, hut unless Mr. Dermot disproves this, you must 
 share in the obloquy which will fall upon him." 
 
 " He will disprove it," deliberately said Mr. Kennedy ; " it 
 is a lie from beginning to end — Mr. Smith is alive and well." 
 
 Mrs. Roland was staggered, but not quite convinced. 
 
 " Well, let him disprove it," she said; "but "until then, Mr. 
 Kennedy, let him not enter your house, or be seen with your 
 daughter. Take my advice — it is that of a friend." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy had a conscience, not an inconvenient one, 
 still his look fell as Mrs. Ronald spoke. Besides, how could he 
 forbid Saint Vincent to its master, or Sybil's presence to her 
 husband ? Yet he wondered if he could not avoid the peril 
 which threatened him to-day, and put back, for a while at least, 
 the inevitable blow. Still smiling, he saw Mrs. Ronald up to 
 the drawing-room. Scarcely had they entered it together, when 
 Mrs. Kennedy appeared, lovely and gracious; then the other 
 guests came, and last of all, Sybil, pale and silent, entered, and 
 took her seat apart. Her father went up to her, and said, in a 
 low, even key : 
 
 " Madame de Lonville got an anonymous letter this morn- 
 ing, and all the people here have seen it ; go out and watch for 
 him, and keep him away." 
 
 Pale as death, Sybil rose and obeyed. She went out into 
 the garden ; she knew he would come back that way, and she 
 waited — for once praying and hoping not to see her husband. 
 But it was not to be. Slowlv, and with dowmcast eves and 
 arms folded, he came toward her. 
 
 " Perhaps I can deceive him," thought Sybil, with sudden 
 hope, " and cheat him into not going in." 
 
 So she clothed her face with smiles, and went on to meet 
 him. 
 
 " Well, sir, where have you been the whole morning ? " she 
 asked, gayly. 
 
 " I was out on that business, Sybil," he replied.
 
 Sybil's second love. 409 
 
 " And have you succeeded ? " 
 
 " I have — I now hold the proofs of that woman's guilt, Sybil. 
 Let her slander me, if she dare ? " 
 
 " Ah ! if he knew ! — if he knew ! " thought Sybil, with an 
 aching heart ; but aloud she asked, " and what will you do ?" 
 
 "I shall tax her with this, Sybil. lean and will do no 
 more for the present. I believe your father means to go to-day, 
 and we can at last have Saint Vincent in peace." 
 
 " But if — if it should be known later ? " suggested Sybil. 
 
 " "Why should it ? Moonagh is to be found on no map. 
 The death of that poor fellow made its way to no English paper 
 that I know of. He had neither kith nor kin. He was one of 
 life's adventurers; the waters of that troubled sea have closed 
 over him, and who will go and search for him in their depths, 
 poor wretch ? " 
 
 " But if some one else, for instance, should do what she tried 
 to do?" 
 
 He looked down at her with his bright, genial smile. 
 
 " I had offended the coroner, and therefore he was against 
 me iu that sad matter ; but he died since, and I need not fear 
 him. I offended Mrs. Kennedy by falling in love with you, but 
 I have her here," he added, touching his pocket, " and she is as 
 harmless as a child ! Sybil, I do believe, my darling, that I have 
 no other enemy; I never willingly hurt or wronged living crea- 
 ture. Who, then, w r ould be so cowardly or so base as to revive 
 this foul slander ? No one — believe me — no one ! Human na- 
 ture is not pitiless or inexorably cruel, Sybil. Besides, there is 
 always danger in wickedness, and every one knows that too. 
 " No," he added, still smiling, " I have thrown a weight of care 
 away, and do not mean to take it up again. I mean to be very 
 happy here with you, Sybil." 
 
 There was not a shadow on his face, not a doubt in his look 
 or iu his smile. His elastic temper had conquered the danger 
 and the fear of his position ; he shut his eyes to both, and only 
 saw that he was at last the master of Saint Vincent, and the 
 husband of a very fair young wife. Sybil's lip quivered slio-htlv. 
 
 " It will break his heart ! " she thought, " Oh ! if I can but 
 keep him here ! " 
 
 It did not seem so difficult. That weight of care which Mr. 
 Dermot had put by, had left room for other feelings. He 
 seemed very fond of his young -wife, and much tempted to 
 linger with her in the shade of that old garden. And Sybil was
 
 410 sybil's second love. 
 
 with him as Mr. Dermot had never seen her before. Till then 
 she had betrayed rather than showed her fondness, and if she 
 showed it now, it was so tempered with a pretty playful co- 
 quetry, that it both charmed and perplexed him. This was 
 not his passionate young Sybil, either all shyness or all ardor ; it 
 was not his saucy young Sybil, with her little sharp speeches ; it 
 was an alluring Sybil, who was both coy and seductive, and who 
 kept him chained to her side through those summer hours, 
 bound there by a spell he did not care to break. Several times 
 he spoke of going in, but Sybil treated the proposal with utter 
 scorn. Go in ! what should they go in for ? "Was he tired of 
 her so soon ? This was Mrs. Kennedy's party, her last, let her 
 have it. 
 
 " And I promised Mrs. Ronald to sing," he said. 
 
 " Mrs. Ronald shall do without you," haughtily said Sybil. 
 " Your wife wants you, sir ! " 
 
 He looked at her dreamily. 
 
 " What ails you ? " he asked. " I do not know you to-day, 
 Sybil ! " 
 
 " I suppose I am very happy," she said, trying to laugh. 
 
 " I hope you are — I am ! You are a strange little enchant- 
 ress, Sybil You have the gift, the wonderful gift, which is 
 granted to so few.*' 
 
 " What gift ? " asked Sybil, slowly. 
 
 " The gift — I am sure no other woman, however much I 
 loved her, could have played and trifled with me as you have for 
 the last hour — I would not endure it — but somehow or other 
 from you I like it ! " he added, candi dly. 
 
 " They will be going soon, very soon," thought Sybil with a 
 beating heart. " Oh ! If I can but keep him away till all is over ! " 
 
 '* I must go and look at the sea," she cried, suddenly leav- 
 ing his side, and darting down a path. 
 
 He quickly overtook and arrested her. 
 
 " The sea is tame to-day, and not worth looking at," he sa'd. 
 
 " Rut I want to see it," she replied, wilfully. " Come ! " 
 
 " We are better here, Sybil, far from the sea-side glare and 
 sun." 
 
 They stood in the deep shade of a green alley ; arched trees 
 bent over them. It was an exquisite spot, a solitude both sweet 
 and deep ; but Sybil heard the far notes of Mrs. Kennedy's 
 voice, and she trembled. 
 
 " Do come away ! " she entreated.
 
 sybil's second love. 411 
 
 " Why so ? " 
 
 " Because I like it ! " 
 
 " I think I must go in, Sybil ! " 
 
 "And you will not please me even in that?" she cried, in 
 hot indignation. 
 
 " My darling, I will do any thing to please you ! " 
 
 But he did not stir. 
 
 She slipped her arm within his, and gently led him away ; 
 but he only moved a few steps. 
 
 " Is that Mrs. Kennedy singing ? " he asked. 
 
 " What of it — you do not care to hear her, do youl " 
 
 " Why not, Sybil ? She has a splendid voice ! " 
 
 " Now, do please me this once," pleaded Sybil, with tears 
 in her eyes, " do — pray do ! " 
 
 He looked down at her, wondering and irresolute. She 
 twined her arms around his neck, and laying her cheek to his, 
 she kissed him. Alas ! that kiss betrayed her. 
 
 "You little traitress !" he cried, putting her from him, and 
 a light, half of love, half of anger, flashing from his gray 
 eyes, u you are cheating me! Why do you want to keep me 
 out?" 
 
 His wrath made her lose all presence of mind. 
 
 " Madame de Lonville got an anonymous letter this morn- 
 ing," she said faintly. 
 
 In vain he compressed his lips; they quivered with mingled 
 wrath and pain. He had thought himself safe and victorious, 
 and he was defeated. That shame that had been lying in wait 
 for him so long, had come to him at last. Oh ! unutterable bit- 
 terness ! oh ! hard lot, to be called from the tender follies of 
 love to the grim reality of such an hour ! He looked at his 
 wife with passionate sorrow and resentment. 
 
 " And so," he said, " you were fond for that — you kept me 
 here with your pretty ways for that — you gave and you denied, 
 you attracted and you repelled for that, Sybil ! Did you forget 
 that I am your husband? How dare you do it — how dare you 
 give her the triumph of keeping me here — as if I feared her ! " 
 he added, the veins in his forehead swelling with indignation 
 and resentment. 
 
 " Oh ! forgive me — do, pray do ! " she piteously entreated ; 
 " but I feared—" 
 
 "What?" he sharply interrupted. 
 
 Her lids fell, her voice faltered.
 
 412 sybil's second loye. 
 
 " I feared they might insult you." 
 
 " Aud you did not want to share the shame of a disgraced 
 man," he bitterly replied. 
 
 Oh ! how deep a wound must that be which could make 
 him speak so ! 
 
 " Go in to them this moment if you think that ! " cried 
 Sybil, her face all in a flame ; "go in "to them and say, 'I am 
 that Mr. Dermot whom you have wronged and slandered, and 
 this is my wife.' " 
 
 He looked softened; he sighed; he laid his hand on her 
 shoulder, and kissed her cheek in token of reconciliation and 
 forgiveness; but there was a settled darkness in his face, which 
 told Sybil she was very far from him then. 
 
 " Go in," he said, a little coldly. 
 
 She did not dare to ask him what he would do. She turned 
 toward the house, and once looked back; he had not stirred, 
 but stood where she had left him, moody and still. She en- 
 tered the drawing-room, unheeded ; Mrs. Kennedy was accompa- 
 nying a trio. Sybil looked at the three ladies, each with her 
 music in her hand, and wondered how they could sing on such 
 a day. No one minded her save her father, whose suddenly- 
 troubled eye showed that he could read her face. Yet Sybil 
 had a vague hope. 
 
 " Perhaps he will not come," she thought, as ten minutes 
 passed, aud he did not appear. 
 
 Suddenly her heart gave a great throb — the door opened, it 
 was he ! 
 
 -♦-♦•♦- 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 For a moment Mr. Dermot stood, pale and grave, on the 
 threshold of the room ; then he entered and closed the door. 
 A sudden and dead silence followed. It lasted but one minute, 
 perhaps but a few seconds, but that hush following on the loud 
 murmur of conversation, and succeeded by a low subdued hum, 
 was both marked and impressive. Sybil saw him cast a keen 
 glance around ; but she noticed that he went up to none, also 
 that none came to him. He sat down in a remote part of the 
 room, and remained there grave, watchful, and rather stern.
 
 sybil's second love. 413 
 
 He had no need to watch long ; Mrs. Ronald looked at her 
 watch and rose. A whisper ran round the company. Several 
 ladies rustled uneasily, several gentlemen exchanged looks; hut 
 deference for Mrs. Ronald probably suspended action, for when 
 
 she said, 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy, may I request the favor of a few minutes' 
 private conversation with you ? " 
 
 No one stirred. She sailed out of the room, and a pro- 
 found stillness followed. 
 
 Sybil's heart sickened Did they know ? Oh ! if so, how 
 she longed to go and sit by his side and take her share of his 
 undeserved ignominy ! How she longed to cry out to all these 
 people, whose cold and averted glances were so significant, 
 
 " He is innocent — he is innocent, and you will live to blush 
 for your cruel error! Look at him, and say if he can be 
 guilty ! " 
 
 She watched his face, and read volumes in it. Scorn, pain, 
 resentment were there, and, above all, a proud endurance — the 
 endurance of a proud and patient spirit, patient because it is so 
 proud. 
 
 " I believe it is my turn to sing," said Mrs. Kennedy, look- 
 ing around with a bland smile. She pulled off her gloves, and 
 went up to the instrument, and sang to her own accompani- 
 ment, and looked over it at Sybil and Mr. Dermot with a taunt- 
 ing, insolent look. Ere she had half done the door opened, 
 and Mr. Kennedy looked in with a flushed face, and called out 
 in a sharp voice, 
 
 " Miss Spencer ! — will you be so kind as to come ? " 
 
 Miss Spencer rose and left. The door closed upou her, and 
 there was a murmur and a motion amongst the guests ; but 
 Mrs. Kenuedy went on singing — she excelled in trills, and did 
 not miss a note of that through which she was now going. But 
 wdien she rose to leave the instrument, she perceived, for the 
 first time, no doubt, that every one, save Sybil and Mr. Dermot, 
 was standing. In a moment Mrs. Kennedy was all amazement. 
 They surely were not going? Why, the rehearsal was not half 
 over ! 
 
 "Mr. Kennedy!" she cried, addressing her husband, who 
 now entered the room alone, "do tell these good people that 
 we cannot spare them yet." 
 
 She spoke very gayly, and laughed as she spoke. But her 
 husband's face remained flushed and >tern.
 
 414 sybil's second love. 
 
 " There is a storm coming on," he said, " and our visitors 
 are afraid of being detained here too late." 
 
 " But we have spare beds," artlessly said Mrs. Kennedy, 
 opening her blue eyes ; " oh ! plenty of spare beds." 
 
 But the excuse of the stonn, which a lowering skv had sua;- 
 gested to Mr. Kennedy, was too convenient not to be eagerly 
 taken. For these were well-bred people, who had no wish for an 
 eclat, and affronted you as decently as they possibly could. A 
 dozen heads gathered at every window. The sky was pro- 
 nounced very threatening, but there was plenty of time to reach 
 Saint Vincent, declared several voices, and chorus repeated 
 "Plenty!" 
 
 With so fair an excuse for leaving the abbey, no one re- 
 mained behind. A hurried- and universal leave-taking followed. 
 Mr. Kennedy looked on coldly, but Mrs. Kennedy was loud in 
 her regrets and her reproaches. How could they go so precipi- 
 tately ? It was a conspiracy, indeed it was ; and she went from 
 one to the other entreating and reproaching, till her husband 
 laid his hand on her arm, and looked her so sternly in the face, 
 that, with all her hardihood, she felt compelled to desist. 
 
 At length they were all gone — the last flowing skirt, the 
 last black coat had vanished through the folding doors, and 
 these four — the two men and the two women — remained alone 
 in the deserted drawing-room. 
 
 Sybil rose, and went up to her husband, who sat in the same 
 place and in the same attitude, grave, unchanged, and stern. 
 
 "Oh Mr. Dcrmot, Mr. Dermot!" she cried, "why did you 
 not speak and crush them all ? How could you bear it ? " 
 
 •He looked at her moodilv, without answering. 
 
 " I hate them all," cried Sybil, with flashing eyes ; " I hate 
 that Mrs. Ronald with her looks." 
 
 " Hush ! " he replied, with a scornful smile, "let them be — 
 let them be." 
 
 His hand wiped the tears from her flushed cheek, but the 
 caress was careless and cold, and his look did not seem to see 
 his young wife. 
 
 II<t tears ceased at once. She felt that she was powerless 
 to soothe this grief — she felt more, that there was not room for 
 her in Mr. Dermot's heart just then. Nor was there. It is 
 not in their first bitterness that love has power over such 
 wounds. Mr. Dcrmot had drunk deep of the cup of humilia- 
 tion within the last few minutes. He overflowed with resent-
 
 Sybil's second loye. 415 
 
 ment, and full" upon him was the strong, hard longing for re- 
 venge. Mrs. Ronald and her friends were but lay figures in this 
 tragic history — this drama which was being enacted between 
 him and Blanche Cains, and in which, up to the present hour, 
 he had been so signally and so cruelly beaten. His turn was 
 coming on, and he felt no wish to spare her. There was little 
 tenderness for woman in the Greeks of Theseus, when they 
 fought against the Amazons, and for the womanhood of his false 
 mistress Mr. Dermot now felt no mercy. Men seldom spare 
 women, after all, when they meet in the great crises of life. 
 Frederick the Great probably felt but limited compassion for 
 Maria Theresa, and it was after he had slain Penthelisea that 
 Achilles wept over her. So it was not, much as he loved her, 
 at his fond little Sybil that Mr. Dermot looked now, though she 
 stood by his side, tender and indignant ; it was at the woman 
 who had conquered and humbled him, and on whom he was 
 going to inflict the same pan^s which she had not spared him. 
 
 This keen, intent look Mrs. Kennedy could not bear. She 
 found it a relief to turn to her husband's severe face. Its mean- 
 ing she partly read. She knew attack was coming, and she 
 forestalled it. 
 
 "Perhaps, Mr. Kennedy, you can tell me why Mr. Der- 
 mot honors me with his attention this afternoon ? " she said, 
 ironically. 
 
 She leaned back on the white couch, with its brilliant 
 flowers scattered on the cushions against which she rested. She 
 looked both handsome and insolent. Mr. Kennedy stared at 
 her with an odd mixture of love and ano-er. He knew she 
 was dangerous, a mere siren luring him on to destruction ; 
 he knew she did not care for him, that she had married him 
 for his money, that she was just now his peril and his ruin, 
 but he had taken her for her beauty, and habit and time 
 had not yet destroyed the enchantment. And Mrs. Kennedy 
 knew both the source and the extent of her power, for, without 
 waiting for a reply, she continued, with a scornful smile, 
 
 " Perhaps I have failed in courtesy. I ought to have con- 
 gratulated you on your son-in-law, to be sure." 
 
 She laughed. The laucdi had often charmed her husband's 
 ear, but it now roused him to sudden fury. 
 
 " You wretched woman ! " he said, "what ails you? What 
 possesses you? nave you no sense, no heart, no conscience ? 
 — nothing but that miserable beauty ?"
 
 416 syeil's second love. 
 
 She laughed again ; and glancing over at a mirror, smiled 
 complacently. 
 
 " Nothing but my beauty," she said, " I believe that is some- 
 thing, however, Mr. Kennedy — at least I have been told so." 
 
 II er tone was as cool as his was bitter. Mr. Kennedy 
 calmed down as if by magic. He had other work in hand 
 than this light war of words. 
 
 " Mrs. Kennedy," he said, " Madame de Lonville got an 
 anonymous letter this morning. Who wrote it ? " 
 
 " You had better ask her that." 
 
 " There is wonderful baseness in an anonymous letter, Mrs. 
 Kennedy, don't you think so ? " 
 
 He looked hard at his wife, but she was impenetrable to 
 such taunts or looks, and replied coolly, 
 
 '•Mr. Kennedy, I have a horror of commonplace." 
 
 " Mrs. Kennedy, you wrote that letter." 
 
 He was not prepared for her disdainful reply. 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy, I did." 
 
 " No, you did not," he cried, stamping his foot ; " but you 
 did what was worse — ten times worse ; you set on that wretched 
 starving brother of yours to do it. You bribed another to do 
 what you did not dare to do yourself." 
 
 This time the taunt reached her. She turned very white. 
 
 "Mr. Kennedy," she said, "your language is unmanly. 
 You tax me with writing an anonymous letter, and when, to 
 please you, I confess I did so, you insult me grossly. I will 
 not stay to be insulted by you in the presence of that man ! " 
 
 She rose to go, but her husband locked the door, and put 
 the key in his pocket. 
 
 " Hermot," he said, " where is that letter ? " 
 
 Mr. Dermot rose, and handed him an open letter. Mr. Ken- 
 nedy took out from his pocket-book the letter Miss Grlyn had 
 received, and placing them both side by side beneath Mrs. 
 Kennedy's eyes, he said bitterly, 
 
 " Vou see this handwriting and that — one is an unsigned 
 slander some weeks old, the other is a letter which was written 
 and signed yesterday by Reginald Cains. Is there any differ- 
 ence between these two, Mrs. Kennedy?" 
 
 She looked not at the letters, but at the two men who had 
 combined against her, and there was unutterable resentment in 
 the look ; but she stood at bay. She was bold and defiant to 
 the last.
 
 sybil's second love. 417 
 
 " At whose instigation was the anonymous letter written ? " 
 asked Mr. Kennedy. " One directed to Miss Glyn did no great 
 harm ; but the other, sent this morning to that wretched mag- 
 pie, Madame de Lonville, is by this over all Saint Vincent. We 
 saw its w 7 ork an hour ago. At whose instigation was it written, 
 Mrs. Kennedy ? " 
 
 " At mine," she said triumphantly ; " of course, at mine, 
 Mr. Kennedy." 
 
 He would have given any thing not to believe her ; but he 
 could not doubt it. It was his ruin which her lips thus care- 
 lessly uttered, and it was not in his power to feel or say, " It is 
 not true." 
 
 He looked at her in mute and powerless anger. "What 
 could he do to her to avenge this pitiless wrong? 
 
 "And so," he said at length, " I married you, I took you 
 out of your poverty for this — these are your thanks — this is my 
 reward." 
 
 "Don't be absurd, Mr. Kennedy," she scornfully replied ; " if 
 I was poor, I was young ; and I don't see that you are so very 
 rich, after all." 
 
 " But what could be your motive ? " he cried, kindling again 
 into wrath. " What could be your motive to write anonymous 
 letters, and spread and circulate that slander here ? — what could 
 be your motive ? " 
 
 For the first time Mr. Dermot spoke. 
 
 "Mi's. Kennedy's motive," he said coolly; "why, surely, 
 James, you know. It was to disgrace the husband of Sybil, 
 and the master of Saint Vincent." 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy's blue eyes flashed ; her lips quivered ; she 
 gave her enemy a look so implacable, and so fell, that Mr. 
 Kennedy's lurking jealousy could not survive it. Ay, truly she 
 hated the man who now stood by his side ! The conviction came 
 too late to give him any joy. That hatred had cost him too dear 
 — dearer than Mr. Kennedy cared to give for any woman's 
 truth. 
 
 " What more have you to say, either of you?" she asked, 
 defiantly; " and what have you proved against me ? — nothing. 
 That is not my brothers writing ; I know nothing of those let- 
 ters — I deny it all ! " 
 
 "There is a third letter," said Mr. Kennedy — "a forged let- 
 ter, intended to send Dermot off to Canada." 
 
 A livid pallor spread over her face. So that man and her 
 18*
 
 418 sybil's second love. 
 
 husband had been watching her all along ! They had allowed 
 her to go down to perdition, and risked ruin rather than check 
 her evil course, and thought, more stingiug still, she had been 
 blind, whilst they had been both vigilant and clear-sighted. She 
 was conquered ; she knew it, but she kept her undaunted look 
 and bearing. 
 
 "Mrs. Kennedy," said Mr. Derrnot, coldly, and taking the 
 two letters from Mr. Kennedy's hand, " let that do. I will 
 spare you, for your husband's sake this time, but let that do. 
 The next time you interfere in my concerns — I shall show no 
 mercv." 
 
 "Do not," she replied, with calm disdain ; " you have both 
 united against me, aud I defy you both ! " 
 
 She nodded at them, and went to the door. It was still 
 locked; she looked at her husband, and imperiously ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 " Open the door, Mr. Kennedy." 
 
 He went and opened, as she bade him. She passed by him 
 with haughty sweeping skirts, and went up the staircase proud 
 and defiant He remained standing at the door, looking at his 
 daughter and her husband. Sybil was by Mr. Dermot'sside ; 
 herliands were clasped on his arm, and she looked up in his 
 face with sorrowful earnestness, and with silent tenderness he 
 looked down. Mr. Kennedy gave them a wearied, sullen look. 
 It seemed but a few days back that he, too, loved a young and 
 beautiful wife — and how had it ended ? — how would it end 
 with his daughter and his Mend ? Would they, too, live to 
 wonder at this present folly, and loathe their dotage? He did 
 not care ; he cared about nothing then, and he went out of the 
 room, and left them with that sullen, wearied air. 
 
 The passion of grief which Sybil had kept in so long, broke 
 forth as her father closed the door. She burst into tears and 
 sobs both sorrowful and indignant, for if she resented the treat- 
 ment her husband had just received, it broke her heart to think 
 that she had brought down that contumely upon him. It was 
 for her sake chiefly that Blanche Cains so hated him. It was 
 for her sake that he had suffered the bitter ordeal of disgrace 
 through which he had just gone — with manly patience, indeed, 
 but also with a man's keen though silent resentment of wrong. 
 II. sal down, and drawing her to his side, he tried to soothe 
 her grief away. 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Dermot," she entreated, " let us leave — let us fly 
 this place ! "
 
 sybil's second love. 419 
 
 " No, Sybil — it would be cowardly, and it would be useless. 
 I never intended flight. I never wished for concealment. I 
 have weighed my fate well, and I can bear it. I know that I 
 am shut out from life and its prizes — well, as I said, I can bear 
 it. Saint Vincent is large, and I shall not leave it, unless when 
 necessity compels me to do so. These shall be the real gardens 
 of Armida, after all." 
 
 But the life which Mr. Dermot thus pictured to his young 
 wife — a life of love and indolence — had no charms for her. 
 
 "You belie yourself!" she cried — "you wrong yourself, 
 Mr. Dermot. Such a life is unworthy of you, and would only 
 make you wretched." 
 
 "Poor little Armida!" he said, kindly; "you want your 
 conquered knight to be brave and strong again, and he never 
 will, Sybil — never ; life has but one thing left for him now — the 
 love of a young wife — let him have that." 
 
 He passed bis arm around her, and laid his head on her 
 shoulder ; but oh ! how sadly — how moodily he spoke ! Dis- 
 guise it as he might, he was made for action, not for rest, and 
 fond though he no doubt was of her, he was of all men the last 
 intended by Nature for mere domestic joys. Sybil urged her 
 theme again. She wanted 'to go away, to travel, to hide some- 
 where, and begin a new life, but Mr. Dermot gently resisted. 
 
 "Where is the use?" he sadly said — "it is only for your 
 sake that I might wish to go, Sybil. But I will not fly my 
 fate. Discovery would be sure to come sooner or later — it has 
 come now — let it be. I will shut myself out from life, and 
 fancy myself like the first man, since I, too, have got my Eve, 
 and one who will never tempt me to sin," he added, with a 
 grave smile. 
 
 " But who has cost you very dear," sorrowfully said Sybil. 
 " Oh ! Mr. Dermot, you cannot say that I am not the cause of 
 all?" 
 
 " Not of all, but of much ; but perhaps I like you none the 
 worse for that," he replied, very kindly. 
 
 She turned her face away that he might not see the flush 
 of joy his words called up. But he saw it very well, and he 
 read its meaning. He knew that if she was dear to him, he 
 was infinitely dear to her; and though that love could not Hll 
 up his life, it had the power to charm much of its bitterness 
 away. Yes, in the midst of his humiliation, it was a keen joy 
 to possess this bright young creature's perfect love, to feel with-
 
 420 sybil's second love. 
 
 in his inmost heart, " Let whatsoever fate come near me, this ia 
 mine ! " 
 
 She was all that he had saved from the great wreck of his 
 life. Peace, fair name, the world's regard, all had perished ; 
 hut this was left — this and no more ! 
 
 CHAPTER L V 1 1 . 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy was sitting hy the open window in her 
 room, moodilv watching the comma; of the storm her husband 
 had predicted, and -which was slowly gathering in the west. 
 She cared naught for it. If it had laid waste all Saint Vincent, 
 and blasted every tree within its limits, she would have cared 
 naught still. Her brief reign and false splendor were both over. 
 That old garden beneath her, those pleasant grounds, that fair 
 abode, belonged to her enemy. She had embittered his posses- 
 sion of them, but they were his, and she must go forth. This 
 was her weakness and his strength— he was rich, and she was 
 poor. And where would her husband take her now? What 
 sort of a home would he give her ? She was in his power ; this 
 she felt, too. For his anger, for his reproaches, she cared noth- 
 ing. She had been exposed to Sybil, and that her once ador- 
 ing friend should have read her baseness, was the only sting of 
 shame Mrs. Kennedy could feel; it was not much, but it was 
 something. 
 
 But more, far more than all this, was the horror of poverty 
 which had seized her, since she had learned that Sybil was Mr. 
 Dermot's wife. Had she risen out of that slough of despond 
 but to sink into it again ? And how they would pity her, Mrs. 
 Ronald and all ! — how they would lament the cheat Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy had practised upon her! For he had had her cheap, 
 \> n cheap, after all ; and though she had punished Mr. Dermot 
 severely for Mr. Kennedy's sin, she had not thereby lightened 
 the insufferable load from her own shoulders. Besides, Mrs. 
 Kennedy knew the world, or thought that she knew it. She 
 worshipped money, and would not believe in a higher standard 
 of merit with others. 
 
 "Before six months are out," she thought, with unutterable
 
 sybil's second love. 421 
 
 bitterness of heart, " the}- -will all be crawling before Sybil and 
 that man ! Mrs. Ronald as -well as the rest. Oh ! I know 
 them — I know them, vile wretches ! I have not forgotten how 
 they scorned Blanche Cains, and flattered Mrs. Kennedy ! 
 "What is the good of a revenge that leaves him Saint Vincent ? "' 
 
 " Mrs. Kennedy," said her husband's voice. 
 
 She had heard him enter the room, but had not deigned to 
 turn round. When he spoke, however, she gave him a slow, 
 careless look, then turned back again to the window. 
 
 "Mrs. Kennedy," he said, very sharply, "I beg you will 
 pack up and get ready. You cannot mean to sleep in Mr. Der- 
 mot's house to-night ! " 
 
 She was stung, as he meant she should be ; but she scorned 
 to reply. 
 
 " I have taken a house in Saint Vincent," he continued, 
 " and it is ready for you." 
 
 " A house m Saint Vincent ! Perhaps you will condescend 
 to tell me in what part ? " 
 
 " In the main street." 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy's eyes sparkled with anger. There was not 
 one good house in the main street, and she knew it. Did her 
 husband mean to confine her in one of those shabby dwellings, 
 with their narrow doors, and low ceilings, and dull windows? 
 Had she married him for this ? Was she to become the laugh- 
 ing-stock of all Saint Vincent ? 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy," she said, rising and confronting him, " I 
 will not go to a house in the main street ! " 
 
 " You shall," he replied. 
 
 " I wonder how you will compel me to it ? " 
 
 " And I wonder how you will avoid it ? " 
 
 They exchanged looks of mutual defiance. He was the first 
 to speak. 
 
 " Get ready," he said again, " and never go on with the 
 miserable folly you were guilty of to-day. Dermot will be, as 
 he has ever been, too much for you ? And though I know he 
 will spare you for my sake, do not trust to that too often. Let 
 there be no more forged or anonymous letters, please. You 
 are in his power, you know ! " 
 
 " In his power ! " she repeated, with unutterable scorn. "lu 
 his power ! " 
 
 But she suddenly remembered the six numbers of tbe 
 Moonagh Herald, and she turned on her husband with a flicker 
 of triumoh in her eyes.
 
 422 sybil's second love. 
 
 " You are too good, Mr. Kennedy," she said ; " but I trust 
 that, as the Moonagh Herald is neither an anonymous lettei 
 nor 'a forged one, I am safe from Mr. Dermot's wrath there." 
 
 He turned pale as death, and looked wildly around the 
 room. 
 
 She laughed aloud. 
 
 " Oh ! you need not look at the bureau," she said, nodding 
 with ironical triumph; "the papers are safe, Mr. Kennedy — 
 
 safe ! " 
 
 "Safe!" he repeated; "oh! for God's sake, Blanche, give 
 
 them to me ! — give them to me ! " 
 
 "Oh! yes, quite safe," she pitilessly repeated; "I made 
 presents of them this afternoon." 
 
 The extent of the calamity overcame his angef. He looked 
 at her in mute anguish, which at once sobered her. She saw 
 that she had done something dreadful ; that some yawning pit 
 spread before her feet, and that she must fall into the dark abyss 
 and perish there. She turned pale and trembled. 
 
 " There is one left," she said faintly ; and she took the little 
 sealed parcel out of her pocket. " I only took six." 
 
 One was left, and five were gone ! One ! He did not care 
 for it. He was ruined and undone. One paper was enough to 
 do it, and she had given five away that afternoon ! She looked 
 at him as he stood there, pale, ghastly, and silent, and she 
 stamped her foot in mingled rage and frenzy. 
 
 " Can't you speak and tell me what it is ? " she cried ; 
 " speak, I tell you, speak ! " 
 
 He raised his sullen head and looked at her. Oh ! what a 
 mortal hate he now felt toward that young, adored wife, who 
 had wrought his perdition ! Love might come again, for he 
 seldom dies that sudden, violent death ; but for the time being, 
 Hate was triumphant. 
 
 "You have mined me," he replied ; "but there is one com- 
 fort, you have ruined yourself too. You have dragged me down, 
 but then I drag you down with me." 
 
 " But how ? — how so ? " she cried angrily. 
 
 " You have one left — look and see." 
 
 He walked out of the room. She heard him going down- 
 si ;iirs. With a sort of stupor she listened to his receding step. 
 Was he really going down to ruin, and must she follow him ? 
 Was there no escape for her, at least? She rallied and rebelled 
 a1 the thought. She tore the paper open. She devoured its
 
 Sybil's second love. 423 
 
 contents. Again she found and read tlic coroners inquest; but 
 she found and read more ; she read a paragraph in the third col- 
 umn of the fourth page, entitled latest particulars, and which 
 ran thus : 
 
 " Since the close of this extraordinary inquiry, some new 
 particulars have come to light. Mr. Kennedy, whose testimony 
 was heard on the inquest, is now stated to have been the last 
 person seen in the house with the unfortunate Mr. Smith. We 
 also understand that Mr. Kennedy purchased a valuable patent 
 from Mr. Smith two years ago, and that this patent subjected 
 Mr. Kennedy to the payment of a heavy annuity, which ceases 
 with Mr. Smith's death. Mr. Kennedy left Moonagh as soon 
 as the inquiry was concluded, and it is believed he is gone to 
 America. Mr. Dermot, whose manly and indignant protest 
 against the foul accusation created so strong a feeling in his 
 favor, is still in Moonagh." 
 
 " And I did not see that," thought Blanche, crushing the 
 paper in her hands ; " and I gave five away to-day." 
 
 Yes, you have dug a pit, and you have fallen into it, Blanche 
 Cains. You have dishonored your husband, and helped to clear 
 the fame of your enemy. What justice and generosity would 
 not let Mr. Kennedy do, your blind hatred for Mr. Dermot has 
 done. The world knows now, the world of Saint Vincent, at 
 least, knows that two shared the suspicion of Mr. Smith's death, 
 and that the heavier doubt fell on the man whose name you 
 bear. Whether accident or crime made Mr. Smith perish so 
 miserably in Mr. Dermot's house, Mr. Dermot certainly was not 
 the great gainer by the close of that sad story. Innocent or 
 guilty, he did not reap the benefit of that man's death. 
 
 " Oh ! if I had known about that annuity," thought Blanche 
 Cains, in a transport of grief and despair ; " if Sybil, if Mr. Ken- 
 nedy, if any one had told mc ! Why did not Reginald find 
 that out ? Why did he deceive mc with half a story, when he 
 must have known the whole, and been the veriest fool that ever 
 lived ? Did he go to Moonagh as I bade him, or gamble away 
 the money, and bribe some wretch to do it, who betrayed us ? " 
 
 She buried her face in her hands, not to receive her tears — 
 Blanche Cains seldom wept — but to exclude every image, and 
 concentrate thought. 
 
 Vain task — thought would not come. It was all a desperate 
 chaos, over which shone no star of redemption. Oh ! how easy 
 it is to go down to ruin, that Avernus of the poets ! how swift
 
 424 SYBIL 8 SECOND LOVE. 
 
 is the descent to that dismal world peopled with pale shadows 
 and tormented sonls ! How impossible the return upward to 
 sunlight and sky and green earth ! In vain this woman rebelled 
 against her fate, and wanted to defy it ; her husband's words 
 rang in her ears, prophetic of their future : 
 
 "You have dragged me down, but then I drag you down 
 with me." 
 
 And so he did. And there was no remedy ; and, galling 
 thought, she had done it. She had cleared her enemy, to 
 blacken her husband. And she must leave Saint Vincent, and 
 Mr. Dermot and Sybil would remain in it. She looked around 
 her very moodily. She saw the blue hangings, where the 
 white cupids ever played, and ever shot their arrows from be- 
 hind Pompadour wreaths. She saw the costly carpet, the lace 
 curtains, the exquisite furniture, and which did she most hate 
 then ? The hollow splendor for which she had sold herself, or 
 the deceiver, who was poor when she thought him rich, and dis- 
 honored when she held him secure and strong in the world's es- 
 teem ? It mattered very little, her chastisement was but begin- 
 ning. This was only the first phase — the first dark hour of a 
 long brotherhood who were to spring up again and again in her 
 life. 
 
 At no time was Mr. Kennedy a man of many words. He 
 now had but one thought — to make the best of the evil his wife 
 had wrought. 
 
 He went down to the stable, saddled his horse himself, and 
 rode off to Saint Vincent, without uttering a word to a living 
 soul. Narcisse indulged in a few amazed ejaculations and re- 
 monstrances, but it was as if Mr. Kennedy heard him not. 
 
 Mrs. Ronald was within, and when Mr. Kennedy sent up his 
 card he was admitted at once. Mrs. Ronald came down to him 
 in the drawing-room, with the Moonagh Herald in her hand. 
 She did so purposely, and on seeing it, Mr. Kennedy's faint 
 hopes of winning her over to his cause sickened and died. Still 
 he would not be conquered without a struggle, and, trying to 
 smile, he said, 
 
 u I need scarcely tell you, my dear Mrs. Ronald, what 
 brings mc here. The fact is, I have just learned that this un- 
 lucky paper was in your hands, and I could not bear to rest even 
 for a few minutes under your evil thought." 
 
 " I never was so surprised ! " gravely said Mrs. Ronald. " I 
 found this in my carriage, and never was so surprised, Mr. Ken- 
 nedy."
 
 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 425 
 
 " It is a cruel, a vile slander," he said eagerly ; " after light- 
 ing on my friend and partner, Mr. Dermot, it fell upon me, and 
 the editor of the Moonagh Herald narrowly escaped an action 
 for libel." 
 
 " I never was so surprised," resumed Mrs. Ronald coldly ; 
 " you had told me so positively that there was no foundation 
 for the accusation against Mr. Dermot, that I was amazed to 
 find you had deceived me, Mr. Kennedy ; for of course I cannot 
 say — I regret that I cannot — you were mistaken." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Ronald, I regret having deceived you, but 
 it was a secret I had no right to betray." 
 
 " A newspaper secret, Mr. Kennedy ? " 
 
 " It was not known here, and never would have been, if Mr. 
 Dermot and I had not had the misfortune to have an enemy, 
 Mrs. Ronald ? " 
 
 " Mr. Kenned3 T , it would have been known sooner or later, 
 and had I been you I would have told it myself instead of conceal- 
 ing it." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy was silent a while. He wondered if she had 
 read the paragraph that concerned him. He had no need to 
 question ; Mrs. Ronald soon enlightened him. 
 
 " Moreover, Mr. Kennedy, I think it was scarcely generous 
 to Mr. Dermot to let suspicion and doubt rest solely upon him, 
 when, as it now seems, you had your share of both. It is a 
 very strange story altogether. So far as I can understand, Mr. 
 Dermot had no interest in Mr. Smith's death, and need never 
 have been suspected." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy looked hard at her. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that I ought to have been suspected, 
 Mrs. Ronald ? " 
 
 " I say nothing, Mr. Kennedy ; but, to tell you the truth, I 
 think it is you, and not Mr. Dermot, who ought to leave Saint 
 Vincent." 
 
 " He will not leave it," sullenly replied Mr. Kennedy ; " he 
 keeps the abbey and the mill. They are his." 
 
 Mrs. Ronald became scarlet. Not an hour ago Mr. Kennedy 
 had told her that Mr. Dermot was leaving ; and now she learned 
 not merely that he was staying, but that she, Mrs. Ronald, had 
 been in the disgraced man's house, and had affronted him in 
 his own drawing-room. 
 
 "Mr. Kennedy," she said, severely, "I can scarcely trust 
 myself to comment upon such conduct. The next thing will be, 
 I suppose, that Mr. Dermot marries your daughter?"
 
 426 sybil's second loye. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy paused before lie replied. At length he said, 
 slowly and deliberately : "They have been married privately 
 for some time." 
 
 " Then, Mr. Kennedy," wrathfully said Mrs. Ronald, " you 
 have behaved abominably to your friend and son-in-law. He 
 certainly must be a very generous man to bear with such usage ; 
 and I tell you plainly that, if ever this matter is mentioned to 
 me, I shall feel it my duty to state the case as it really is, Mr. 
 Kennedy." 
 
 " And what good will it do him that you should injure me, 
 Mrs. Ronald ? I never sought to throw the blame of this upon 
 him ; but when accusation sought him, and let me go by, we 
 both agreed to let the matter rest so. Dermot and I have been 
 fast friends for many years, and each of us owes the other many 
 a good turn." 
 
 " Mr. Dermot has behaved like a gentleman," emphatically 
 said Mrs. Ronald. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy smiled bitterly. 
 
 " He has," he said ; " but the evil, so far as he is concerned, 
 is done. I, too, am an innocent and slandered man, Mrs. 
 Ronald. As God hears me, I am. Why, then, should you not 
 spare me ? " 
 
 Mrs. Ronald hesitated. 
 
 "Mr. Kennedy," she said, "you ask too much. I am ex- 
 pected to know thoroughly all that concerns the character of my 
 friends. I cannot, if this matter is mentioned to me, seem 
 ignorant." 
 
 " Your ignorance would prove it to be a slander, Mrs. 
 Ronald," he boldly replied. " Who would believe that to be 
 true which you did not know ? " 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy, you ask too much," she said again, and this 
 time with much stiffness. " My position in society involves a 
 responsibility to which I must be faithful. I cannot deceive the 
 persons who do me the honor to take me as their social guide, 
 Mr. Kennedy." 
 
 She paused. Mr. Kennedy looked at her as if expecting 
 move. Mrs. Ronald resumed, in her most patronizing manner : 
 
 " If yon ask my advice, Mr. Kennedy — " 
 
 Mr. Kennedy hastened to interrupt her, in order to assure 
 her of the value he set on her counsel; she smiled graciously, 
 and resumed — 
 
 " My opinion is, Mr. Kennedy, that you ought to leave Saint
 
 Sybil's second love. 427 
 
 Vincent for a time. This unfortunate business must end by 
 being forgotten, and I would further advise you to be very 
 cautious, and to feel your ground when you return. The world 
 is not very lenient, Mr. Kennedy." 
 
 Who knew it better than the wretched man who humbled 
 his pride before the autocrat of the Saint Vincent world ? Cold 
 as this comfort was, he looked grateful, and said, with a cheer- 
 ful smile : 
 
 " Mrs. Ronald, I leave my case in your hands, and unless 
 you feel compelled to mention it, I know you will not repeat the 
 •slander of this miserable, lying Moonagh Herald." 
 
 " Mr. Kennedy, I will do what I can, but I trust, for your 
 sake, that this is a solitary copy." 
 
 Drops of perspiration stood on Mr. Kennedy's forehead. 
 He tried to laugh. 
 
 " I fear not," he said — " I fear that four more copies were 
 given to your friends this afternoon ; only, I hope that, with 
 your influence — " 
 
 Mrs. Ronald rose in stately indignation. 
 
 " Four more copies ! " she said — " why not a dozen ? And 
 you come to me, and ask me to commit myself for you, Mr. 
 Kennedy ? — you amaze me. I wash my hands of it, sir, and I 
 say it with regret, for I have a strong regard for your unfortu- 
 nate young wife, but all intercourse between us must henceforth 
 cease. I cannot risk my position in society to render you a 
 doubtful service, and what is more, Mr. Kennedy, I will not!" 
 
 Mr. Kennedy rose, and bowed haughtily. His case had 
 been heard, and was dismissed. It was useless to humble him- 
 self any more to Mrs. Ronald. He left he* without a word, and 
 Mrs. Ronald, still hot and indignant, went to Miss Spencer's 
 room, and found that lady engaged in perusing her copy of the 
 Moonagh Herald. 
 
 " So you too have got one," she exclaimed. " Well, of all 
 brazen men, Mr. Kennedy must be the most brazen, to come to 
 me arid expect me to interfere in his case after that! I never 
 heard the like, never ! " 
 
 " But how strange a story ! " exclaimed Miss Spencer. " I 
 was looking for my handkerchief in my silk paletot pocket, and 
 I felt something cold and clammy. It gave me quite a turn, 
 and it was this newspaper, wrapped up in a sheet of glaeo 
 paper." 
 
 " It is verv odd. I am vexed I never thought of asking
 
 428 sybil's second love. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy Low lie knew I had got a copy. I cannot say I 
 feel any regard or regret for him ; but I am deeply sorry for 
 poor dear Mrs. Kennedy ! " 
 
 " She certainly is very much to be pitied," guardedly said 
 Miss Spencer; " and perhaps, Mrs. Ronald, she could tell you 
 who put this copy of the Moonagh Herald in my paletot, for I 
 saw her in the cloak-room just before the rehearsal began." 
 
 " In the cloak-room, Miss Spencer ? " 
 
 " Yes, she came to see Mrs. Gray's mantle. I never saw so 
 becoming a shape, and I told her so. All trimmed with 
 
 chantilly." 
 
 " Miss Spencer, your frivolity amazes me. What has chan- 
 tilly to do with poor Mrs. Kennedy's case, one of .the most dis- 
 tressing I have heard of for a long time ? " 
 
 " I only thought that she could perhaps tell us who had left 
 the paper there ; it is so odd to find a sealed packet in one's 
 paletot pocket ! " 
 
 Mrs. Ronald was staggered, but not convinced. Her faith in 
 Mrs. Kennedy was stronger than appearances. Moreover, what 
 motives could Mrs. Kennedy have for disgracing her own hus- 
 band? But she was sorry she had neglected to ask Mr. Ken- 
 nedy where he had got such correct and speedy information ; 
 and now it was too late to question him. It was provoking, 
 but intercourse with that wretched man was* over forever, of 
 course. And Mrs. Ronald expressed to Miss Spencer her deep 
 concern at the unnecessary affront which had been inflicted on 
 Mr. Dermot. To go to a man's house and insult him was 
 something so indecorous, that Mrs. Ronald's feelings were quite 
 
 hurt. 
 
 " I wish, Miss Spencer, you would write a note to him." 
 So Miss Spencer sat down and at once indited the following 
 
 epistle : — 
 
 " Mrs. Ronald presents her compliments to Mr. Dermot, and 
 begs to express her deep regret for what occurred to-day. Mrs. 
 Ronald need scarcely assure Mr. Dermot that, had she known 
 "// the circumstances of the case, matters would have gone on 
 very differently indeed. She concludes by assuring Mr. Der- 
 mot that if her influence can avail aught in Saint Vincent, 
 justice shall be done to him." 
 
 "Shall I add any thing for Mrs. Dermot?" asked Miss 
 Spencer.
 
 Sybil's second love. 429 
 
 " No," sternly replied Mrs. Ronald. " I have no regard for 
 that young lad} 7 . Ah ! Miss Spencer, why did not that foolish 
 Mr. Dermot marry that fine creature, Mrs. Kennedy ? But men 
 will behlind!" 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 "Whex Mr. Kennedy returned to Saint Vincent, his first 
 act was to go to his study, lock himself in, and destroy the re- 
 maining copies of the Moonagh Herald. After this he went 
 up to his wife. He remembered that she had one copy still, 
 and he would not trust her with it. 
 
 " Mrs. Kennedy, I want that paper," he said, shortly, as he 
 entered her room. 
 
 She pointed to the hearth without answering. He knelt on 
 the floor, and scanned closely the heap of black ashes before 
 him. Half-consumed fragments convinced him that his wife 
 had really burned the Moonagh Herald. Ah ! what would he 
 not have given for the other five copies to be there too ! 
 
 " Tell Ralph to pack your trunks," he said, rising. 
 
 " They are packed," she sullenly replied. 
 
 She did not ask where they were going, nor did he tell her. 
 Both felt and knew that Saint Vincent was closed upon them. 
 This was enough. 
 
 " The carriage will be ready presently," he said, turning 
 awav ; " be readv too." 
 
 She did not answer; but there was no resistance in her pale 
 face. She was conquered so far, that, provided she left at once, 
 she did not care whither her husband took her. But though 
 she wished to go, she scorned him for going ! " If he were a 
 man," she thought, "he would stay and defy them all ! " And 
 she remembered Mr. Dermot's haughty endurance that morn- 
 ing, and envied Sybil the sad pride with which she had looked 
 up at her husband. - 
 
 There was not much nobleness about Mr. Kennedy; bnt 
 whatever his wife might think to the contrary, there v. as no 
 cowardice. He would have stayed in Saint Vincent, and defied 
 or conquered opinion, had it not been opposed to his commer- 
 cial prospects to do so. He was not a rich man, like his son-in-
 
 430 sybil's second love. 
 
 law, and he could not afford, like him, to sit down in idleness. 
 When conquered, he must seek new fields of exertion ; and to 
 do so, he must stand fair in the esteem of his fellow-men. Mrs. 
 Ronald and her circle were not the world; and he had 
 scarcely crossed the threshold of her house, when his active 
 brain had planned out a new promising scheme, which had 
 helped to drive away the hitter remembrance of his present hu- 
 miliation. 
 
 " I did not love him, and now I shall despise him," thought 
 his wife, moodily. " I suppose he has gone to bid his daughter 
 and son-in-law good-by — let him. I would scorn to be so 
 mean ! " 
 
 As she came to this conclusion, Ralph informed her that the 
 carriage was waiting. Mrs. Kennedy put on her shawl, sullenly 
 tied her bonnet-strings, and went down-stairs without a word. 
 Whilst she settled herself in a corner of the carriage, and low- 
 ered her veil, and would see nothing, her husband was, as she 
 had thought, bidding Sybil and Mr. Dermot good-by. He had 
 spoken in private to bis son-in-law ; but Sybil knew nothing — 
 nothing, save that her father was going away. 
 
 " I suppose you will be happy in your way," he said, look- 
 ing at them rather moodily ; " well, let it be. I wish you may 
 — I wish you may," he vaguely repeated ; " you have been a 
 good child, Sybil ; and you, Dermot," he added, looking at him 
 very earnestly, " you have been more than brother or child to 
 me. Good-by — God bless you ! " 
 
 There was no warmth in his voice, no fervor in the blessing. 
 Sybil clung to him, and he kissed her, but cold was the caress ; 
 and cold the pressure of the hand he gave to his daughter's 
 husband. They were happy, he saw it, and it was not in his 
 power to see that happiness without bitterness of heart. Mr. 
 Dermot knew better than Sybil what was in her father's 
 thoughts. lie gently drew her back, and released him from 
 her caresses; and when Mr. Kennedy turned away and left 
 them, he detained her as she half sprang after him. 
 
 " Let him go," he said ; " you do him no good — let him go." 
 
 Sybil yielded. Mr. Kennedy walked away very slowly to 
 the carriage, where his wife was waiting. Behind him he left 
 wealth, love, and a name, from which the shadow was going 
 away. And he went forth to meet poverty, hate, and disgrace. 
 Something of this Sybil guessed, as she stood looking aftei 
 him, with tears in ber eyes. Mr. Dermot looked too, but dif- 
 ferent were his conclusions.
 
 SYBIL S SECOND LOVE. 43] 
 
 " Before a year is out," he thought, "James Kennedy will 
 not care a rush for his wife, and he will either he a rich man 
 again, or on the road to wealth. In him the commercial man 
 will survive all else." 
 
 Scarcely had the carriage rolled away from the gates of 
 Saint Vincent, when Denise came in with Mrs. Ronald's note. 
 Mr. Dermot read it, and smiled, and handed it to Sybil, who 
 •vddened and looked scornful. 
 
 " Well, Sybil," he said gravely, " the world is open unto us 
 once more. Shall we call on Mrs. Ronald or ask her here ? " 
 
 " Never ! never ! " impetuously cried Sybil ; " never let the 
 woman, who insulted you without cause, enter this house !" 
 
 " And she never shall," he emphatically replied ; " but yet, 
 mind you, Sybil, that is solitude." 
 
 " Let it be. Saint Vincent is wide enough for me. We 
 will make a new Eden of it, and let the world go by." 
 
 Alas ! Eden is lost. Sin and death have closed its gates, 
 and it will never be found again. Even as the fond girl spoke 
 so, the long-cominor storm broke forth. A lightning-flash filled 
 the room, and a thunder-peal shook the whole house. She 
 turned to her husband with sudden dread. 
 
 In vain he spoke to her and bade her not fear. His voice 
 was drowned in the fury of the storm. Violent and brief, like a 
 tornado, it lasted but a few minutes, but when it was over, and 
 silence returned, Mr. Dermot said, 
 
 " There will be many a broken bough, and many a shattered 
 nest after this." 
 
 He rose and opened the French window of the dining-room, 
 and Sybil, who looked from behind him, saw the garden smiling 
 and bright before them. The sky was clear again, the sun 
 shone across pools of water, and a blackbird, hidden in the top- 
 most boughs of an ancient tree, sang triumphantly, careless of 
 the storm, which had strewn the earth with torn branches, but 
 had not reached his nest and his young. 
 
 Even so was their fate, and Mr. "Dermot knew it. The 
 storm through which he had just passed would leave its traces 
 in his life, traces that would last to his dying day. Miss (ilvn 
 he could forgive, for she had done him justice in her heart ; 
 but he felt embittered against that little world which had been 
 so hard to him in his dark hour, and from his inmost heart he 
 scorned its tardy penitence. lie looked at the fond and true 
 girl by his side, and resolved to set his heart there, QOt in idle-
 
 £32 sybil's second love. 
 
 ness or uxorious fondness, but in all manliness and truth. Slie 
 was young and pretty, and he loved her very much ; and he 
 liked that old home where they were to live henceforth. If this 
 was not Eden after all, if this was earth bearing the full bur- 
 den of man's sin — earth made for labor and endurance — it was 
 also earth with love surviving the fall, and burning clear and 
 bright above the dark tide of sorrow. 
 
 " And will you be happy here alone with me, Sybil ? " he 
 asked, with his most searching look. 
 
 " Happy ! Ay, I indeed, I shall only wonder what I have 
 done to be so happy ! " 
 
 " Nothing, I dare say. What share has one's doing in 
 happiness ? It comes and goes as God wills, being, as a rule, 
 God's free gift." 
 
 " We can be happy when we please," wilfully said Sybil. 
 
 " Do you think so ? I do not. The peace of an easy con- 
 science, of duty fulfilled, of unstained honor, we can all attain. 
 But happiness is something too exquisite for mortals to com- 
 mand. It comes unbidden — often unsought ; and wise are they 
 who take it when it comes, Sybil." 
 
 " Well, then, I was wise," persisted Sybil. 
 
 And he replied, with a grave smile, 
 
 " And so was I." 
 
 And did they really live alone, and make an endless honey- 
 moon of life ? What need we care to know ? If their mood 
 changed, their love did not. Besides, we may be sure that 
 when Miss Glyn's commercial enterprises failed utterly, she 
 came, for a while at least, to the abbey, and liked Mr. Deruiot 
 rather more than she did Sybil. Mrs. Mush, too, was there 
 now and then, and gave them news of how the world without 
 went on, and how Mrs. Kennedy had conquered a new position, 
 and was the star of the Welsh district where her husband had 
 set up a new business, and was making a new fortune. Cer- 
 tain news, indeed, have reached us that Sybil's good-natured 
 cousin contemplated the completion of her love-story with great 
 satisfaction ; and a speech of hers, that Sybil had a husband in 
 a thousand, is a matter of fact, as well as Sybil's saucy reply : 
 " In a thousand, Mrs. Mush ! Why, you do not suppose I 
 would have had him if there had been another like him ?" 
 
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