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OFF THE LINE 
 
 BV 
 
 LADY CHARLES THYNNE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 ADVENTURES OF MRS. HARDCASTLE," " CHARLCOTE GRANGE, 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW EDITION. 
 
 WARD, LOCK, AND Co. 
 
 LONDON : WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C. 
 NEW YORK: io, BOND STREET. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserved. 
 
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 OFF THE LINE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A CAPRICIOUS CHILD. 
 
 Her glossy hair was clustered o'er a brow 
 Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth, 
 Her eyebrows' shape was like the aerial bows, 
 Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 
 Mounting at times to a transparent glow, 
 As if her veins ran lightning. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 N a small but quaint room, now lighted up by the 
 setting sun which gilded the turrets of Cheve- 
 leigh Manor, lay Mabel Morley, listening to her 
 husband as he read aloud, and at the same 
 time intently watching a cradle, which had been left 
 within her reach. 
 
 Some movement on the part of the small occupant of 
 that cradle caused the mother to stretch forward, and 
 brought Edward Morley from his seat near the window. 
 He stooped down, and looked earnestly at the baby. 
 His wife, who was easily alarmed, asked anxiously if 
 anything was the matter. 
 
 " Oh, no," he replied — " I am only trying to find a 
 /ikeness to you, but I cannot see any." 
 
 "She is not the least like me," said Mabel, smiling; 
 
2 OJ- the Line. 
 
 " those large dark eyes never belonged to my side of the 
 house. What is her name to be, Edward ? " 
 
 The baby opened its eyes as Edward took it up in 
 his arms. 
 
 " Sybil, I think, is the name best suited to such eyes 
 as these. Shall we call her so ? " 
 
 " Sybil .'—Sybil ! " repeated Mabel—" I rather like the 
 name, only " 
 
 "Only you think it has rather a weird, uncanny 
 sound ; and perhaps it has. My mother's name was 
 Catharine, and yours was Elizabeth, I think." 
 
 " Oh ! I could not bear either. You don't look as if 
 your name could be Elizabeth or Catharine, do you, my 
 darling ? No. I like Sybil much better, and you look 
 like a gipsy's child." 
 
 " She doesn't inherit your fair skin, certainly, Mabel ; 
 but then she will improve." 
 
 " Improve ! — I admire dark complexions extremely ! " 
 exclaimed Mabel, rather offended at any implied slight to 
 the child's beauty. " Fair people are never really hand- 
 some. I think she is like Harold." 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " exclaimed Edward, in a tone of 
 such dismay, that his wife laughed at him, declaring 
 that if the child had been a boy she would have named 
 him Harold. Now he might have his own way, and call 
 her Sybil. 
 
 " But I am not at all clear that it is my way," said 
 Edward. 
 
 " I am sure it is. You thought of the name, so do 
 not unsettle it now," said Mabel, wearily. " She must 
 be Sybil, for I am too tired even to think of another 
 name." 
 
 " Well, so let it be," said Edward ; and Sybil Morley 
 was duly christened, and from the day of her birth was 
 the alternate delight and torment of the whole house- 
 hold. 
 
 Harold Morley, whose name produced this outburst, 
 was Edward's younger brother. He had been his 
 father's favourite — the spoiled child of the house — whose 
 
A Capricious Child. 3 
 
 handsome face and good spirits ensured his success in 
 the world, for casual acquaintances care not to go below 
 the surface, and his selfish and vindictive temper was 
 not generally known. His unscrupulous extravagance, 
 which his father was too weak to resist, led to the 
 greatest embarrassments, and, in the end, shortened the 
 days, and embittered the last moments of the good old 
 man, whose greatest fault had been his too great 
 partiality for the younger son. 
 
 As Sybil Morley is to be our heroine, we shall be ex- 
 pected to give an elaborate description of her; but a 
 child's beauty depends so much on colouring, on its ever- 
 changing expression, and on its restless, graceful move- 
 ments, tha. t is not always easy to find words calculated 
 to convey the intended impression. Sybil's loveliness is 
 especially difficult to describe. Her colouring was so 
 brilliant, the play of her features so varying, she seemed 
 formed of life and light, and all things bright and fleet- 
 ing resembled her. Gay butterflies, bright gleams of sun- 
 light, gorgeous sunsets, all that in nature was most 
 evanescent and dazzling, might be associated with her. 
 Though her eyes would flash proud defiance when 
 offended or thwarted, still she was usually the perfect 
 embodiment of fun and merriment. Petted and contra- 
 dicted by her brothers, idolized by her father, scolded by 
 her nurse, and spoilt by her mother, it was not wonder- 
 ful that at eight years old Sybil Morley was a most un- 
 manageable young lady, and that she contrived to make 
 all around her more or less slaves to her childish 
 caprice. 
 
 She was not the only child left of those that had been 
 born to Edward and Mabel Morley. They had two 
 sons, both some years older than Sybil, for Eustace at 
 the time of her birth was eight years old, and Geoffrey 
 six. 
 
 Eustace, the eldest boy, inherited his father's quiet 
 and thoughtful temperament, caring for books and the 
 society of his elders. Geoffrey was a commonplace, 
 healthy, happy, good-humoured, troublesome boy. He 
 
4 Off the Lint. 
 
 • 
 and Sybil were constant playfellows, but her admiration 
 and reverence were kept for Eustace ; indeed, he and 
 her father were the only people she ever deigned to obey. 
 Resenting every sort of control, her delight was to run 
 wild from morning till night, climbing trees, walking 
 through water for the mere fun of the thing, and being, 
 as her nurse complained, never fit to be seen. This 
 nurse's name was Hartly ; she had been many years at 
 Cheveleigh, and was invaluable from the care she took of 
 the children, for even the trouble of correcting their 
 faults Mrs. Morley, from delicate health and natural in- 
 dolence, was glad to depute to another. 
 
 The boys were sent to the village every morning to 
 learn as much Latin and Greek as could be taught in a 
 desultory manner by a somewhat inefficient tutor ; but 
 Sybil's education depended upon her mother, with the 
 exception of such instruction as could be obtained from 
 Hartly, which Sybil was inclined to undervalue from the 
 undue prominence that was given to needlework, an ac- 
 complishment very little to her taste. Those weary 
 seams and long pieces of hemming ! How Sybil would 
 toss back her chestnut curls, and with parted lips and 
 eager face, listen breathlessly for her brother's steps in the 
 garden below, knowing that to be the signal for her re- 
 lease, and woe to Hartly if she attempted to restrain her 
 one moment after the time when she considered her just 
 imprisonment to be over ! 
 
 It would no doubt have been for Sybil's good if her 
 parents had occupied themselves more with her training, 
 but they looked^upon her as still a baby, who of necessity 
 must soon settle down into the proprieties of life. Mrs. 
 Morley's own education had been of a superficial and 
 desultory kind. Her gentle nature had never needed the 
 control that was so important for her child. Edward 
 Morley was too thoughtful and self-contained to need the 
 intellectual companionship necessary to some minds, 
 and the society of one so differently constituted was in 
 itself a relief to him. Much more thought was, however, 
 spent upon the education of the boys. Eustace was not 
 
A Capricious Child. 5 
 
 intended for any profession ; Geoffrey was destined for 
 the army. 
 
 The only person who seemed to disapprove the state of 
 things with regard to Sybil was Hartly. She had that 
 kind of clear common-sense which is the result of quick ob- 
 servation and knowledge of the world, and was aware that 
 Sybil's wilfulness would increase with her age, and that it 
 was quite necessary to put her under some restraint. 
 She therefore, though reluctant to give up the control of 
 her darling, felt it her duty to speak to Mrs. Morley about 
 her, and to suggest the idea of a governess. 
 
 " So Sybil plagues you to death, Hartly ? " replied her 
 mistress j " well, I will talk to Mr. Morley, and hear 
 what he thinks of your plan — but there is no necessity 
 for her learning much yet." 
 
 "It's not exactly the learning, Ma'am, and the dear 
 child could never be a plague to me, but she is not alto- 
 gether like other children, and I am afraid she is too 
 wilful to have a happy life." 
 
 " Do you mean that she is more naughty than other 
 children ? " asked Mrs. Morley, in some surprise. 
 
 " She is better in many ways," replied Hartly warmly. 
 " She is as honest as the day, and generous, and kind- 
 hearted, but she gets her own way so sadly, it will be the 
 ruin of her. You remember, Ma'am, only last night." 
 
 " About her going to bed ; that was her papa's fault." 
 
 "It's never the child's fault, for everybody indulges 
 her ; but it's not good for her for all that, and a stranger 
 would not mind the thwarting her as we do." 
 
 The incident to which Hartly alluded had occurred 
 only the day before. Sybil had been kept at home all the 
 day by rain; but in the evening it cleared, and she 
 petitioned for an hour's play with Geoffrey in the 
 garden. This was granted rather reluctantly, Hartly 
 insisting that she should not go upon the wet grass. 
 
 Sybil made no promise, and rushed away delighted at 
 her freedom. Long before the hour had expired Hartly 
 saw her from the window with drenched petticoats, shoes 
 and stockings covered with mud, and altogether pre- 
 
6 OfftheLitie. 
 
 senting a most unhappy appearance. Very much pro- 
 voked, she ran into the garden, seized upon the unfortu- 
 nate child, carried her up-stairs, and then began to un- 
 dress her, telling her that she had broken her promise, 
 and that she must go to bed. 
 
 "That I've not," exclaimed Sybil, sobbing passion- 
 ately, " for I never promised that I would not go on the 
 grass. I knew Geoffrey would make me, and I can't go 
 to bed, for I've not wished papa good-night." 
 
 " Then you must go without, for being so naughty ! " 
 
 "But it's not fair; it's not my bed-time; I have not 
 had my play-time." 
 
 Sybil was especially tenacious of anything she con- 
 sidered her right 
 
 " You ain't fit to see your papa and mamma, or to do 
 anything but go to bed, so you had better do so quietly." 
 
 The child stopped crying for a moment, and glaring 
 defiance at her nurse, exclaimed — 
 
 " I won't ; and when I say I won't, I won't ! " 
 
 This was not likely to appease Hartly, who desired 
 Sybil to sit still while she fetched some water to make 
 her " decent and clean " again. 
 
 She obeyed, but only till the sound of Hartly's 
 footsteps had died away ; then, half undressed, with bare 
 feet and hair flying over her flushed and tear-stained 
 face, dashed down the staircase into the library, where 
 her father was reading, and throwing herself into his arms, 
 exclaimed passionately — 
 
 "Hartly says I sh'an't say good-night, but I will ! " 
 
 " What's the matter, my darling ? " I did not know 
 you were gone to bed ; and why does Hartly let you fly 
 about in this way ? " 
 
 " She doesn't let me j that's just it." And Sybil burst 
 forth in a passionate statement of her wrongs. Before 
 she could end it Hartly came to find her; but Sybil knew 
 she had reached a haven of refuge, and putting her 
 arms round her father's neck, whispered coaxingly — 
 
 " Please let me stay a little while ; only a very little 
 while, papa, and I will be so good." 
 
A Capricious Child, 7 
 
 Edward could not refuse. 
 
 " Leave her a few minutes, Hartly ; I will bring her 
 up-stairs." 
 
 "Miss Morley has been very naughty, Sir, and she ought 
 to go to bed; besides she will catch cold, she is partly un- 
 dressed already." 
 
 Hartly spoke very stiffly. She was really annoyed at 
 the child's victory. 
 
 " I will not let her stay long," said her father, as he 
 put his arms round Sybil, and covered her up in his coat. 
 
 Hartly retired — but soon returned with a shawl which 
 she wrapped round round the little bare feet. As Sybil's 
 passion cooled she felt sorry for the vexation that she had 
 caused her nurse, whom she loved very much, and, as 
 Hartly stooped down, she threw her arms round her neck, 
 saying — 
 
 " Don't be cross, Hartly, I am very sorry." 
 
 Hartly's anger did not last long, but she was right in 
 thinking that, as Sybil always had her own way with those 
 that loved her, a stranger who would be indifferent would 
 be an advantageous element in her life. 
 
 The lower windows of the house at Cheveleigh opened 
 upon a broad terrace, which led, by flights of steps, to 
 the garden below. This was the favourite resort of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Morley. On summer evenings they would walk 
 up and down for hours, while the children played in the 
 garden below, watching the sunset light up the distant 
 woods, and gild the spire of the little church at Wood- 
 cote. It was an old-fashioned garden, full of nooks and 
 corners, which made it a source of never-ending amuse- 
 ment to the children. Mabel always looked forward to 
 this walk as one of the pleasures of her life. It was the 
 time when she was sure of having Edward all to herself. 
 
 That same day, when they were on the terrace, she 
 told him what Hartly had been saying about Sybil. 
 
 " Don't you think it nonsense, Edward ? Look how 
 good and happy the child is now with her brothers ! I 
 believe it's because Hartly is an old maid, and old maids, 
 you know, are always fidgety." 
 
8 Off the Line. 
 
 " I have a great opinion of Hartly's common sense," 
 replied Edward; "she has a very quick perception of 
 character. Her temper may be rather hasty at times, but 
 I have no doubt that both Geoffrey and Sybil try it 
 sufficiently." 
 
 " I wonder whether it would be a good thing to find a 
 governess for Sybil ? " said Mabel, thoughtfully ; " but I 
 really don't know how to set about it." 
 
 " It is certain that she must soon have more regular 
 instruction than she has now. Possibly her high spirit 
 needs a firm hand over her. I should not like her to go 
 to school." 
 
 " To school ! " exclaimed Mabel — " send her away 
 from home ! The child would be miserable and ill," and 
 she looked as if she thought Edward had suddenly lost 
 his senses. 
 
 " You need not look so horrified, Mabel," said Edward, 
 smiling. " I said that I should not like her to go to 
 school, but I fear she is sadly spoilt at home." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! You always see things in their worst 
 light. I wish I had not told you anything about it. I 
 can inquire for governesses, and then we can settle it." 
 
 Edward sighed. 
 
 "I have far more reason to be anxious about the 
 children than you have, and I did not wish to incur any 
 further expense for them at present ; but, of course, 
 Sybil's good is all that should be considered." 
 
 "A governess cannot be any great expense," said 
 Mabel, carelessly — M fifty pounds a year, perhaps." 
 
 " Every little makes a mickle," said Edward, " and my 
 wife will never learn that money does not grow on the 
 hedge-rows." 
 
 Mabel was eminently unpractical, but she had her own 
 causes for anxiety as well as her husband. She was un- 
 easy about his health. He had grown so much thinner, 
 and during a great part of the preceding winter had had 
 a cough, which often confined him to the house. He had 
 seemed better since the hot weather began, and as it was 
 only Edward's health that was of any importance in 
 
A Capricious Child. 9 
 
 Mabel's eyes, she knew but little of the pecuniary 
 difficulties that were beginning to press upon him. He 
 had been induced to lend his brother a much larger sum 
 than was at all prudent ; but Harold had been so urgent, 
 and had represented his difficulties as so pressing, that 
 Edward, afraid of allowing his old feelings of jealousy 
 to influence him, had from an over-strained feeling of 
 generosity consented to do what he had often since 
 regretted. The property had become much encumbered 
 during his father's life-time, principally from the same 
 cause, and he had become gradually convinced, to his 
 dismay, that, without the most rigid economy, it would 
 be almost impossible to keep up the place. 
 
 Visions of shutting it up, and living abroad, had 
 occasionally flitted through his mind, but he was con- 
 stitutionally indolent, and was contented to hope that in 
 some unforeseen way things might mend; and so his 
 world went on as usual, till some necessary increase of 
 expenditure — such as this question of a governess in- 
 volved — brought it again before him. He never talked 
 to his wife about his difficulties; he had always 
 endeavoured to shield her from aay annoyance, and the 
 result was that in many ways she was as ignorant as a 
 child of the realities of life It was a very mistaken 
 kindness. The quick instinct ^of affection would have 
 made Mabel a comfort and assistance to him, and 
 would have developed the strength that is invariably latent 
 in a thoroughly unselfish nature. But he told her no more 
 even then, and it was settled that inquiries for a suitable 
 governess should be set on foot at once. 
 
 Sybil heard of the intended change with considerable 
 consternation, and was constantly calculating as to what 
 " the governess would be like." By degrees she became 
 familiarised with the idea, and viewed it with complacency. 
 She was continually telling Hartly her expectation on the 
 subject. " Perhaps after all she will be very amusing 
 and good-natured, Hartly; what do you think? Will 
 she have time to tell me stories every day ? Papa only 
 can sometimes, but then he is always busy; now she will 
 
XO Off the Line. 
 
 only have my lessons to do. I shall like to learn some- 
 thing — to play and sing ; oh ! if I could ever sing like 
 Miss Gregory I should not mind how much trouble I 
 took for that." 
 
 After many inquiries and much correspondence, and 
 when so long a time had elapsed that Sybil did not 
 believe in the fact of a governess at all, a certain Miss 
 Dobson appeared to combine all that was required. 
 Mabel had a great objection to engaging anyone without 
 seeing her, but Edward laughed at her so much for 
 imagining that she could judge character by a few 
 minutes' conversation, that at last, and reluctantly, she 
 yielded, and Miss Dobson was engaged. 
 
 " Geoffy, Geoffy, come here ! " cried Sybil, as she 
 stood on the steps of the terrace waiting for her 
 brothers' return from their tutor ; " only think, mamma has 
 found a governess for me, and she is coming next week." 
 
 "Oh!" said Geoffrey in a tone of very doubtful 
 pleasure, " and pray what may her name be ? " 
 
 " Dobson, Miss Dobson ; it's not a nice name, is it ? 
 but perhaps she has a pretty Christian name." 
 
 " It's a pity she is not called Dobbin at once, like the 
 old cart horse at the farm," said Geoffrey, contemp- 
 tuously. 
 
 "Why?" asked Eustace; "I don't see much wit in 
 that, or any sense in setting Sybil against her, if she is 
 to come. She'll be a greater plague to me than any 
 one else." 
 
 " Why to you ? " said Geoffrey, opening his eyes in 
 great surprise ; " you don't mean to say that she is to 
 teach us ; catch me letting her, that's all ! " 
 
 " Of course not ; but she'll always be in the way down 
 in the library, I daresay, whenever I want to read or talk 
 to papa of an evening. You don't care about that time, 
 and Sybil goes to bed, but it's the time I care most for in 
 all the day." 
 
 "Then let Miss Dobson go to bed too," replied 
 Geoffrey ; " I say, Sybil, if I were you I would make 
 the house too hot to hold her, and then she would go." 
 
A Capricious Child. n 
 
 "Too hot?" repeated Sybil, fixing her large eyes in 
 wonder upon her brother's face, " how can I make it too 
 hot ? — there are no fires now." 
 
 " Stupid child," said Geoffrey laughing, " of course I 
 don't mean that." 
 
 " It's much more stupid to talk in that way to Sybil," 
 said Eustace. "The governess is coming, and there's an 
 end of it. You can't alter that." 
 
 " But, Eustace, I am so afraid she will not play at any 
 games ; do you think she will ? " 
 
 " I daresay not, she doesn't come to play, and you'll 
 have to mind her, Sybil, and not behave as you do to 
 Hartly, else you'll be vexing papa and everybody." 
 
 " Oh dear ! " sighed Sybil \ * I wish next week 
 would come, that I might know for certain what she is 
 like." 
 
 The wish was shared by many in the house, and if the 
 unfortunate governess had been young and timid, the 
 ordeal she had to go through would have been awful to 
 her. Happily for her she was neither. " Very old " 
 Sybil thought she looked as she peeped through the holly 
 hedge to see her get out of the carriage, and she confided 
 this idea to Geoffrey in great dismay ; but Miss Dobson 
 was not "old," scarcely middle-aged, though her little 
 stiff figure and firm manner took away every appearance 
 of youth. She was so totally unlike anybody Sybil had 
 ever seen, that for some time she sat and looked at her 
 as a sort of natural curiosity. Geoffrey pronounced her 
 to be " a dried mummy," and she was not very unlike 
 one. 
 
 Sybil submitted to her fate with a tolerably good grace. 
 Her father had spoken to her upon the duty of obedience 
 to Miss Dobson, and of diligence in her studies. After 
 listening with great gravity and attention, she promised 
 to be " always good in lesson-time." Her father did not 
 notice the mental reservation she had evidently made, 
 and Sybil acted conscientiously up to her promise. 
 
 Out of school hours, however, she was continually 
 shocking Miss Dobson's sense of propriety, and many 
 
12 Off the Line. 
 
 and repeated were the reproofs she received for her " un- 
 ladylike manners ;" but they fell upon unheeding ears, 
 for Sybil considered her duty done as soon as the lessons 
 were over. These generally passed off satisfactorily, as her 
 unusual abilities and quick intelligence were duly appreci- 
 ated by her governess. This was a great relief to Mabel, 
 who had felt considerable doubts as to the success of the 
 new rkgime. But though Miss Dobson's perceptions were 
 not of the keenest order, she was quite aware that she 
 had no real power over the child's mind. She attributed 
 this mainly to her brothers' influence, as she believed it 
 to be a part of a boy's nature to be antagonistic to a 
 governess. She was, consequently, always trying directly or 
 indirectly to separate the children. Sybil strongly resisted 
 all interference between herself and her brothers. She 
 had " promised papa " to be good at her lessons, and 
 kept her word scrupulouly ; but any attempts to infringe 
 upon her own privileges would have been met by open 
 rebellion. Miss Dobson felt this, and complained to 
 Mabel that she had not sufficient control over her pupil 
 out of school hours; but she could not induce Mrs. 
 Morley to insist upon the romping games in the garden 
 between the children being exchanged for dull formal 
 walks by Miss Dobson's side, and treated the complaint 
 lightly and as one which must right itself as soon as Sybil 
 grew older. The child herself was quite aware of the 
 machinations that were going on against her liberty, and 
 quite resolved to defeat them ; and when it came to a 
 struggle for power between her and the governess, Sybil 
 as usual was victorious. 
 
 Lessons were always over at twelve o'clock, the time 
 when the boys came back from their tutor; and the 
 instant Sybil heard the first clang of the great stable 
 clock, she quietly closed her books and walked away, 
 almost before it was possible to stop her. On the day 
 in which once and for ever she established her power 
 over the only person in the household who as yet had not 
 submitted to her sway, Sybil jumped up as usual, leaving 
 a sentence she was writing unfinished. 
 
A Capricious Child. 13 
 
 " Finish that sentence, my dear," said Miss Dobson in 
 her blandest tone ; "it won't take you long." 
 
 " Only a minute, I think," said Sybil condescendingly, 
 " so I can do it ; " and once more she sat down before the 
 desk. 
 
 When she had again reached the door, Miss Dobson 
 called her back again, saying that she had forgotten to 
 put her books away. 
 
 Sybil hesitated for a moment, and then, apparently 
 thinking it prudent to make this concession also, obeyed 
 her. 
 
 " Wait a moment, Sybil," said her governess in a con- 
 strained voice, and clearing her throat repeatedly, in order 
 to gain time to consider how to express her wishes in the 
 least offensive form. 
 
 " I can't wait," replied Sybil impatiently, chafed by 
 these repeated hindrances. " Geoffrey will be waiting." 
 
 "That is of no importance at all, my dear," 
 replied Miss Dobson in a dignified tone. "I am going 
 to walk to the post-office, and I wish you to go with 
 me." 
 
 Sybil's face flushed, and her eyes shot a glance of fury 
 towards her governess. 
 
 " It isn't fair — and I won't ! " 
 
 " I cannot allow you to speak in that disrespectful way, 
 Sybil ; so now I shall insist upon your going, as a punish- 
 ment for doing so." 
 
 " That's not true, for you meant me to go all the time," 
 said Sybil doggedly. 
 
 Miss Dobson made no reply to this accusation, but 
 told her to get her hat, and wait in the garden till she 
 called her. Sybil walked off in silence, her anger 
 gradually cooling down into a settled opposition. 
 
 Miss Dobson watched her and, seeing her walk quietly 
 down the terrace, believed that she had won the day. She 
 did not know the amount of persistance and rebellion that 
 existed in Sybil's untamed spirit. She thought it wise to 
 give her some time to " recollect herself," as she called it, 
 and then went out to find her. Sybil was leaning over 
 
14 Off the Line. 
 
 some iron railings which divided the garden from a large 
 piece of water, on which there was a boat, though the 
 children were never allowed to use it unless their father or 
 the old gardener could go with them. 
 
 " Sybil, I am ready, my dear, come now," called Miss 
 Dobson from the upper terrace, but Sybil did not stir. 
 " Do you hear ? " she continued, descending the steps and 
 going towards her. 
 
 Sybil turned slowly round, and looked at her with a 
 defiant air, but still remained motionless, till the governess 
 was within a few yards of her ; then she cleared the railing 
 at one bound, and in a moment jumped from the bank 
 into the boat which was moored below. It was a small 
 boat, and rocked fearfully. Miss Dobson stood still 
 from terror, fully expecting to see her fall overboard. 
 More angry than ever from fright, she began to scold 
 violently. 
 
 " Very well," exclaimed Sybil, quite exasperated ; " I 
 can't jump out without upsetting the boat, because it 
 won't keep steady ; but I will !" 
 
 And she stood up as if preparing to spring. Whether 
 it was merely a threat, or whether she did not realise her 
 danger is doubtful, but Miss Dobson fully believed that 
 it was her intention to try, and, in her terror uttered a 
 succession of shrieks that brought Mabel flying down 
 the garden, followed by Edward and Hartly. The first 
 thing to do was evidently to secure the child from her 
 perilous position ; but as soon as she was safe, Edward, 
 feeling extremely provoked, as people often do who have 
 been needlessly frightened, remonstrated with Miss Dobson 
 for alarming his wife. 
 
 Agitated and angry, she was scarcely able to make out 
 a case against Sybil, and burst into tears of vexation and 
 mortification. No one felt disposed to say much to Sybil, 
 and she remained, as usual, victorious, for Miss Dobson 
 made no further attempt against her liberty. 
 
 Hartly said — 
 
 " Some people were born to have their own way, and 
 others to give way to them, and, as Sybil was evidently 
 
A Capricious Child, 1 5 
 
 one of the former, it was of no good to try to manage her, 
 and so people might as well let it alone." 
 
 Miss Dobson's reign was not a long one. The scene 
 frequently changed, and one governess followed another 
 In tolerably quick succession, till Sybil was in her 
 seventeenth year j then Mrs. Morley drew a long breath, 
 and said that when Miss Martin left she need not inquire 
 for another. 
 
 Very little impression had been made upon Sybil's 
 character. In spite of a great facility for learning she 
 found application irksome, and, with the exception of 
 music, in which she really excelled, and which she 
 thoroughly loved, her educati in was very imperfect. 
 
 Self-pleasing was the rule of her life, and her impatience, 
 under every sort of restraint, made her delight in the 
 freedom of an out-door life, which her mother did not 
 care to restrain, as the long rambles and rides with her 
 brothers kept her well and contented. 
 
 As time went on, Mabel's health and spirits became 
 less equal to the anxieties which pressed upon her, and 
 Sybil's capricious temper was a great trial, for if she was 
 not in boisterous spirits, she was wayward and discontented. 
 Mabel could not understand the fitful, stormy nature 
 that could only find rest in active exercise, or frequent 
 change j and Sybil's was a strange compound of reck- 
 lessness and reserve, for she never spoke of that inward 
 unrest which made her discontented with her lot, and 
 hungry for excitement, but conscious how little com- 
 panionship and consolation she had in her home, she 
 fondly persuaded herself, as selfish people generally do, 
 that the fault lay not with her, but with those around 
 her, who were unable to understand and appreciate 
 her. 
 
 Eustace was the only person to whom, in her depressed 
 and repentant moods, she felt at all inclined to talk ; but 
 she needed sympathy more than advice, and he was more 
 disposed to lecture than to listen to feelings that in his 
 young wisdom he believed to be both wrong and 
 evidences of an ill-regulated mind ; so as Sybil gained 
 
i6 
 
 Off the Line. 
 
 she soon relapsed into hei 
 
 neither help nor comfort, 
 wonted proud silence. 
 
 Perhaps Hartley was the only person who, without the 
 least understanding the case, had an instinctive perception 
 that there was an element of reckless desperation in the 
 girl's character, which in the end would scarcely fail to 
 work her woe. - 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 UNCLE HAROLD. 
 
 Visions of childhood ! stay, oh, stay t 
 Ye were so sweet and wild ; 
 And distant voices seemed to say, 
 " It cannot be — they pass away ; 
 Other themes demand thy lay — • 
 Thou art no more a child !" 
 
 Longfellow. 
 T is now eight years since Sybil's childish mis- 
 demeanours, related in the last chapter, took 
 place. Eustace had been away from home for 
 many months, and Geoffrey had just returned 
 'm the tutor with whom he had been studying. 
 It was on a glittering bright morning early in December 
 that the family were assembled in the library at breakfast — 
 the hall having long fallen into disuse for any purpose of 
 the kind, Mr. Morley's health obliging him to be more 
 careful, and to live more in one atmosphere every winter. 
 The air was sharp and cold; icicles hung from the 
 windows, and the leafless branches of the trees sparkled 
 with hoar frost. Sybil was looking out for the robins 
 which came every morning to be fed, and was in wild 
 spirits at having Geoffrey again for a companion. The 
 last few years had considerably altered her style of beauty ; 
 it was the transition from childhood to girlhood, but still 
 as perfect of its kind. Her hair had changed from its rich 
 chesnut to the deepest brown ; the large dark eyes were 
 the same, though the expression was altered. She was 
 slight and graceful, and her father's eye rested upon her 
 
18 Off the Line. 
 
 in fond admiration as she stood leaning against the 
 window, with one arm round the large deerhound that 
 was her constant companion. 
 
 " Don't open the window ! " exclaimed Mrs. Morley, 
 as Sybil, with her usual impulsiveness, had thrown open 
 one of the windows, and stepped out upon the terrace ; 
 " it's much too cold for your father. How can you be so 
 thoughtless ? " 
 
 " I forgot, but it's really warm and sunny on the terrace," 
 she replied, carelessly, as she closed the window and came 
 into the room. 
 
 Edward coughed, and Mabel, feeling excessively pro- 
 voked, might have said more if, happily, the entrance of 
 a servant with the letters had not made a diversion. 
 
 "A letter from Eustace, papa," said Sybil — " when 
 does he come ?" 
 
 " To-morrow, I think ; but you are such an impatient 
 child, you give me no time to read it." 
 
 "Such a long letter, tool" continued Sybil — "what 
 can it be about ? " 
 
 The contents of Eustace's letter were not communicated 
 to the rest. Mr. Morley laid it aside, and opened 
 another. This letter only contained a few lines. It 
 was from Harold, proposing to spend Christmas at 
 Cheveleigh, "to renew his acquaintance with Mabel, 
 and to see the old place once more." Edward put 
 the letter into his wife's hands. 
 
 " What more news is there ? " asked Sybil, eagerly — 
 " may I see ? " and she read the letter over her mother's 
 shoulder. " Uncle Harold coming — oh ! I am so glad ! " 
 
 " Uncle Harold !— that is awfully jolly ! " said Geoffrey ; 
 " and Eustace will be here, too, so we can have no end 
 of fun!" 
 
 " I am not sure that your uncle can come here now," 
 replied his mother, in a tone that betrayed considerable 
 annoyance. "I don't think you are well enough, 
 Edward, and Eustace has been away so long, it will spoil 
 his first few days, and prevent our hearing all that he must 
 have to tell us." 
 
Uncle Harold, 19 
 
 "Why?" burst forth from both Geoffrey and Sybil at 
 once, both looking equally astonished. 
 Edward laid his hand on his wife's arm. 
 " Let him come, Mabel ; it won't hurt me, and this 
 place is too dull for him to bear it long." 
 
 " Oh ! but it must not be dull," cried Sybil j "we will 
 ask the Mortons, and the Bennetts, and Sir Henry 
 Woodyer to dinner ; and perhaps one evening we might 
 have a dance. May we, mamma ? " 
 
 " All that sort of thing would bore him to death, Sybil," 
 said Geoffrey, contemptuously — "pestering him with 
 stupid people he can't care one straw for. There is no 
 chance of hunting, either, in this frost — only shooting 
 and skating. Does Uncle Harold care about skating, 
 mother ? " 
 
 " I really don't know what he cares about," she replied, 
 as much ruffled by her children's perversity in finding 
 pleasure in what she so much dreaded, as it was possible for 
 her sweet temper to be. " The best thing will be to get 
 him away again before he makes your father ill." 
 
 "Let them have some amusement, poor childien!" 
 said Edward smiling. "lama dreadful spoil-sport, am 
 I not, Sybil?" 
 
 " Not a bit — you are my own darling papa," said Sybil, 
 kissing him, delighted at the prospect of any change. 
 " When Uncle Harold is here, you will like it, I know, 
 mamma. Shall I tell Hartly to get the rooms ready ? 
 Eustace will be here to-morrow, but when will Uncle 
 Harold come ? " 
 
 " He may come any day, so both the rooms had better 
 be prepared," said her mother quietly. 
 
 Sybil left the room, and Geoffrey followed her to tell 
 her to meet him in the garden, and bring her skates with 
 her. As soon as they were gone, Mabel spoke of 
 Harold's visit, and expressed a wish that it could be 
 prevented. 
 
 " I would not prevent it if I could," replied Edward ; 
 "there are few upon whom early associations do not re- 
 tain some influence, and Harold's love tor this place, 
 
20 Off the Line, 
 
 little as he comes to it, shows that the old home-feeling 
 is not dead within him — that there is still one green 
 spot in his heart untouched by his contact with the 
 world." 
 
 " I daresay you are right," returned Mabel with a sigh ; 
 " but I dread his effect upon Geoffrey. I do not think 
 he will have any power over Eustace." 
 
 "I should dread it much more for Sybil," replied 
 Edward, gravely ; " she is so impulsive and so untamed. 
 I never dare contemplate her future. It seems as if so 
 much suffering must be in store for her before she can 
 bend to the circumstances of her life." 
 
 " She is a strange girl. I never quite understood her. 
 I suppose all young people are untamed, and she is but a 
 child after all." 
 
 " I see that she is very restless, and that the world will 
 have unusual fascinations for her. Harold will paint it in 
 glowing colours, I feel sure — but you have not read 
 Eustace's letter yet," he said, putting it into her hand. 
 
 The letter was a reply to one in which his father told 
 him what he had been induced to do for his uncle, and 
 touching slightly upon his pecuniary embarrassments. He 
 had also begged him to return home, as he wished to con- 
 sult him about some further arrangements that he intended 
 to make. 
 
 " Dear boy, how thoughtful he is ! " said Mabel, as she 
 laid the letter down. 
 
 " It is an unspeakable comfort to me to think of the 
 help and support he will be to you, Mabel." 
 
 " I don't want any support, Edward," she said hastily. 
 She would not see his meaning. 
 
 " Don't blind yourself, darling," said Edward, tenderly, 
 "it is useless; and being prepared for events cannot 
 hasten them." 
 
 "Edward, what do you mean?" asked Mabel, pale 
 with dismay. " You are better; your cough is not worse 
 — if it were, nothing should induce me to let Harold 
 come." 
 
 " I am as well as usual, but not good for many more 
 
Uncle Harold. 21 
 
 winters," and he laid his thin transparent hand upon 
 Mabel's arm. 
 
 " Not in England, you mean ; but next winter we are 
 to go abroad. I have been talking to Dr. Westbrook. 
 We ought to have gone this year \ a warm climate always 
 cures people," said Mabel decidedly. 
 
 " Not always, I think ; but it can be tried next autumn, 
 if you still wish it. But if Harold comes, let him feel 
 that his old home is still open to him — and now let me 
 rest," and Edward lay back as if quite exhausted upon 
 the cushions that Mabel arranged for him. His changing 
 colour and wasted frame gave her a sudden pang of sur- 
 prise, and yet she had been nursing him for months ; she 
 could not, she would not, see what was so plainly stamped 
 upon his face, and she hastened to occupy herself in any 
 thing to put away thoughts. 
 
 Harold Morley had never married. He was still a 
 handsome man, and, perhaps, more fascinating in middle 
 age than he had been when young. 
 
 He was a complete man of the world ; had learnt his 
 lesson thoroughly, and " was able to be all things to all 
 men ; " he had good health and good spirits, and though 
 he was known and rated pretty much at his true value, 
 still he was a useful member of society, and society duly 
 acknowledged the obligation by its warm reception of 
 him. 
 
 He was not without good qualities ; few bad men are, 
 and one redeeming trait was his love for his old home. 
 This was genuine, even Mabel allowed it, and it had its 
 effect upon her, and completely won the hearts of both 
 Geoffrey and Sybil, who, after a few days, pronounced 
 him to be the most delightful person they ever met, and 
 even their mother was compelled to acknowledge that few 
 people were so agreeable. 
 
 Eustace did not arrive for some days, and when he did 
 he found his uncle quite domesticated at Cheveleigh. 
 Harold was popular with everyone, and as to Sybil, his 
 undisguised admiration of her beauty delighted her. 
 
 u I do not believe that either you or Mabel know how 
 
22 Off the Line. 
 
 handsome your daughter is," he said one day to his 
 brother when they were alone ; " it is positively sinful to 
 shut her up here — you can have no idea of the success 
 she would have in London." 
 
 "Then I can only be thankful that her going there is 
 out of the question. Sybil is too young and too excitable 
 to have her head turned by admiration. Pray don't put 
 this into her mind, Harold." 
 
 "Not I, my dear fellow, I am discretion itself; but I 
 own her beauty has quite taken me by surprise — her 
 manner too is charming." 
 
 " Her manner is very uncertain ; she happens to be 
 in especially good spirits now, partly because you are 
 here." 
 
 "That is a proof of her good taste at all events ; but 
 surely you don't intend to shut her up like a nun. There 
 is a Hunt Ball at Bridgend," he continued, " may she go 
 to it?" 
 
 " You forget how young she is, Harold. Have you 
 been talking to her about it ? " 
 
 " No — well — yes — that is to say, I just mentioned it, 
 for it used to be considered one of the duties of life 
 to be seen there, and I concluded the same idea con- 
 tinued." 
 
 " We have not been to it for years. The boys might 
 like it. I will hear what Mabel says." 
 
 A few days after, as Sybil was crossing the hall, she 
 saw her uncle standing in the porch prepared to ride. He 
 called to her to come to him. 
 
 " I wish you could have ridden with me to-day, Sybil, 
 for I am going to Nayland Court. I hear they are going 
 to have a large party and amateur theatricals. We could 
 not accomplish your going to the Hunt Ball, but surely 
 your mother would let you go to Nayland, if Lady 
 Nayland invited you ? " 
 
 " I should think so, but I don't know. Oh ! Uncle 
 Harold, I should like it so much j if there should be any 
 chance of it, you must ask her for me." 
 
 Lady Nayland was the great lady of shire. Visits 
 
Uncle Harold. 23 
 
 had been usually exchanged about twice a year between 
 Nayland Court and Cheveleigh Manor, but there had 
 been no further intimacy, so that Mrs. Morley was much 
 surprised to receive a visit from Lady Margaret Paxton, 
 Lady Nayland's daughter, to beg her to allow Sybil to 
 take part in some "tableaux" they were intending to 
 perform, and bringing a note from her mother to that 
 effect. 
 
 Lady Nayland's note was very civil, entreating Mrs. 
 Morley to spare her beautiful daughter to them for a few 
 days, promising to take the entire charge of her, and 
 begging the rest of the party from Cheveleigh would join 
 her on the day of the performance, which was to end in 
 a dance. 
 
 This note, coupled with Lady Margaret's entreaties 
 and Sybil's imploring looks, carried the day, and it was 
 settled that Harold should escort Sybil to Nayland Court, 
 and remain there a few days. Delighted with the success 
 of her embassy, Lady Margaret took her departure, leav- 
 ing Sybil not quite happy at the idea of encountering a 
 houseful of strangers almost alone. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 SICKNESS AND DEATH. 
 
 "L'homme propose mais Dieu dispose." 
 
 YBIL need not have been disturbed at the pros- 
 pect of a visit to Nayland Court, for it was 
 never destined to take place. She was now 
 entirely taken up in arranging her dress, and 
 speculating as to what characters were likely to be given 
 to her to represent in the "Tableau." She felt provoked 
 that Lady Margaret had told her so little about it, for she 
 knew that Hartly, who was to go with her, was not equal 
 to "improviser" a dress at a moment's notice, out of 
 muslin and spangles, and pink calico, or even to show 
 what effect might be produced with cotton velvet. 
 
 Sybil went to bed one night with her head full of the 
 thought of her visit, and, in the strange way that we hear 
 actual sounds in the dim and fanciful region of dreams, 
 was imagining herself vainly trying to stand motionless 
 in a " tableau," while everyone around would persist in 
 calling her, and making her turn her head round just at 
 the most critical moment. She was preparing to give it 
 up in despair, when, waking suddenly, she saw Hartly 
 standing by the bed and saying something, but she could 
 not catch her meaning. 
 
 " I'm so sorry I've waked you, Miss Sybil dear, but I 
 never thought of your sleeping through all the noise," she 
 was saying penitently. 
 
 " Yes, it's a great noise," said Sybil, more than half 
 
Sickness and Death. 25 
 
 asleep ; " What is it ? Is it thieves ? " This being the 
 first contingency that suggested itself to her still dormant 
 faculties. 
 
 " Oh ! no, there's no thieves here ; but I thought you 
 would hear so many people about, and be anxious, and 
 so " 
 
 " Hartly, what is the matter ? " cried Sybil, starting up, 
 now thoroughly awake and alarmed ; " papa must be ill — 
 let me get up ! " 
 
 "He has been very ill, dear, but he is much better 
 now, and must be kept quite quiet, so lie still. It's been 
 a terrible attack, and Dr. Westbrook is here still." 
 
 "But what made him ill? What is it?" asked Sybil 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " Spasm of the heart, I believe, but the worst was over 
 before Dr. Westbrook came." 
 
 " Oh ! Hartly, how unkind not to call me before. I 
 could have been with him and helped mamma. I must 
 get up now — I will ! " And Sybil jumped out of bed, 
 
 Hartly caught her arm. 
 
 * You must not indeed, Miss Sybil. The doctor says 
 your papa's life depends on quiet, and you would be dis- 
 turbing him, just to please yourself." 
 
 " His life ! " repeated Sybil, lying down again ; and as 
 the full meaning of the words dawned upon her, she hid 
 her face in her hands and cried bitterly. 
 
 Hartly let her cry ; she thought it better that she should 
 be prepared for the worst which, she now knew, might 
 come at any moment ; but she waited till she was calmer, 
 and then persuaded her to lie still, promising to let her 
 know when she might go to her father, or if he became 
 worse. 
 
 Entirely subdued, Sybil did not resist, but lay awake 
 for hours listening to every sound. At last she slept 
 heavily, and only woke when the housemaid, by opening 
 the shutters, let in the cold gray morning light. She 
 could scarcely believe that Hartly's visit had not been a 
 dream, but soon the recollection of all she had said came 
 too vividly upon her, and she sent for her to learn all the 
 
26 Off the Line. 
 
 particulars of the preceding night. She learned that her 
 father had only just gone to bed when the attack came 
 on, but Eustace was still up, and had been able to dis- 
 patch a messenger on horseback at once for Dr. West- 
 brook, who came in less than an hour. 
 
 " Were you with him, Hartly ? " 
 
 " Not at first, Miss Sybil ; I was in bed, and could not 
 go directly. It was terrible to see him suffer j but that 
 did not hurt me so much as your mamma's face. It was 
 as if her heart was broken." 
 
 Sybil's tears flowed again at Hartly's words, but she 
 said nothing. She did not believe that she could be of 
 any comfort to her mother, and only asked if the doctor 
 was in the house. 
 
 He had been gone about two hours, Hartly said ; and 
 he was coming again in the middle of the day ; but ha 
 said it was quite possible that Mr. Morley might not 
 have another attack for days or weeks. 
 
 " But can't he prevent his ever having another ? " said 
 Sybil ; " why should he have one ? " 
 
 " He did not say; he seemed to expect it would return 
 some time, and then " 
 
 Hartly said no more, but Sybil understood her ; and 
 shocked and terrified, went to look for her brothers. 
 There was no one to be found, for Eustace, who had not 
 been to bed at all, was lying down ; and Geoffrey had 
 ridden to the next town to fetch something his mother 
 wanted in a hurry. At last her uncle came, looking grave 
 and sorrowful. 
 
 "I am so grieved to hear of my brother's illness, 
 Sybil," he said. " I have just seen your mother. I 
 suppose our visit to Nayland Court must be put 
 off?" 
 
 "Of course — I can't go away now; I would not leave 
 mamma," said Sybil, somewhat indignantly. "I had 
 forgotten all about it. Hartly came and told me in the 
 night about papa's being ill." 
 
 " I must see your mother again presently ; but now 
 give me some breakfast. I fancy that it will be best for 
 
Sickness and Death. 27 
 
 me to adhere to my original plan of going to Nayland 
 Court to-day, and to explain why you cannot come." 
 
 Sybil had a momentary feeling of surprise that her 
 uncle should think of leaving them ; and was about to 
 protest against his doing so, when the thought of the 
 possible relief his absence might be to her mother kept 
 her silent ; and in a few minutes Mrs. Morley came into 
 the room, very pale and still-looking, as if she were 
 walking in her sleep. 
 
 " I was afraid of disturbing you, mamma, so did not 
 come up-stairs," said Sybil, kissing her mother. 
 
 " I am not at all tired, my dear," said Mabel, dreamily. 
 " Your father is much better now — much better, and is 
 fast asleep. His attack was quite accidental — Dr. West- 
 brook said so." 
 
 Harold looked at her, and saw that her mind absolutely 
 refused to take in the idea of Edward's danger. She 
 seemed stunned, and as if all her perceptions were 
 deadened. 
 
 A sort of vague dread took possession of Sybil's mind, 
 as if all life was changed, and she dared not look on 
 beyond the present moment. 
 
 "I cannot go away to-day, mamma, of course," she 
 said timidly ; " Uncle Harold will make my excuse to 
 Lady Nayland." 
 
 " I suppose that will be as well — not that there is any 
 reason that you should not go, only that perhaps we 
 might want Hartly ; not that it is at all likely — not at all 
 likely," she repeated. 
 
 "Is the doctor coming again to-day, Mabel?" said 
 Harold ; " I should like to see him before I go." 
 
 " I will tell him," she answered rising, " he is coming 
 again at twelve o'clock. But now I must go and see that 
 Edward is having his sleep out — such a good sleep he is 
 having." 
 
 " Good-bye, then, Mabel," said Harold; "perhaps I 
 may not see you again, as I had better not disturb 
 Edward." 
 
 " No, certainly not. Good-bye. I will write soo«\" 
 
28 Ojf the Line, 
 
 And still as if in a dream, Mrs. Morley left the room. 
 
 "Sybil, your mother must be roused," said Harold? 
 " anything is better for her than being like that." 
 
 " But what can be done ? " cried Sybil, her eyes full of 
 tears and her heart full of fear ; " where can Eustace 
 and Geoffrey be ? " 
 
 " Eustace is in his room, and Geoffrey is out ; he was 
 terribly cut up, poor fellow." 
 
 " Then he saw Dr. Westbrook, and he said — oh ! 
 Uncle Harold, what did Dr. Westbrook say?" 
 
 Harold hesitated. 
 
 "He feared another attack would exhaust all his 
 strength." 
 
 "But why should he have another ? " interrupted Sybil ; 
 " and though you know that you are going away," she 
 added reproachfully. 
 
 "Yes," he added hastily, "I am only in the way 
 here." 
 
 That was truth in itself, but it would not have weighed 
 much with Harold if he had liked to stay. It was his 
 fear of being mixed up with any of the stern realities of 
 life— sickness, sorrow, or death — that made him so 
 anxious to leave Cheveleigh. 
 
 " I will come back before I go, Sybil." 
 
 And he hurried away lest she should urge him to stay. 
 In less than an hour he returned. 
 
 " Then you are really going now, Uncle Harold ? " said 
 Sybil despondingly. 
 
 " Yes, I am sure it is best." So it was for his own 
 comfort, and inconsideration towards himself was a fault 
 he never was guilty of. " Will you write every day, Sybil, 
 and give me news of your father? And tell Eustace 
 that I am sorry not to have seen him. God bless you\ 
 child ! " he said, kissing her. 
 
 Sybil kept back her rising tears, but she saw him drive 
 away with very desolate feelings. The house seemed so 
 strangely still and quiet, the rooms so deserted, and the 
 leaden hours dragged on heavily through the cold winter's 
 day. She was restless, and could not employ herself; 
 
Sickness and Death, 29 
 
 reading was impossible ; she could not fix her attention ; 
 music was out of the question ; work was more irksome 
 still. Weary and listless, she sat by the fire watching the 
 fast closing daylight, till Eustace and Geoffrey came in 
 together. 
 
 "All alone, Sybil?" said Eustace kindly; "I have 
 only just heard that Uncle Harold is gone." 
 
 " He went this morning. I have been alone all day," 
 she said drearily. 
 
 " I did not know it. I went first to my own room, and 
 then to meet Geoffrey. We are only just come in. Have 
 you seen mamma ? " 
 
 " No, only Hartly ; she said papa was comfortable, but 
 was to be kept quite quiet." 
 
 Sybil spoke very sadly; sorrow had quite subdued 
 her. Her brothers drew their chairs by the fire and tried 
 to cheer her, and her elastic nature soon rallied under 
 Geoffrey's sanguine words, and Eustace's gentle sympathy. 
 
 By-and-by Hartly came with a message from Mrs. 
 Morley, to say that if Sybil liked to come into her father's 
 room for a little while, and would not talk to him, she 
 could do so, as he had asked for her. Much as she had 
 been wishing to share her mother's watch by the sick 
 bed, now that she was to be brought face to face with 
 illness and suffering, she instinctively shrank from it, and 
 it was with no little nervous dread that she followed 
 Hartly up-stairs. But all feelings of the kind vanished 
 as soon as she entered her father's room, for, pale and 
 worn as he looked, still it was himself — his own gentle 
 voice and smile, as he laid his hand upon her head 
 saying,— 
 
 " I have made the day very dull and lonely to you, 
 poor child, I am afraid." 
 
 " Oh ! no, papa." And Sybil knelt down by the bed- 
 side, and kissed his wasted hand.' " I am so glad you 
 are better ! " 
 
 " Come and sit here, Sybil," said her mother, " while 
 I go down-stairs* You must not talk at all. If your 
 father wants anything, call Hartly." 
 
30 Off the Line. 
 
 " 1 can give him whatever he wants," began Sybil, but 
 seeing by her mother's face that any infringement of her 
 rule would lead to instant expulsion, she added, "but I 
 will do as you like, mamma." 
 
 Sybil began to grow hopeful as she sat in the comfort- 
 able arm-chair by the fire, and to think that she had seen 
 things too drearily. Life seemed more natural again : 
 her father had often been ill ; he would be up again to- 
 morrow and on the sofa, and then all things would be as 
 usual. Utterly unaccustomed to illness, she could not 
 see, as others did — even Mabel, though she would not 
 allow it to herself — how plainly death was written on 
 Edward's pale and shrunken features. 
 
 Harold came over most days from Nayland Court to 
 inquire after his brother. As soon as he found him up 
 again, he grew sanguine too, and said that Dr. Westbrook 
 had been too easily alarmed. He was pleased with his 
 visit, and brought glowing descriptions of the gaiety of 
 Nayland Court, and of the pleasant party assembled 
 there. He was charged, too, with renewed invitations to 
 Sybil and his nephews ; but no one felt any interest in 
 his account, or even a passing wish to leave home. 
 
 In spite of this momentary rally, Edward grew 
 gradually weaker. He never left his room again, and 
 was soon confined to his bed — then no one attempted to 
 conceal that the end must be near. Two attacks of 
 spasm of the heart, quickly succeeding each other, 
 exhausted his small remaining strength, and he sank 
 rapidly. Blamelessly and peacefully as he had lived, so 
 he died — deeply mourned by his children, and by many 
 who had loved him long and well. It was only his wife 
 who, when she returned from following his remains to the 
 grave, brought back a broken heart 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SANDLING. 
 
 " I love all waste 
 And solitary places ; where we taste 
 The pleasure of believing what we see 
 Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be ; 
 And such was this wide ocean, and this shore 
 More barren than its billows." 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 BOUT fifty miles from Cheveleigh, and on the 
 north-west coast, was situated the village of 
 Sandling — a long scattered village, consisting 
 mostly of fishermen's huts, one or two scantily- 
 supplied shops, a small modern house, which was 
 occupied by a medical man of small means and smaller 
 practice ; a farmhouse, very much out of repair, which 
 was only partially inhabited ; and the parsonage, which 
 was well built and picturesque, having been added to and 
 improved by its present possessor, who was a man of 
 some independent property. There was a cluster of fine 
 trees about a quarter of a mile from the village, from 
 among which the grey church tower reared its head ; a 
 few cottages nestled beneath it, and a lane led directly 
 from the churchyard down to the sea. 
 
 The coast was dreary and uninviting ; dull, flat, 
 monotonous, and sandy — almost intolerable to any who 
 associated the sea-shore with rocky cliffs and jutting 
 headlands, against which the stormy waves could dash 
 with impotent fury. Occasionally, at distant intervals, 
 the long level line of sand was broken by high sand-hills, 
 but nothing beyond ; for even the fields were not green, 
 
 3 
 
32 Off ike Line. 
 
 but grey, there was such scanty vegetation on that arid 
 soil. 
 
 Everything in life or nature that has the stamp of 
 individuality is sure to possess attractions for some, and 
 these flat sands had charms for many. They were 
 delightful for riding, dry and pleasant for walking. One 
 rock rose up high above the other sandhills in the midst 
 of this dreary waste. At the top was a flat piece of table- 
 land covered with sea-pinks — so entirely covered that you 
 might imagine it a beautiful carpet, without the variety of 
 a single green leaf. This rock was the favourite resort of 
 the inhabitants of Sandling, and in summer they would 
 scramble to the highest part to secure bunches of the 
 bright flowers, doubly valued in that colourless district. 
 
 Accidents had occasionally arisen to the unwary who 
 lingered too long on this rock, which at high water was 
 nearly a mile from the shore, and who neglected to watch 
 the stealthy encroachment of the tide till it was sur- 
 rounded by water, and all chance of return was cut off by 
 the unrelenting, encroaching waves, which in stormy 
 weather and in a very high tide threatened to overwhelm 
 it. But this so seldom occurred that the luckless adven- 
 turers were generally " quitte pour lapeur" and the sand- 
 rock continued to be as popular as ever. 
 
 The shore was covered with fishing-boats, for the popu- 
 lation of Sandling consisted mostly of men whose boats 
 and nets were their only means of livelihood. They were 
 heavy black boats, with brown sails, which added but 
 little beauty to the scene. The white sail of a cutter or 
 yacht gliding gracefully like a swan over the waters was 
 seldom seen here. The country, the people, their occu- 
 pation, even though it depended on the ever-changing 
 sea, seemed all equally unimaginative, dreary and unin- 
 teresting. 
 
 And yet it was this desolate place that was destined to 
 be the home of the bright children we have seen growing 
 up in the preceding chapters. Wholly crushed and in- 
 different to all around her, it was hopeless to attempt to 
 rouse Mrs. Morley sufficiently to take any part in the 
 
Sandling. 33 
 
 arrangement of her children's future, so everything in the 
 shape of business devolved upon Eustace. Geoffrey- 
 could not, Sybil would not, face their changed position. 
 To Eustace, with his small experience and high sense of 
 honour, the aspect of his father's affairs presented a hope- 
 less prospect, perhaps more so than was necessary. The 
 very name of debt filled him with horror, and, dismayed 
 at the idea, he implored his mother not to oppose his 
 determination to shut up the place, and to live away from 
 it as cheaply as possible for the next few years. 
 
 Mrs. Morley neither cared nor objected, all places 
 were the same to her now. Geoffrey was to return to 
 Woolwich. Sybil welcomed any change. It was only 
 Hartly who remonstrated, and felt sure that Eustace, in 
 his haste to retrench, would forget the necessity of 
 making the family comfortable, and having things as 
 they were used to. 
 
 Many and long were the discussions as to where it 
 would be advisable to live, till one day Sybil solved the 
 difficulty by saying, — 
 
 " Only let us live by the sea, Eustace — one is never 
 dull by the sea, and it always does mamma so much 
 good." 
 
 Sybil's fancies and Mrs. Morley's health were two great 
 considerations, and the complete change recommended 
 itself to everyone. Sandling was fixed upon, as Mabel 
 possessed a farm in the neighbourhood, which had been 
 left to her by her grandmother, and which it might be an 
 interest to Eustace to overlook. 
 
 The difficulty of finding a possible habitation was con- 
 siderable, but it was at last removed by the farmhouse in 
 the village being vacant. There was plenty of space 
 and much capability about it, and at a comparatively 
 small outlay it was converted into a tolerably comfort- 
 able residence. 
 
 There was one cottage that stood rather apart from the 
 others, at the end of the shady lane which led from the 
 churchyard to the sea. It was marked by an air of 
 respectability which was wanting to the rest. Creepers 
 
34 Off the Line. 
 
 grew over trie porch, the latticed windows were shaded 
 by clean muslin blinds, and the little garden was evidently 
 more cared for than the surrounding ones. 
 
 It was inhabited by a widow and her only son, who 
 possessed one of the fishing-boats. He was supposed to 
 get his livelihood by means of this boat, but no one 
 entirely believed that he did so — all felt that Mrs. Fel- 
 tham and her son Hervey were altogether different from 
 the other poor inhabitants of Sandling. They had lived 
 there now for some time, during which Hervey had grown 
 from a boy into a man. No one was acquainted with 
 their antecedents, but, from stray pieces of information 
 collected at different times, it was supposed that Mrs. 
 Feltham was the widow of a medical man who died in 
 reduced circumstances. Everyone believed that the 
 clergyman knew their history, but beyond a certain 
 courtesy of manner to the widow, and some interest dis- 
 played in her wild handsome son, there was no real 
 reason to suppose him better informed than the rest. 
 
 Mrs. Feltham was not on intimate terms with any of 
 the neighbours — her black silk gown, the small maiden 
 that acted as a servant, certain ways and habits of refine- 
 ment utterly unknown to the inhabitants of Sandling, all 
 tended to make them feel that she was not one of them- 
 selves. She seemed to live only for Hervey, and, at first 
 sight, he appeared to be a son of whom any mother might 
 be proud. 
 
 He was a very striking-looking young man, and remark- 
 ably like his mother. He had the same fair broad brow 
 and large blue eyes, with the heavy eyelids, and dark 
 eyebrows and eyelashes, that make light eyes look like 
 dark ones ; the curved upper lip, the straight nose, and 
 the susceptible mouth that showed every passing mood. 
 It was Hervey Feltham's mouth that changed the pleasant 
 impression which his bright smile never failed at first 
 sight to produce. When in repose it had a morose and 
 even sinister expression ; and in this also he resembled 
 his mother, for all agreed that though Mrs. Feltham was 
 a " fair-spoken woman," she was one whom no one would 
 
Sandling. 35 
 
 choose to offend. She was wrapped up in her son j he 
 was her single object in life, but he did not make her 
 happiness, for they often disagreed, and she was as clear- 
 sighted to his faults as many who both disliked and feared 
 him. 
 
 It was a bright summer evening, delightfully cool after 
 a sultry day, but the sky and air had cleared, a light 
 breeze rippled the waves, and all nature seemed in 
 harmony with their musical sound as they broke gently 
 upon the hard dry sand. Mrs. Felthan was working by 
 the open window ; Hervey, who had come in early that 
 day, was leaning out of it playing with his Newfoundland 
 dog. He drew back, and, after a moment's silence, said 
 eagerly,— 
 
 " Who are those people that are come to live at the 
 farm ? There they are, walking on the sands. Do you 
 see ? The lady is a widow, and the others, I suppose, 
 are the son and daughter. She is such a beautiful girl, 
 mother." 
 
 " I believe their name is Morley. They have a place 
 up in the north, but the gentleman died lately, and his 
 affairs were in a bad state, so the son shut up the house, 
 and brought his mother here, when he found he could 
 not keep up the place as his father had done. I don't 
 expect they'll stay here long." 
 
 M Why not ? There has been a great deal done to the 
 farm ; it's quite a grand place now. They would never 
 spend all that money for no time at all." 
 
 * : Well, perhaps the widow may stay on, but I know 
 nottiing about it," answered his mother, indifferently. 
 
 " If the mother stops the daughter will, mother. I 
 wish you could see her." 
 
 " What good would that do ? They are not people to 
 associate with poor neighbours, so pray don't let your 
 head run on a beautiful young lady, Hervey. That 
 would be the wildest thing you've done yet." 
 
 " Why shouldn't they associate with us ? I don't see 
 — I'm sure, mother, you have seen gentry enough betore 
 
36 Off the Line* 
 
 " It's no good to say ' why ' to anything in this world," 
 said Mrs. Feltham, bitterly ; " some people are in luck's 
 way, and some are not, and as to you, Hervey, you make 
 yourself quite unfit to see anybody but the rough people 
 here, from the life you lead." 
 
 " What would you have me do?" he retorted, angrily; 
 "never speak to a living soul, or sit all day between 
 four walls making fishing nets or reading, like Charlie 
 Power?" 
 
 " There can be no need for you to spend your even- 
 ings smoking and drinking at a public-house. It's not 
 what you were born to, Hervey, and you know it." 
 
 " When I've got all I was born to, it will be quite time 
 enough to preach to me," said Hervey, with a sneer ; 
 " in the meantime, I shall get what fun I can in a slow 
 place like this, mother." 
 
 Mrs. Feltham sighed. 
 
 " Now, mother, I don't want to vex you, but of course 
 a fellow can't be tied to a woman's apron-strings, even to 
 yours — can he, now ? " 
 
 " No one either asked it or wished it," replied his 
 mother, coldly. " I only give you my advice — you must 
 do as you choose about following it." 
 
 In his own selfish way Hervey was really fond of 
 his mother ; so he changed his tone. As he sauntered 
 down the garden his mother watched him walk away, 
 thinking that anyone might be pleased by his admiration, 
 and wondering when she should see the beautiful girl 
 that had made such an impression on him. Mrs. Feltham 
 seldom left the house except to do some necessary shop- 
 ping, but she determined to look out for her on Sunday. 
 She was not destined, however, to wait so long for her 
 curiosity to be gratified. 
 
 The next morning, as Hervey strolled down to the 
 beach, he saw Sybil standing close to the sea, vainly try- 
 ing to persuade Hannibal to fetch a stick which she had 
 thrown into the water. But the dog did not like to 
 breast the waves, which continually withdrew his prey as 
 soon as it seemed within his reach, and, after several 
 
Sa7idling. 37 
 
 ineffectual attempts, laid down, and could not be per- 
 suaded to try again. Hervey's dog, Rover, was close to 
 his master, and as soon as he saw the state of things, he 
 dashed into the water, and swam so far after the stick, 
 which by that time was a considerable way from the 
 shore, that Sybil became alarmed for his safety, and 
 turned round to see if his master were near. Hervey was 
 standing some way above her watching the dog, and, at 
 her eager exclamation, was quickly at her side. 
 
 " Pray call him back — it cannot be safe for him to be 
 out so far, and I don't want the stick," said Sybil, 
 anxiously. 
 
 Hervey took off his hat as he replied in a very different 
 tone and manner to what Sybil expected, — 
 
 " Rover is quite safe ; I sometimes throw him out of 
 the boat, and he will follow it for a mile." 
 
 " Oh ! he has got it ! " cried Sybil, delighted. " I wish 
 Hannibal could swim like that ; he used to go into the 
 water at home." 
 
 "I suppose he is not used to the sea, or to swim 
 against the waves ; and then he is not a water-dog — 
 but he is very handsome ! " replied Hervey, as he 
 stooped down and patted his head. " I think I could 
 teach him to fetch things out of the water if you would 
 trust me." 
 
 Before she could answer, Rover came back with the 
 stick in his mouth, which he put in Hervey's hand. 
 Sybil called him, and he jumped upon her with his drip- 
 ping coat, which, with his dirty paws, made terrible marks 
 on her black dress and the crape that trimmed it. 
 
 " Down, Rover — down ! " exclaimed Hervey, holding 
 up a stick, with which he was going to strike the dog. 
 
 " Don't — pray don't beat him ! you must not, really ! " 
 and in her eagerness Sybil laid her hand on Hervey's arm 
 to avert the impending blow. 
 
 An electric shock could not have subdued him more 
 instantaneously ; his arm fell motionless by his side, as 
 he muttered something about not trusting the dog. 
 Sybil did not notice his agitation ; she was iully taken up 
 
33- OJ; the Line. 
 
 in examining and deploring the disastrous state of her 
 dress, covered with brown wet splotches and torn crape 
 trimmings, and imagining the dismay the sight would 
 occasion to Hartly, who had gone on to do such shop- 
 ping as was possible in the village, and was to meet Sybil 
 as she returned by the sands. 
 
 " Rover has spoilt your dress, I fear," said Hervey, re- 
 covering himself. " If you would not mind stepping into 
 our house, my mother could clean it for you." 
 
 " Oh ! thank you, it doesn't matter," said Sybil, 
 feeling suddenly shy and awkward, she did not know why. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Hervey, touching his hat 
 haughtily and turning away. " It's a poor place to go 
 into, but I thought it might be convenient." 
 
 "It's not that," returned Sybil hastily, thinking she 
 must have been uncivil ; "I should be very much obliged 
 to anyone who would mend this," and she took up the 
 torn strips of crape rather ruefully, " only it does not seem 
 worth giving so much trouble." 
 
 They were standing near the lane that led from the 
 churchyard to the shore. Mrs. Feltham lived in the 
 „last of the cottages that were scattered on each side of 
 the road. 
 
 Hervey took the words as accepting his offer, and 
 walking a little way, turned into the cottage which Sybil 
 had already noticed as looking different to the rest. 
 
 " Mother," said Hervey, as he opened the door, 
 " Rover has spoilt Miss Morley's dress ; can you clean it ? 
 I will try and teach the dog to go into the water, mean- 
 while." 
 
 He placed a chair for Sybil, but did not remain in the 
 house ; he had secured a certainty of seeing Sybil again, 
 which was all he wanted. 
 
 "Thank you, I wish you could — his name is Han- 
 nibal." 
 
 " I am sorry to give you so much trouble," she said, 
 as Mrs. Feltham silently, and in a most business-like 
 manner, was preparing to repair the mischief Rover had 
 done. 
 
Sandling. 39 
 
 " It is but little trouble, and will not take long," she 
 replied gravely, but with much courtesy. 
 
 Sybil felt more and more surprised at the appearance 
 of both mother and son, which seemed quite out of keep- 
 ing with the small cottage and Hervey's boatman-like 
 attire. There was plenty of time for a thorough exami- 
 nation of their abode, while Mrs. Feltham was cleaning and 
 then mending Sybil's gown. It was not at all her idea of 
 a home in which poor people usually live ; they were now 
 in the kitchen, but the door was open into a parlour be- 
 yond, and Sybil could see that prints were hanging on 
 the wall, and that there was a good-sized book-case, Con- 
 taining several well-bound books. She looked around 
 her in wonder, and then, as Mrs. Feltham stitched on, 
 suddenly felt she was not being properly polite, and that, 
 under the circumstances, it was her duty to start a conver 
 sation. 
 
 " This does not seem a very pretty place," said Sybil, 
 after turning over in her mind what it was possible to 
 say. 
 
 " No, it is both ugly and dreary," said her companion, 
 with a sigh, u but suited to those who are obliged to gain 
 their livelihood by -fishing." 
 
 " Yes, perhaps, but " 
 
 " That is not your case," she was beginning to say, and 
 then fearing that her words might sound impertinent, 
 stopped suddenly. 
 
 " My son is a fisherman," replied Mrs. Feltham in- 
 differently. " I believe I have done enough to prevent 
 your dress being Spoilt before you get home." 
 
 " I am so much obliged to you," said Sybil warmly ; 
 " I hope to come and see ^you another day — I don't know 
 anybody here — may I ? " she added, noticing Mrs. Fel- 
 tham's evident hesitation with surprise. 
 
 "I am seldom away from the house, but there cannot 
 be anything to tempt a young lady like you to such a 
 place as this," was the not very gracious answer ; for Mrs. 
 Feltham was divided between a growing interest in the 
 beautiful girl before her, and the dread of, in any way, en- 
 
40 Off the Line. 
 
 conraging an acquaintance between her and Hervey. 
 Sybil wondered more and more. She thought she had 
 met with the strangest people, and and began to have 
 romantic visions about smugglers. She was determined 
 to penetrate whatever mystery there might be, and to 
 return the first opportunity; but, for the present, was 
 obliged to take leave of Mrs. Feltham, and hasten to the 
 beach to find Hannibal. On her way she met Hartly, 
 who was looking for her in no little surprise, when she 
 found Hannibal with a strange sailor. Sybil related all 
 her disasters and adventures, but Hartly did not look 
 altogether pleased at them, and, calling the dog, was 
 walking quickly away when Sybil stopped. 
 
 " Wait a minute, Hartly, I must ask if Hannibal has 
 learnt his lesson ; he was going to teach him to fetch 
 things out of the water." 
 
 " He ? Who is he ? Indeed, Miss Sybil, you must 
 not get talking to the men in this place," and she looked 
 very doubtfully at the handsome young sailor, who 
 returned the look with one of mingled insouciance and 
 defiance. 
 
 Sybil's self-will was aroused in a moment. 
 
 " I shall indeed, Hartly. I never heard such non- 
 sense. It was his dog that wetted me and tore my gown, 
 and h if mother mended it for me — such a nice woman, 
 just like a lady. I am going to see her again. Hannibal 
 won't go into the sea, and he is going to make him." 
 And she walked straight up to Hervey, and asked him 
 how he had succeeded. 
 
 " Not as well as I hoped," he replied*, trying to speak 
 indifferently ; "but one lesson is of no use. Will you let 
 me try again ? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, any time that you can spare ; he often 
 comes down on the sands with me, or you can fetch him 
 if you like." 
 
 "I will fetch him, then, to-morrow," said Hervey, 
 thinking this the wisest plan; and taking off his hat 
 respectfully, he walked away. 
 
 He could afford to be respectful to Sybil, and in- 
 
Sandling, 41 
 
 different to Hartly, with the tumult of feeling that was 
 swelling in his heart. He never paused to think to what 
 all this must tend— what certain misery he was creating 
 for himself, but simply gave himself up to the pleasure of 
 the moment. Not so Hartly, whose sense of propriety 
 was being more and more shocked every moment. 
 
 " Then he certainly can't fetch the dog from our house, 
 for we can't have sailors and tramps about, and so I shall 
 tell Mr. Eustace." 
 
 "Tramps! Hartly, what stuff! He is a fisherman, 
 and lives in that pretty cottage at the end of the church- 
 yard lane, the one with the porch and creepers, and his 
 mother is just like a lady, as I told you. I don't believe 
 they are poor people at all. Why shouldn't he teach 
 Hannibal to go into the sea? His dog will swim for 
 miles." 
 
 "It's nothing about the dog, but the people here 
 seem all wild, and not a bit like those we are used to at 
 Cheveleigh." 
 
 " They are much more amusing, then. I wonder what 
 these people are called ; I suppose his name is on his 
 boat — I wish I had looked." 
 
 " I am sure it don't matter what their names are. If you 
 are going to visit about like that, Mr. Eustace had better 
 ask Mr. Power where it's fit for you to go, and where it's 
 not." 
 
 " I know nothing about Mr. Power, and I shall go just 
 where I like," said Sybil disdainfully, " so don't meddle 
 with Hannibal, Hartly, or you'll make a bother, and that 
 will do no good at all." 
 
 Hartly pursed up her mouth, looking what Geoffrey 
 called " crusty," but said no more. She however, re- 
 mained especially acid all the day, while Sybil forgot her 
 indignation as soon as she got home, and rushed into the 
 house, impatient to tell her adventures to her mother and 
 brother, and especially about the delightful people she 
 had made acquaintance with, quite unlike any she had 
 ever seen before. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 MR. AND MISS POWER. 
 
 " II y a tant de gens affectueux qui ne sentent rien, tant de gens 
 ecoutants qui n'entendent, et tant de gens amiables qu'il ne faut pas 
 aimer ! " — Comtesse de Bonneval. 
 
 "There are people without handles, that one cannot get hold 
 of." 
 
 YBIL was right when, in her passing fits of de- 
 pression, she considered herself especially 
 lonely ; for to one so young, and to whom sym- 
 pathy was so necessary, it was a trial to live 
 with those who had no comprehension of the high spirits 
 of youth, or patience with its follies. She had not even 
 .any external companionship. Her mother lived in a 
 dream of the past, Eustace in his books and literary pur- 
 suits ; Geoffrey only paid occasional visits to Sandling, 
 and to the other two all daily events came as troublesome 
 interruptions. To one so full of life as Sybil, this state of 
 things was peculiarly irritating j any change was welcome, 
 and it was with a distinct feeling of pleasure that at the 
 end of a long summer morning she saw some visitors 
 walk up the small garden and come to the house. 
 
 Any sort of needlework was Sybil's abhorrence ; she 
 had sung till she was tired, fidgeted and interrupted her 
 brother till she had driven him to take refuge in his own 
 room. It was too hot to walk, and she was wondering 
 what it was possible to do all the rest of the day. In this 
 state of mind any momentary relief to the monotony of 
 her life was delightful. 
 
 " Mamma, somebody is coming to call — a man in a 
 black coat, and a lady. It must be the clergyman, 
 Mr. Power. Hartly is always talking about him — 
 
Mr. and Miss Power. 43 
 
 do you think it is?" and as she spoke the door-bell 
 rang. 
 
 The sound aroused Mrs. Morley from her dreamy 
 state. 
 
 " My dear, I cannot see strangers ; I am not equal to 
 it— run and say so — tell Hardy they must not be let 
 in!" 
 
 This did not at all accord with Sybil's wishes, and 
 she went to the window instead of the door to look 
 out. 
 
 " I am sure it's Mr. Power, mamma — you must see 
 him ; besides, it's too late — I hear voices in the hall." 
 
 The door opened. 
 
 " Mr. and Miss Power." 
 
 Mrs. Morley rose and received them in her own gentle 
 lady-like manner. Mr. Power was a short, good- 
 humoured, uninteresting-looking man : his daughter a tall, 
 slight, very insipid-looking young lady, with a long pale 
 face, and a profusion of fair hair in ringlets, which she was 
 always shaking off her forehead in a way that at once re- 
 minded Sybil of a spaniel with long ears. 
 
 The young lady fell to Sybil's share, of course, and 
 she exerted herself wonderfully to make conversation; 
 but it was up-hill work, and as soon as their relative tastes 
 as to riding, walking, music, drawing, etc., were ascer- 
 tained, it flagged terribly, till it received a new impetus 
 from Mr. Power, who, turning round to Sybil, said, — 
 
 " I don't know if you find Sandling as dull as Sophia- 
 Jane does, Miss Morley; she is very lonely here, and 
 anxious to secure you as a companion in her walks. Mrs. 
 Power never goes out, and we should be very glad if you 
 would occasionally accompany her." 
 
 " So her name is Sophia-Jane ! " thought Sybil ; " I 
 was wondering what it could be ? Would it be less dull 
 to walk with her than alone ? I wish Eustace would go 
 out more with me, then I should not want anybody." 
 
 While these thoughts passed through her mind, she 
 remained silent, and her mother, rather shocked at her 
 apparent incivility, answered for her, and assured Mr. 
 
44 Off the Line, 
 
 Power that Sybil would be very happy to have a com- 
 panion, for she was beginning to fear that the place was 
 really too lonely for her. 
 
 " We shall be delighted to see her at the parsonage, 
 Mrs. Morley, whenever you can spare her, Rose is still 
 at school, but Mary will be art: home soon. We can't 
 offer much in the way of amusement," he said, pompously, 
 " but it may make some variety for her." 
 
 " Thank you," replied Sybil readily \ " I shall like it 
 very much." 
 
 " I don't wonder you find it dull," said Miss Sophia- 
 Jane in a melancholy voice. " I think there never was a 
 place half so stupid as this is. Mary says she has never 
 time to be dull ; but I think all she does just as tiresome 
 as doing nothing. I find it such a change from living 
 
 in a town. You know papa had a living at M , as 
 
 well as his canonry, so we lived there always ; now we 
 can only go there for three or four months in the year." 
 
 "You like a town, then?" said Sybil inquiringly. "I 
 never lived in one — I don't think I should." 
 
 " Oh ! yes you would," returned her companion 
 eagerly. " Always a change — always something to do, 
 and then the military were quartered there, and that was 
 so delightful ! We always went to the assembly-rooms 
 once a week, besides concerts, and then the band used 
 to play on the promenade, and one was sure to meet the 
 officers there, besides going to the Cathedral." 
 
 "Did you go to church every day?" asked Sybil, as 
 if she were surprised that was included in the day's 
 amusement. 
 
 " Generally in the afternoon, to hear the anthem. 
 Several of the officers used to come in late, and we used 
 to walk with them after the service was over. Of course 
 it was delightful to me," she said, simpering and looking 
 down, "and they were quite the life of the place. Don't 
 you delight in military men, Miss Morley?" 
 
 "In soldiers? I know so few — Uncle Harold, and 
 Captain Morton, and he is only in the Militia. They are 
 both very pleasant." 
 

 Mr. and Miss Power. 45 
 
 " Ah ! you are not likely to feel as I do ; I quite dote 
 upon them ! " 
 
 " Dote upon the whole army," said Sybil bluntly, " how 
 could I ? There seem to be only sailors here. Are they 
 delightful people too ?" 
 
 Miss Power looked at her doubtfully — was she stupid, 
 or only laughing at her? She could not determine. 
 Sybil's face was grave, almost earnest, as she waited for 
 her reply. 
 
 " There are only common sailors here and fishermen — 
 not people that we can associate with at all." 
 
 " I suppose they are only poor people in the village ? 
 I know very little of the country — I always walk or sit on 
 the sands." 
 
 "We have no neighbours at all, and were quite 
 delighted when we found that you had taken this house. 
 Your brothers are here too, I believe ? 
 
 "Only Eustace, my eldest brother. Geoffrey is away. 
 By-the-bye, he is going to be a soldier very soon." 
 
 "What a delightful addition he will make to your 
 party ! Is he coming home soon ? " And then, without 
 waiting for a reply, added, " I must not forget to say 
 that mamma hopes you will forgive her for not calling, 
 but she never walks in the country. Will you tell Mrs. 
 Moriey ? " 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish it. She is ill, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No, not exactly, but she never walks in the country. 
 When we are here Mary pays visits for her; but now she 
 is away, so I came. I do hope you will come and see us 
 very soon, Miss Moriey." 
 
 Sybil agreed to do so, and after some delay, caused by 
 Eustace's entrace, Mr. and Miss Power took leave. Mrs. 
 Moriey looked very weary after the unusual exertion she 
 had made. Sybil sat still pondering over her new 
 acquaintance, and feeling rather doubtful about the 
 pleasure she would derive from it. She had seen but 
 little of girls of her own age, and Miss Sophia- Jane Power 
 was a new revelation to her. She had lived so completely 
 with her mother, and been so little fettered by the con- 
 
46' Off the Line. 
 
 ventionalities of life, that a commonplace young lady was 
 a kind of marvel to her. She stood in a dream, looking 
 out upon the summer sunshine, and speculating upon the 
 pleasures of a town life, wondering if she should like it 
 better than the very monotonous days at Sandling, when 
 Eustace came behind her and put both his hands on her 
 shoulders. Sybil started. 
 
 " Thinking so deeply, Sybil ! — what can it be about ? " 
 
 ° Nothing j but you have nothing to do, Eustace, and 
 you have not been out to-day, do walk with me." 
 
 " I will when I have finished my letters." 
 
 " And they will take so long," said Sybil, sighing. 
 
 " Half-an-hour perhaps at the outside. I like walking 
 late, but not to rush out directly after breakfast as you 
 do, and come in hot and tired in the middle of the day. 
 You cannot be vain, Sybil, or you would take more care 
 of your complexion." 
 
 u I never think of that. What does it matter? If you 
 will come to me in half-an-hour, I will take Hannibal 
 down to the beach and wait for you there." 
 
 Sybil put on the large straw hat that generally lay on 
 the floor by her side, and was soon seated on the sands, 
 trying to tempt Hannibal into the water, but unsuccess- 
 fully. Hervey had not been to fetch the dog as he had 
 promised, and Sybil fancied he must have heard Hartly's 
 words, or in some way detected her dislike of his coming 
 to the house. This annoyed her, and she wished Eustace 
 would go with her to see Mrs. Feltham. But then, what 
 excuse had she for going there ? and she felt a strange 
 reluctance to propose it. She had learnt Hervey 
 Feltham's name from seeing it painted on his boat. She 
 wondered if Miss Power would call him a " common 
 fisherman;" she thought he had a better manner than 
 Mr. Power, and felt sure he must have been intended for 
 something very different originally. 
 
 Some boats were lying in the offing, as if they were 
 resting lazily on the still summer sea, for there was not a 
 breath of wind, and she wondered which was Hervey's. 
 Certainly he and his mother interested her far more than 
 
Mr. and Miss Power. 4f 
 
 the Powers. She would take Hannibal down to the 
 shore quite early, before breakfast, and then she should 
 see him before he went out for the day. 
 
 Why did she want to see him at all ? 
 
 A quick footstep, and Eustace sat down by her side, 
 
 " What a beautiful evening, and not very hot now." 
 
 Eustace had worked hard, and was quite ready to give 
 himself up to the pleasure of idleness. 
 
 " Yes, the day is fine enough, but the place is so ugly — 
 don't you think so, Eustace? Nothing but flat sands 
 and the sea. I think we shall soon be tired of it." 
 
 " Already, Sybil ? What a fickle child you are ! We 
 thought of the place, in the first instance, from your wish 
 to be near the sea." 
 
 "And for mamma," suggested Sybil, feeling rather 
 guilty. 
 
 " Yes, for mamma too ; but I don't know that it has 
 done her much good as yet. She does not go out 
 enough." 
 
 " She does not like it except to sit in the garden." 
 
 " That's very well for summer — not in winter." 
 
 Winter at Sandling was a frightful thought. Sybil 
 would not entertain it. 
 
 " Mamma misses the garden at Cheveleigh so much — 
 there was plenty of space there." 
 
 " We must all miss that," replied Eustace gravely ; 
 "but I hoped that in a great measure the sea might 
 make up for it. I don't feel as if I should ever tire of 
 the sea, its ever-changing moods, its freedom and its 
 immensity." 
 
 " This flat waste is frightful, Eustace ; and one never 
 sees a real ship here." 
 
 " I am afraid Miss Power has infected you with the 
 spirit of discontent, or with her longing for a town life, 
 the delights of which she seemed to be expatiating upon 
 when I came in. Discontent is a dangerous thing to give 
 way to. Every place has interests of its own." 
 
 "Now, what interests could I possibly have here, 
 Eustace ? " asked Sybil eagerly. 
 
48 Off the Line. 
 
 He paused, for. to tell the truth, he was somewhat at a 
 loss for an answer. With his very different temperament, 
 and his interests in all literary pursuits, he was not able 
 to appreciate the irksomeness of Sybil's life, its loneliness 
 and its monotony. Neither was he old enough to view 
 life and the difficulties of others indulgently. There was 
 a sternness about him that made Geoffrey call him a 
 " Puritan," and that often made people afraid of him. 
 He had a rigid code of right and wrong, and his mind 
 was not elastic ; but if he had acted up consistently to 
 his own theory of finding duties and interests close at 
 hand, he would have devoted himself more to the cultiva- 
 tion and amusement of a mind like Sybil's, so sure to 
 prey upon itself and run to seed if left uncared for. So, 
 when she repeated the question, with her eyes intently 
 fixed upon her brother's face, he felt that he must put it 
 before her as a duty to find occupation and interests in 
 her life. 
 
 " You know the reason for which we came here, Sybil, 
 and how important it is for us to retrench in every 
 possible way " 
 
 " Yes, I know all that ; but that does not make any 
 interests here for me," interrupted Sybil. 
 
 That was so true that Eustace was not quite sure how 
 to proceed. 
 
 " Could not you assist mamma or Hartly in the house- 
 keeping ? " 
 
 " Housekeeping, Eustace ! " laughed Sybil ; " as if 
 there was any housekeeping in this small house, and with 
 so few Servants ; then if there was, mamma would leave 
 it all to Hartly — and what could I know about all that 
 sort of thing ? " 
 
 " Nothing, I daresay, but it would be useful to learn." 
 
 " Learn what ? — how to order dinner and darn table- 
 cloths ? " said Sybil scornfully. " That would never be 
 im interest, only a tiresome duty — worse than lessons." 
 
 Here was a suggestion, and Eustace followed it up. 
 
 " You could study, Sybil, surely you might find that a 
 never-failing resource ? " 
 
Mr. and Miss Power. 49 
 
 " I daresay," replied Sybil, impatient at the indefinite- 
 ness of her brother's replies \ " but what and how? — who 
 would teach me ? I have so few books here, and you 
 never have any time." 
 
 Eustace was too cautious to commit himself. Few 
 things would be so great a trial to him as to give up his 
 hours of study to Sybil's desultory habits and impulsive 
 fancies. He compromised the matter as well as he 
 could. 
 
 " I could tell you what books would be best for you to 
 read, I daresay, and you could always ask me about 
 anything that I knew, and that you did not." 
 
 Sybil shook her head. 
 
 " That would be asking you everything, and you would 
 not like that ; and then comes the dreary part, for I 
 always want somebody with me — not a governess, but 
 somebody who would talk and help me. Even in music, 
 which I love better than anything in the whole world, I 
 want some one to play or sing with me." 
 
 " Well, you have found a companion for walking to- 
 day in Miss Power ; she may prove an acquisition in all 
 other ways." 
 
 Sybil looked highly contemptuous for a moment, and 
 then sad, as a feeling of loneliness pressed upon her ; 
 but soon brightening up, she said, " Geoffrey will be 
 here soon, won't he ? " 
 
 ' ; Yes," said Eustace ; " I only hope he won't waste all 
 his time here ; he is so fond of boating." 
 
 " I am very glad of that. He must take me out in a 
 boat, only there do not seem to be any boats here." 
 
 11 Nothing but fishing-boats ; but 1 daresay the men 
 would be glad to let out their boats by the day, and go 
 with them as boatmen. But you must not make 
 Geoffrey idle, Sybil." 
 
 " How dull and business-like you would make life," re- 
 turned Sybil ; " surely all people are not obliged to work 
 so hard ? " 
 
 "Surely all ought to work. What is life but work ? — 
 what would life be without it ? " 
 
50 Oft the Line. 
 
 "Much pleasanter," thought Sybil, and much 
 pleasanter think many besides. Eustace was right in the 
 main, but far too rigid in his ideas. He wanted the ex- 
 perience of life to give breadth to his views, and the 
 teaching life alone can give to modify the crudeness of 
 his opinions. The old saying that "all work and no 
 play makes Jack a dull boy " is true, though Eustace 
 entirely ignored it. 
 
 V I don't believe that anyone does really like work 
 except you — and perhaps Hardy," said Sybil rather 
 pettishly. " If one's life is to be made up of dullness 
 and work it would be better to be a child again, and go 
 back to the tiresome old school-room days at once." 
 
 " I don't wish you to be dull, Sybil, or to work if you 
 dislike it. I spoke of work as the only remedy for 
 dullness." 
 
 " It seems to me that the remedy is worse than the 
 disease," said Sybil lightly. 
 
 Eustace looked very grave. 
 
 " I am sorry that your life is so distasteful to you, 
 Sybil, the more so as I am indirectly the cause, in taking 
 you away from Cheveleigh. As soon as it is possible, 
 or seems in any way right for us to return there, we will 
 do so ; but I fancied that my sister would have made my 
 duties easier for me— not more difficult." 
 
 He spoke in a tone of wounded feeling. Sybil be- 
 came instantly penitent, assuring him that she was not 
 really discontented, and that she would not vex him for 
 the world — that she was quite happy at Sandling, only 
 sometimes the life was lonely, and then she could not 
 help complaining. 
 
 Her brother did not look convinced. Of a far graver, 
 deeper nature than Sybil, he could not throw off anxiety 
 so easily^ and her dissatisfaction weighed upon his mind. 
 They walked on in silence. At last Eustace spoke — 
 
 " Don't you think you could find some interest 
 among the people in ' the village ? they look very poor, 
 and there are a great many children. Is there a 
 school?" 
 
Mr. ajid Miss Power, 5 1 
 
 " T don't know," said Sybil quickly, for she had a 
 horror of teaching and of poor schools, and no one had 
 ever been able to induce her to take any interest in the 
 school at Cheveleigh j " but I really don't want to find 
 anything to do ; I shall go out with Miss Power some- 
 times, and then Geoffrey will be here." 
 
 "As you like," said Eustace, still speaking very 
 gravely ; " but I do advise you to struggle- against a spirit 
 of discontent — you can have no idea how it will grow 
 upon you. I speak from experience," he added with 
 a smile. 
 
 Sybil felt anxious to change the subject. 
 
 " I only know one person here — a woman, who lives 
 near the beach in the churchyard lane. Her son is a 
 fisherman, and he is teaching Hannibal to fetch things 
 out of the water like his own dog — but that is a New- 
 foundland, and does it all naturally. I wish you would 
 come and see her : she is just like a lady." 
 
 "Who?" asked Eustace, rather mystified; "the New- 
 foundland dog?" 
 
 "No, of course not; I mean this man's mother, Mrs. 
 Feltham." 
 
 "That must be the explanation of a mysterious 
 message Hartly brought me some days ago about a man 
 that had come to fetch Hannibal. She asked me if he 
 was to go, and 1 said certainly not, but the man had 
 better go as soon as possible. I forgot it till this moment." 
 
 "Oh! Eustace, you didn't!" said Sybil, her cheeks 
 flushing and her eyes sparkling with anger at Hartly's 
 interference, and distress at Hervey receiving such a 
 message ; " he would think it so unkind ! " 
 
 " I am very sorry," replied her brother, looking sur- 
 prised at her vehemence. " I had no idea you cared 
 about it, and did not understand why a fisherman should 
 want Hannibal. I supposed it was some pretext for 
 getting money." 
 
 " Money ! he would not take it, I am sure," said Sybil 
 'indignantly ; "they are not like poor people — you don't 
 understand." 
 
52 Off the Line, 
 
 " 1 thought you said he was a fisherman ! But we can 
 go round by the beach and call upon these new friends 
 of yours. Will that please you, Sybil ? " 
 
 " Yes, if there is time j but I want to go as far as the 
 sand-rock and get some sea-pinks. They are such a 
 beautiful colour — do you think we can ? " 
 
 " Certainly not now, 'for the tide has turned, unless 
 you like to be out on the rock in the middle of the sea 
 all night. It must be some day when the tide is going 
 out." 
 
 They sauntered on till the sun set in a glory of flame- 
 coloured sky, and then paused to watch the last rays sink 
 below the horizon. 
 
 "We must walk home quickly," said Eustace, 
 " mamma will wonder what has become of us." 
 
 " Shall we have time for our visit, Eustace ? " asked 
 Sybil rather anxiously. 
 
 " No, we must go home at once. I had no idea we 
 had been so long." 
 
 They walked home in silence, but Sybil made a firm 
 determination to see Hervey or his mother, or both, the 
 next morning, to explain her apparent capriciousness 
 and incivility. 
 
 Mrs. Morley was still sitting by the open window, 
 just where they had left her two hours before, gazing over 
 the sea, as if to some point beyond the horizon, with a 
 weary, wistful, far-away look in her eyes, as if she took in 
 nothing before her, her whole being wrapped in the past 
 or the future. 
 
 Eustace walked up to her and kissed her forehead. 
 She turned towards him with some appearance of in- 
 terest. He was the most dearly loved of all on earth 
 now. 
 
 " We were afraid that you would think we were lost," 
 he said, " and that you would be tired of being alone." 
 
 " No, I am used to that," she said with a faint smile. 
 
 "Mamma would never miss us if we went to the. 
 North Pole and back," said Sybil in a tone of irritation. 
 
 Though too selfish and inconsiderate to be at all a 
 
Mr. and Miss Power. 53 
 
 devoted daughter, still she felt keenly her mother's want 
 of sympathy or any outward demonstration of affection, 
 and resented it as if deprived unjustly of her birth- 
 right. 
 
 Eustace noticed both the words and the manner, and 
 pondered over it, feeling that a new and unexpected diffi- 
 culty was creeping into his life. He had felt anxious and 
 responsible for Geoffrey's success in life, but concluded 
 that Sybil would drift into her lot quietly, as most women 
 do ; " mais il y a des femmes et des femmes," and Sybil's 
 wayward and impulsive nature could not be dealt with 
 according to ordinary rules. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 SYBIL VISITS MRS. FELTHAM. 
 
 "Ilyaun egoisme affreux dans la passion, quelqu'en soit le 
 genre et l'objet. L'amour, plus impitoyable que la haine, immole 
 sans hesiter tout ce qui se trouve entre lui et son idole. Un senti- 
 ment unique a une puissance merveilleuse. " — Comtesse De 
 Bonneval. 
 
 HE arrival of the Morleys had caused a greater 
 excitement at Sandling than they could easily 
 have imagined. Very small events are of un- 
 told importance in the monotony of village life, 
 and the new comers continued to be subjects of never- 
 failing interest. It was therefore a considerable disap- 
 pointment that some days elapsed without bringing Mrs. 
 Morley to the Parsonage. 
 
 Mrs. Power did not consider it etiquette to invite 
 Sybil to spend the day, before the visit, which she had 
 not taken the trouble to pay, was returned in due form. 
 There was some fear that her absence might be con- 
 sidered a slight, and when the question was discussed 
 one morning at breakfast, Mr. Power urged her to make 
 an exception to her rule of never making calls at Sand- 
 ling, in favour of Mrs. Morley, and to go that day to the 
 Farm — for such the house, in spite of its altered appear- 
 ance, was still called. 
 
 Evidently annoyed, Mrs. Power declared she should 
 not do anything of the kind, and spoke eagerly and a 
 some length to that effect. 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Power, I am quite surprised you should 
 ask such a thing ! When you dragged me to this out-of- 
 the-way place it was not to pay visits. If Mrs. Morley 
 
Sybil Visits Miss Felt ham. 55 
 
 chooses to take huff at receiving a visit from you and the 
 girls, why, then, she may." 
 
 " But Mrs. Morley is a lady— a person of some con- 
 sequence," pleaded her husband. 
 
 " That may be all very well. If I do it to one I must 
 to another. I never walk in the country — I was not born 
 to it, and don't intend." Mrs. Power was the daughter of 
 a large cheesefactor in Manchester. " I don't care if they 
 never come at all." 
 
 " I do," said Mary good-humouredly ; "I am quite 
 impatient to see this beautiful friend of Sophia- 
 Jane's." 
 
 While the Parsonage was disturbing itself about the 
 .Farm, the Farm was equally restless about the Parsonage ; 
 and it had been decided that very morning that the 
 visit could not be put off any longer, and that Mrs. 
 Morley and Sybil should walk there the same afternoon, 
 Eustace having business some miles off that would 
 occupy him all day. Very weary Mabel looked when 
 she reached the Parsonage, as she sat down for a moment 
 in the porch, while Sybil inquired if Mrs. Power was at 
 home. It seemed difficult to obtain a definite answer to 
 what appeared a very simple question ; the man " did 
 not know," but would ask if they wished. 
 
 " The young ladies were both at home. Would they 
 walk in?" 
 
 "Thank you,' we will wait here," said Mrs. Morley 
 quietly, and the servant went back, leaving the hall-door 
 open. As they were standing at the porch, a gentle- 
 looking girl came out of a room close by, and coming up 
 to them, begged them to come in. 
 
 " Your servant seemed doubtful if Mrs. Power could 
 receive us," said Mrs. Morley; "I think we had better 
 remain here." 
 
 " Pray don't," said Mary Power blushing. " Mamma 
 does not know you are here, and you must be tired this 
 hot day. I will go and look for her, and will you wait in 
 the dining-room — there is no one there," and she threw 
 open the opposite door, and led the way into a cool 
 
56 Off the Line. 
 
 shady room, which opened into a verandah, and looked 
 upon the garden. 
 
 " Oh ! this is delightful, after the glare from the sea ! " 
 said Sybil ; " isn't it, mamma ? " 
 
 " Please sit here," said Mary to Mrs. Morley, drawing 
 an easy-chair near the window, and stooping to put a 
 foot-stool under her feet with such gentle kindness, that 
 Sybil felt quite surprised to see a stranger show so much 
 interest in others. 
 
 " Thank you, my dear," said Mrs. Morley ; " it is very 
 good of you to take so much trouble. I shall soon be 
 rested. I hope your mamma won't trouble herself to 
 come down " 
 
 Here she was interrupted by the hasty entrance of Miss 
 Sophia-Jane, who eagerly rushed up to Sybil, full of 
 delight at seeing her again, and the anxiety she had felt 
 lest she should not come, and said that Mrs. Power was 
 coming down-stairs. 
 
 " Do let me take you into the drawing-room ? I can't 
 imagine why Mary brought you into this room — so like 
 her ! " she added rather contemptuously, in a low voice. 
 
 " It is a charming room, and so cool," replied Sybil, 
 who had been very much taken with Mary's manner and 
 appearance, and found it difficult fe) be properly responsive 
 to Miss Sophia-Jane. 
 
 The two girls were so perfectly unlike, that no one 
 could have believed that they were sisters j but Mr. 
 Power had been twice married, and Mary was the only 
 child left by his first wife, and was as unlike the rest of 
 the family as possible. Her features were not regular, 
 and it was the way of the family to lament " poor Mary's 
 plainness ; " but any defect in her face was more than 
 atoned for by its sweet expression. Her mouth was 
 large, and the lower part of her face was too square and 
 massive for her to have the smallest pretentions to beauty; 
 yet, combined with her broad forehead, her countenance 
 showed both intelligence and character. Sybil was 
 instantly taken with her appearance, and not at all 
 inclined to listen to Sophia- Jane's inane chatter. 
 
Sybil Visits Mrs. Felt ham, 57 
 
 They found Mrs. Power waiting for them in a hard, 
 uncomfortable drawing-room, looking smart, fussy, and 
 put out, and presenting the greatest possible contrast to 
 Mrs. Morley's gentle refinement. Sybil saw at a glance 
 that her mother and Mrs. Power never could get on, so 
 she demurred, with a consideration quite unusual to her, 
 as to the propriety of accepting Mary's proposal to show 
 her the garden, and looked inquiringly to see if Mrs. 
 Morley could exist for half-an-hour, tete-a-tete with Mrs. 
 Power. Mabel smiled as she read what was passing in 
 her mind. 
 
 " Go and see the garden, dear ; I shall be quite rested 
 by the time you come back," 
 
 " Did you know about Mary? " whispered Miss Sophia- 
 Jane before the sister joined them. " She is not mamma's 
 daughter, and no one ever believes we are sisters, we are 
 so unlike — don't you think we are ? " 
 
 " Have you any other sisters at home ? " asked Sybil, 
 without answering the question. 
 
 " No j Rose is at school, and Evelyn and John at 
 Harrow. There is only Charlie at home now." 
 
 " Is he too young to go to school, or has he left it ? " 
 
 " He has never been able to leave home ; he had a 
 fall as a baby, which injured his spine, and he is always 
 obliged to lie down. He is next to me, and past six- 
 teen." 
 
 " Poor boy ! What a terrible trial for him," said Sybil 
 in a tone of deep compassion ; " is he very unhappy ? " 
 
 " Are you talking of Charlie ? " asked Mary, who had 
 just joined them ; " I hope he is not unhappy at all." 
 
 "You can't tell," replied her sister, "he is never un- 
 happy when you are there. You should see him when 
 you are away." 
 
 " Then I must not go away," she said thoughtfully ; 
 " but he never told me anything of the kind." 
 
 " Oh ! never mind Charlie," said Sophia-Jane im- 
 patiently, " one hears of nothing else all day long. I 
 want Miss Morley to promise to spend a long day with 
 us." 
 
58 Oft the Line. 
 
 "Thank you," said Sybil, rather alarmed at the 
 prospect ; " I should like to walk with you very much, 
 but I do not think I could stay away all day." 
 
 "Then we will settle about walking first. Will to- 
 morrow do — or Monday? We will say Monday, and 
 call for you at three, shall we? Do you think your 
 brother would come, too ? " 
 
 Sybil could not help smiling at the idea of Eustace 
 enduring Sophia-Jane's company for two hours. 
 
 "I am afraid Eustace won't have time to walk with us; 
 he is always so busy, but next month Geoffrey will be 
 here, and he will have nothing else to do. Bat I hope 
 you mean to come too," she added, suddenly turning to 
 Mary. 
 
 " If I can — if Charlie will spare me, but if he wants 
 me I must stay with him." 
 
 " I suppose you could come another day. Don't you 
 take it in turns to stay with him ? " asked Sybil, abruptly, 
 thinking how much pleasanter it would be to walk alone 
 with Mary. 
 
 " No, I seldom stay," said Sophia- Jane ; " Charlie is 
 so very full of fancies, I never know what to do with 
 him, and Mary does. Papa sometimes takes him out 
 in a boat, and then he does not want anybody with him." 
 " How much I should like to go ! " exclaimed Sybil ; 
 " I never was on the sea in my life, but I hope I shall go 
 as soon as Geoffrey comes home." 
 
 Geoffrey seemed the end and aim of all Sybil's 
 aspirations, and after some desultory talk, and a promise 
 on her part to be ready on Monday if they would call 
 for her, they returned to the house, to Mrs. Morley's 
 infinite relief, though she had no exertion beyond listen- 
 ing to her very voluble hostess's declamations against 
 the place, its dulness, and the annoyance of her life in 
 consequence. Sybil proposed to her mother to go 
 through the churchyard and home by the sands. 
 
 " If it's not further, my dear. I could not walk 
 further," said Mrs. Morley despairingly. 
 
 " It's not further, indeed, and then you can sit down 
 
Sybil Visits Mrs. Feltham. 59 
 
 on the sands and rest. It would be much better to go 
 home that way." 
 
 Her mother submitted, and they walked slowly under 
 the shade of the large trees down the churchyard lane — 
 the only trees Sandling could boast of — till they came 
 opposite to Mrs. Feltham's cottage. 
 
 " That is the cottage, mamma, where I had my gown 
 mended. I wish we could go in to explain about 
 Hannibal ; you could rest there — but the door is shut, 
 and I can't see anyone," said Sybil, looking round the 
 garden in hopes of finding someone there. 
 
 No, the door was shut and the windows shaded by 
 their muslin blinds, and no one to be seen. 
 Mrs. Morley was surprised. 
 
 " I don't understand, Sybil — who are you looking for ? 
 I don't want to rest here." 
 
 "I wanted to explain about Hannibal, but I don't 
 think I can," said Sybil in a tone of vexation, for she 
 had never succeeded in seeing either Hervey or his 
 mother since Eustace had told her of his being sent 
 away. She had fully reckoned on setting matters straight as 
 she returned that day from the Parsonage, but now she was 
 foiled again, andin consequence felt extremely provoked. 
 Her mother did not notice her annoyance, but Sybil 
 had been observed by the very person she was wishing to 
 see. Mrs. Feltham had seen them walk down the lane, 
 and watched Sybil's wistful look at the closed door ; but 
 as she was not alone, and as Mrs. Feltham had not 
 made up her mind what line she should take with regard 
 to her, the safest thing, she thought, was if possible to 
 escape the visit. 
 
 " She will come again, and then, if she is alone, I shall 
 be able to find out if she is disposed to fancy Hervey — if 
 she is, why, then, things may take their course. I should 
 never say nay to his marrying a princess if he can, but he 
 sha'n't get his heart broken by one that might take him 
 up one day and drop him another, while I can prevent 
 it; not that this girl looks like that — she seems wilful 
 enough for anything." 
 
60 Off the Line. 
 
 In truth, Mrs. Feltham was wearied out by Hervey's 
 wayward moods and variable spirits. He had been 
 quite unsettled, as she complained, since the first day he 
 saw Sybil, and he [never seemed to think of anything 
 else ; and in spite of his anger at the remembrance of 
 the message he received when he went to fetch Hannibal, 
 his daily and hourly thought was how soon he should see 
 her again. The whole thing was intensely provoking to 
 his mother, who found him always difficult to manage ; 
 but the mischief was done, and being unscrupulous as 
 well as ambitious for her darling, she resolved to assist 
 him if she saw the smallest probability of success. She 
 had no idea how to do this — it was altogether a per- 
 plexing state of things — but she was naturally fond of 
 managing, and not a woman to sit down under a difficulty. 
 She would talk to Hervey again, and see if it were not 
 possible to persuade him to give up such an apparently 
 absurd notion ; but Hervey never had given up his own 
 way, either at the suggestions of others or of common 
 sense, and it was useless to expect him to do so now. In 
 fact, his mother had so carefully instilled into him ideas 
 of his own importance, and what he might have expected 
 if his father had lived or been a different man, that she 
 knew the idea would not appear so preposterous to him 
 as to others. 
 
 Mrs. Morley and Sybil walked quietly home, both 
 tolerably well satisfied with their exertions ; Mabel simply 
 glad that the trouble of her visit was over — Sybil that 
 she had made acquaintance with Mary Power. The' next 
 morning she was up early, and went down to the beach 
 before any of the fishing-boats had gone out. She was 
 soon apprised by Rover's noisy greeting that his master 
 was at hand, and she got up from the spot where she was 
 sitting to look round for him ; but he passed her quickly, 
 touching his hat haughtily, but without speaking. 
 
 Sybil followed him to the boat, which he was preparing 
 for fishing. 
 
 "Can you wait a minute?" she said; "I want to 
 speak to you about Hannibal." 
 
Sybil Visits Mrs. Feltham. 61 
 
 There was a slightly deprecating tone in her voice that 
 thrilled through Hervey's frame, and he turned pale as he 
 answered coldly — 
 
 " As long as you choose, Miss Morley. I am in no 
 hurry." 
 
 " I only wanted to tell you that there had been some 
 mistake about Hannibal. I was out, and no one knew 
 that he was to go with you. I was so much obliged to 
 you for coming to fetch him." 
 
 " Then the message I received did not come from 
 you?" he said, turning round quickly, and fixing his 
 tyes upon her in his eagerness for a reply. 
 
 " Certainly not. I never knew anything about it — 
 besides, I asked you to come." 
 
 " I know that ; but a fisherman is not an acceptable 
 visitor to a gentleman's house, even to the servants," said 
 Hervey bitterly. 
 
 " Why do you speak in that way ? " said Sybil warmly. 
 " No one thinks — no one feels as you say. It was a 
 mistake." 
 
 " I care little what anyone thinks or feels, provided 
 you did not think my coming impertinent," said Hervey 
 in a low voice. " I would do anything in the world that 
 
 I could, but there is nothing " 
 
 "Yes, there is," said Sybil lightly, feeling uncomfort- 
 able at his manner. " You can take Hannibal out 
 another time, and perhaps take us out some day in your 
 boat." 
 
 Hervey's face lighted up with sudden pleasure. It 
 was a very handsome face, and so Sybil thought at that 
 moment. 
 
 " Would you go out in a boat like this ? " 
 " When my brother comes I hope he will take me. I 
 never was on the sea in my life." 
 
 " If I could know the day before, I would make her 
 cleaner and fit for you — not really fit for you, that could 
 not be." 
 
 Sybil blushed at the homage paid her by his manner, 
 and asked if she should leave Hannibal with him then. 
 
 ' 
 
6 2 Off the Line, 
 
 " If you will — or will you let me take him out in the 
 boat, that would teach him best ? " 
 
 " Oh ! he would be drowned ! " exclaimed Sybil. 
 
 " No, he wouldn't," said Hervey quietly j " I would 
 sooner be drowned myself ; but I might keep him out too 
 long, perhaps. Nothing would teach him so well as feel- 
 ing he must swim for his life." 
 
 Sybil shook her head. 
 
 " I won't take him then, you may trust me. Shall I 
 bring him up to the Farm before I go ? " 
 
 " I was going to see your mother — I wanted to ask her 
 a question. Do you think she could see me ? " 
 
 " She is at home ; shall I tell her that you want her ? " 
 
 " No, thank you, I can leave Hannibal and come 
 back for him ; " and glad to escape, though she did not 
 know why, Sybil walked quickly to Mrs. Feltham's 
 cottage. 
 
 " Can you tell me of anyone here who does needle- 
 work ? " she asked as soon as she was seated in the com- 
 fortless-looking parlour ; for though Mrs. Feltham received 
 her much less stiffly, she was promoted to this honour. 
 Hartly had been enquiring for a work-woman, and she 
 made this a pretext for her visit. - 
 
 " It's not easy to find a work-woman here, Miss Morley 
 - — the women are all brought up to hard out-door work. 
 Is it anything very particular that you want done ? " 
 
 " I believe it's only for mending. I daresay it does not 
 signify," replied Sybil carelessly. 
 
 " If it was for yourself, and anything you cared very 
 much about, I would have offered my services," said Mrs. 
 Feltham, graciously. " I do all the work that is neces- 
 sary for ourselves, and I believe I can do most things in 
 that way." 
 
 " Oh, thank you," said Sybil, rather shocked at having 
 appeared to treat her as a needle-woman ; " of course I 
 did not mean to ask you — besides, it's not for me." 
 
 "I confess I would not do it for anyone else," she said 
 with a warm frank manner that, contrasted with her pre- 
 vious coldness, was peculiarly winning, " but I fear there 
 
Sybil Visits Mrs. Feltham. 63 
 
 is no one of that description here ; if I can hear of any- 
 one, I will let you know." 
 
 " I passed by your house yesterday with mamma," said 
 Sybil, anxious to start another topic, " but I could not 
 see anyone about. I wanted to explain to you about my 
 dog. Your son was good enough to come for him, to 
 teach him to fetch and carry, and to go into the water as 
 his dog does, but I Was out when he came and the ser- 
 vants would not let him go. I met him just now upon 
 the beach and told him how it was." 
 
 Mrs. Feltham looked at' Sybil curiously, but her man- 
 ner was quite natural and simple, and she could draw no 
 conclusions from it to guide her conduct towards her, so 
 she heaved a deep sigh, and said in a mild sad voice, — 
 
 " I am very glad, poor fellow ; he did not even tell me, 
 but then he feels everything so much — far too much to 
 speak of." 
 
 There was a pause, and then Sybil said abruptly, — 
 
 " Does he like being a fisherman ? " 
 
 A strange scornful expression passed over Mrs. 
 Feltham's handsome features, then changed to one of 
 deep sadness. 
 
 " He likes the sea — he did from a boy, but it's not 
 probable that he should take to a life of that kind as 
 those do who are born to it Beggars cannot be choosers, 
 Miss Morley." 
 
 " If he was not born to it," said Sybil rather shyly, " is 
 it not a pity that he did not choose some profession 
 that " 
 
 " That was more fit for a gentleman, perhaps you would 
 say — but what could he do ? I had no means of educa- 
 ting him after he lost his father. You may believe it was 
 no small trial to me, Miss Morley, to see a fine boy, such 
 as Hervey always was, drop down to the level of a poor 
 man's child." 
 
 Though Mrs. Feltham's voice trembled and her eyes 
 were cast down, apparently to hide the rising tears, still 
 she did not fail to glance from beneath her eyelids, to see 
 the effect her words had upon Sybil. 
 
64 Ofi the Line. 
 
 " Coming to this place must have been a great change 
 *> you, almost more than it seems to us after Cheveleigh." 
 
 " A great change indeed — the change from a comfort- 
 able position in a town, to loneliness and hard work in a 
 place like this. For myself, it mattered little where or 
 how I lived after my dear husband's death, but it did 
 seem hard — very hard to bear for Hervey ; and then to 
 see him obliged to associate with those so much beneath 
 him — it was a bitter trial." 
 
 " But was he obliged to do so ? — is there no other sort 
 of people here ? " 
 
 " There has never been a gentleman's family here till 
 you came. The clergymen were always kind in noticing 
 him, but as to the farmers about, there is not one who 
 would not think it much beneath them to be seen with a 
 fisherman." 
 
 " It seems a pity that he was a fisherman ; if he was so 
 fond of the sea he could have been a sailor." 
 
 "Perhaps I was to blame there, Miss Morley. He 
 must have gone as quite a boy; and lonely as I was, how 
 could I part from him ? " 
 
 " No, of course not," said Sybil, thinking her remark 
 had been unfeeling — " I forgot that." 
 
 " Boys will never be quiet, and in some ways it's better 
 they should not. Hervey was so proud to have a boat 
 of his own, and was so quick and handy in learning to 
 manage her. But I need not trouble you with all these 
 difficulties of my life. I am sure I ought to beg your 
 pardon." 
 
 " Pray don't say so," said Sybil, in her eager impetuous 
 way, " it is very kind of you to tell me all this. I hope, 
 as soon as my brother comes, your son will take us out 
 in his boat." 
 
 " Nothing would make him so happy," said Mrs. 
 Feltham emphatically; "it would be like bringing back 
 the past to be with those who are not repulsive to him, 
 as the rough people here must always be." 
 
 Mrs. Feltham was a very clever woman, and a quick 
 discemer of character, and had duly calculated the effect 
 
Sybil Visits Mrs. Feltham. 65 
 
 her words would have on a nature like Sybil's. She and 
 Hervey had had a long conversation the previous day, from 
 which she saw plainly that, let the result be what it might, 
 he would not brook the smallest opposition from her ; so 
 she had determined to throw herself, with all her natural 
 energy and astuteness, into his interests. He had to 
 a degree imbued her with his own sanguine views ; she 
 dwelt fondly on his handsome face and pleasant manner, 
 and began to entertain visions of future greatness for her 
 darling, highly gratifying to her naturally ambitious 
 character. None of his antecedents were likely to be 
 known to the Morleys, and any idea of unusual regard 
 for her on Hervey's part, was a notion utterly unlikely to 
 occur to Sybil ; so there would be nothing to put her on 
 her guard, if once she could establish an intimacy between 
 them, till — till when ? 
 
 Mrs. Feltham, ambitious and scheming as you were, 
 did no feelings of compunction come across you as you 
 gazed on the bright, beautiful girl, whose young life you 
 were trying to blight, by exposing her to the baneful 
 effects of a misplaced passion — no remorse for under- 
 mining her happiness with crafty wiles, and leading her 
 to give her heart where it could only tend to misery and 
 ruin ? No, all was swallowed up in her blind idolatry of 
 her son. Her nature was one that would trample down 
 any obstacle between her and the end she had in view, 
 and she felt satisfied with the result of her conversation 
 with Sybil, and as if the first stone of Hervey's fortune 
 had been laid. 
 
 She proceeded to question Sybil about her own past 
 history and her iamily, and led her on to describe her life 
 at Cheveleigh. Sybil was enchanted to obtain so inter- 
 ested and sympathising a listener, and she talked with so 
 much openness, that the wily woman knew as much of 
 the Morleys as if she had been personally acquainted 
 with them for years, and had already decided that the 
 only person likely to oppose any of Sybil's wishes was her 
 old nurse, who of course could be easily managed. Tb"* 
 clock struck, and Sybil started. 
 
66 Off the Line. 
 
 11 Oh ! how long I have been here ! An hour at least, 
 and I left Hannibal with your son. I daresay he has 
 been in his way — how could I be so thoughtless ? " 
 
 " I can answer for Hervey being delighted to have 
 him ; and if you knew the pleasure it is to me to see one 
 so bright and beautiful in my poor home, you would 
 hardly grudge your time, Miss Morley." 
 
 " I will come again if you like," said Sybil, blushing 
 at such openly expressed admiration ; " but here is 
 Hannibal," she added as the door opened and Hervey 
 entered. 
 
 " I have brought the dog here, as I was not sure if you 
 had returned, Miss Morley ; he will soon take to the water, 
 but I think he has had enough for to-day." 
 
 " Pretty creature ! " said Mrs. Feltham, patting his head, 
 while feeling intensely provoked at the dripping coat, 
 which Hannibal had made still dirtier from the sand he 
 had been rolling in, being rubbed against her clean 
 furniture; "had he not better go to the kitchen fire, 
 Hervey?" 
 
 "The sun will soon dry him, mother; he'll take no 
 harm," said Hervey carelessly. 
 
 " But he is dreadfully wet and dirty — I am so sorry ! " 
 said Sybil, who detected Mrs. Feltham's anxious looks at 
 Hannibal's movements. " I will take him home." 
 
 Hervey rose as if to accompany her, but a warning 
 glance from his mother deterred him, and he stood at the 
 door, only saying as she passed, — 
 
 " Then I may have Hannibal another day, Miss 
 Morley?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, any day ; " and Sybil walked quickly home in 
 a perturbed state of mind ; she did not know why — she 
 would have found it difficult to analyse her feelings. 
 Mingled with the flutter of gratified vanity from the un- 
 disguised homage of both mother and son, was an uneasy 
 consciousness that something new had come into her life 
 — a strange feeling that she scarcely knew how to deal 
 with, but which led her to go at once into her own room, 
 lest her long absence should be observed or commented 
 
Sybil Visits Mrs. Feltham. 67 
 
 upon. She sat down by the window, wondering at her 
 own misgivings. 
 
 " Suppose Eustace does make a fuss about my talking 
 to strangers, it can't really matter \ there is no harm in it 
 — it's only Hartly who is so fidgety, because she is an old 
 maid. These people are not poor j really I don't believe 
 mamma could mind — it is only her fancy." 
 
 In spite of coming to this conclusion, Sybil said nothing 
 of her morning walk and visit to Mrs. Feltham ; but she 
 found her thoughts perpetually recurring to her new 
 friends, and speculating upon their past life, which seemed 
 enveloped in a mystery peculiarly fascinating to a young 
 and imaginative mind. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and, as she and Eustace 
 were returning home in the evening, they passed Hervey 
 and Rover lying idly on the beach. 
 
 He rose and took off his hat, but made no attempt to 
 speak. Hannibal evidently debated in his own mind 
 whether he preferred his new or his old friends, and de- 
 cided in favour of the former. Eustace missed him, and 
 proposed to return to the beach to find him ; but Sybil 
 gave him some evasive answer, and would not go. She 
 knew the dog was not following her, but she would not 
 once look back. Was this the first small cloud in the 
 hitherto clear atmosphere of her life ? 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TASTES. 
 
 " Non aveva imparato ancora ch'ogni'anno aggiunto alia vita 
 dell' nomo, passa portandone via una speranza, e lasciando in Siio 
 luogo on dolore." — Nicole di' Lapi. 
 
 "Oftentimes a man will strike his friend 
 By random verbiage, acuter pain 
 Than could a foe, yet scarcely mean him wrong : 
 For none can strip this complex masquerade, 
 And know who languishes with secret wounds." 
 
 • * ' My Beautiful Lady. " 
 
 €€ 
 
 O be sure, what a difference there is 'twixt 
 people ! Now to look at those three 
 young ladies, and then to think that they are 
 all the same in a way, and yet Miss Sybil 
 looking like a queen by the side of them! Well, I am glad 
 that at all events she has somebody to speak to. My mind 
 has misgave me scores of times that this place was too 
 lonely for her by half. Bless the child, she's one as 
 wants more than many another — for all ain't alike, what- 
 ever people may say." 
 
 Such was Hartly's soliloquy as she watched Sybil and 
 her two companions walking away from the house on the 
 day they had promised to call for her. Time had touched 
 Hartly very lightly since she first came to be the right 
 hand of all at Cheveleigh; a little more bony and 
 angular — she was a Scotchwoman by birth — her hair a 
 little thinner, her temper not a little more crusty, Geoffrey 
 said, but he scarcely meant it, and it was certainly a libel. 
 She was really unchanged — with sound sense, a kind 
 heart, and an indomitable will. 
 
Tastes. 69 
 
 It was this last quality that carried all before it. It is • 
 an inestimable blessing when one will, entirely to be 
 depended upon, preponderates in a household ; and 
 Hartly's judgment was so good, her heart so kind, and 
 her ideas so practical, that devoted as she was to all the 
 Morleys, they were safe in her hands. Strong and healthy, 
 she was a person of untiring energy, and it was this 
 that enabled her to understand what the rest of the family 
 probably did not, the safety-valve that was absolutely 
 necessary for Sybil's youth and high spirits. Too well con- 
 ditioned to be anything but perfectly respectful in her 
 manner, still she often felt provoked by Mrs. Morley's 
 dreamy apathy, and had always strongly disapproved of 
 Sandling as a home for them. 
 
 Why. they had better have gone abroad, she thought, 
 or gone anywhere than have come to such a place as this. 
 
 " I don't say but what it was right of Mr. Eustace to 
 do all he could to set matters straight before he might be 
 wanting to settle in life, but I believe they might have 
 lived at the old place with less going on, and things more 
 looked into, as I would have looked into them ; however, 
 that's no business of mine." 
 
 Hardy might canvass their actions herself, but no one 
 dared do it before her. She was one of a race that 
 scarcely exists now, a perfectly trustworthy and devoted 
 servant. 
 
 At first Sybil did not much enjoy her walk. Miss 
 Sophia-Jane was evidently disappointed that she saw 
 nothing of Eustace ; Mary was naturally shy, and inclined 
 to give monosyllabic answers to Sybil's questions. They 
 had left the sands and were walking across the fields to a 
 hamlet about a mile off, as Sybil declared " her eyes 
 ached for something green." 
 
 "Mine ache for something to see," said Sophia- Jane, 
 pettishly, after they had walked some distance. "I 
 am tired to death already ; can't we sit down and rest ? * 
 
 " If we go across this field we shall get into Colton 
 churchyard," said Mary, " and there we can rest Under 
 the old yew-tree. I have often sat there." 
 
70 Off the Line. 
 
 " Is there an old church ? " asked Sybil, " and is it 
 pretty ? " 
 
 " It is not very old. I don't think it is worth seeing. 
 Besides, it is always shut up, and we should not get in," 
 said Mary. 
 
 " And what in the world should we see if we did get 
 in, but old mouldy walls, with some marble slabs stuck 
 upon them. I can't think why people care for old 
 churches as you do, Mary," said Sophia- Jane. 
 
 "There is often so much to care about in an old 
 church," replied Mary. " The architecture, painted glass, 
 or old brasses." 
 
 "They may interest you, but I don't care at all for that 
 sort of thing, you know." 
 
 They soon arrived at the churchyard, which looked 
 cool and quiet, and the seat under the old yew-tree was 
 inviting. The church itself was a small dilapidated 
 building, but not old enough to be interesting. There 
 was a wooden spire, square windows, ugly tombstones for 
 the most part requiring to be propped up — the whole 
 a relic of the last century. Sybil climbed upon a square 
 tombstone which was nearer to the church than the 
 others, and looked in. 
 
 " How wretched and dirty it is!— the pews look worm- 
 eaten and the walls mouldy." 
 
 " I daresay it is damp, from being so seldom used. It 
 is a chapel annexed to Sandling, but so few people live 
 here that there is only service once a month, and 
 occasionally of an afternoon. That farm and those few 
 cottages are the only houses in the parish, I believe." 
 Mary spoke as if apologising for the neglected appear- 
 ance of the place. 
 
 "Then is your papa the clergyman?" asked Sybil, 
 looking surprised. 
 
 "Yes, but all these people come to Sandling church, 
 Mary, don't they? You know all about it," said her 
 sister. 
 
 "Why do you know? " asked Sybil, turning to Mary ; 
 " do you come here often ? " 
 
Tastes. 71 
 
 " I did at one time. I taught the children who did 
 not come to Sandling school ; but that was years ago, 
 before we lived here. I used to come every year with 
 grandmamma." 
 
 Sybil was silent, and seemed deep in thought ; at last 
 she said suddenly — 
 
 11 1 wish you would tell me what you find to do all 
 day. Eustace says I ought to find interests here, and 
 jour sister says you have so much to do. What is it? " 
 
 "Not so very much," answered Mary smiling. "I 
 try to help the people here as much as I can. I know 
 them all, and they are very poor. Then Charlie has to 
 be attended to — I read to him, and of course one must 
 read and write for oneself." 
 
 " Then it must be tiresome to be hindered by other 
 things." 
 
 " I am very glad when I can get a day all to myself — 
 it does not often happen, for as Charlie is ill " 
 
 " He must be spoilt and have everything he likes," in- 
 terrupted her sister. 
 
 " Much more than if he were well, of course. It's 
 a terrible trial for a boy to be so entirely dependent." 
 
 " Dreadful," said Sybil, " to be so helpless. I should 
 die at once ! " 
 
 " People don't die under terrible trials, but live on, and 
 have to bear them, and that is a further trial." 
 
 Mary's voice trembled as she said this, and Sybil 
 wondered if with that quiet and contented face she had 
 ever been restless or unhappy ? 
 
 Sophia-Jane did not find talking of Mary's occupations 
 at all to her taste, and began to tell Sybil of the races 
 
 and the ball that were to take place at M during the 
 
 ensuing month, and to wish that they might go there 
 together. 
 
 " Thank you; but I should not go anywhere now," she 
 replied gravely. 
 
 "Oh ! no, to be sure not. I am sorry I spoke of it— 
 but then, I am such a thoughtless creature ! — you are not 
 offended with me, are you, dear ? " 
 
72 Off the Line. 
 
 Sybil felt like a snail that must retreat into his shell, 
 and would have done so once and for ever in proud 
 reserve, if a glance at the kind ieeling expression in 
 Mary's face had not softened her. 
 
 " Of course not," she answered hastily ; and then turn- 
 ing to Mary, said, " but you have not told me what you 
 find to do all day long. When I have sung and played 
 till I am tired, there seems nothing else to be done." 
 " Books," suggested Mary. 
 
 " But I never know what to read. All Eustace's books 
 look so dry ; and then there are so many I may not read 
 — besides I hate history." 
 
 " Not all history, surely," returned Mary. " I find it 
 very difficult tq get books for Charlie. He likes Shake- 
 speare better than anything else." 
 
 " I don't know much of Shakespeare. I wonder if I 
 should like it." 
 
 " I can't read anything but a story," said Sophia- Jane ; 
 " we had enough of history and all that dry stuff at 
 school — one might as well be a child still if it's to 
 come all over again. Mary doesn't care to read 
 novels." 
 
 " I like a good novel very much, but some novels are 
 more tiresome than the dullest history," said Mary. 
 
 "I like Walter Scott's novels, but I have read very few. 
 I was always at lessons when I was in the house, and if 
 there was any spare time I kept it for music. I used to 
 be out with Geoffrey as much as I possibly could." 
 
 " You play and sing a great deal, I daresay," replied 
 Mary. " I wish you would sing to Charlie ; it would be 
 such a pleasure to him." 
 
 " Would he like it ? — but I don't know him, and then 
 I could not play and sing to him without disturbing some 
 one else." 
 
 " Yes, you could ; there is a pianoforte in the school- 
 room. Charlie is often there. Will you come in some 
 day and see him?" 
 
 " Are there no people here that you like? Do you 
 never go out sailing or have pic-nics in summer ? Is not 
 
Tastes. 73 
 
 your mother well enough to enjoy them ? I want to go 
 on that rock which is covered with pink flowers, but it's 
 so dull going out by oneself. And I want to go out sail- 
 ing as soon as Geoffrey comes. I never was on the sea 
 in my life." 
 
 " I don't like it much," said Sophia-Jane, " it is dull 
 without a very pleasant party; and then it is so awkward, 
 for if the wind gets up, one is sure to be sick. The 
 water-parties at Richmond are my delight — even Mary 
 likes that." 
 
 " I was very happy at Richmond," said Mary, rather 
 sadly ', " I liked everything we did there." 
 
 Again Sybil looked at her in surprise. Was it possible 
 that her life, too, contained any other element than quiet 
 and contentment ? 
 
 "I want so much to hear you sing, Miss Morley," 
 continued Mary. "I believe you sing and play very 
 well." 
 
 " Indeed I don't," said Sybil ) " I only wish I did. I 
 shall never be satisfied till I play the organ ; it does not 
 seem possible to explain all one feels on the piano- 
 forte." 
 
 " I always think singing sufficient," said Mary, " but 
 music is the only utterance for those who are not poets." 
 
 " I think an organ much more expressive than sing- 
 ing ; it can be magnificent or dreary — can say every- 
 thing." 
 
 " Don't you feel that the sea says a good deal ? — or at 
 all events it fits into every mood, and so becomes more 
 of a companion than the most beautiful view, which 
 must always be the same." . 
 
 " It is too restless, I think," returned Sybil, " there are 
 quick changing lights and shadows over a landscape that 
 I like to watch, and the clouds — I do love the clouds ; 
 but I think I shall tire of the sea if I stay here very 
 long." 
 
 " Of course you will," interrupted Sophia- Jane, eager 
 to put a stop to a conversation that seemed in danger of 
 drifting into topics quite beyond her limited power of 
 
74 Off the Line. 
 
 comprehension ; "lam tired to death of it already, and 
 of the noise it makes." 
 
 "The grandest sound in all creation," said Mary- 
 smiling. 
 
 " I daresay, but I am sick of it for all that. You will 
 sing to us, won't you, dear?" said Sophia-Jane, taking 
 Sybil's hand caressingly in hers, " and do let us call you by 
 your name. Miss Morley sounds so formal." 
 
 " Pray do if you like — my name is Sybil," she said 
 shortly. 
 
 " What a pretty name ! I can't bear mine — it's so 
 dreadfully long." 
 
 "It is a very difficult name to say," replied Sybil 
 gravely. 
 
 " Well, then, call me Mary, and let Sophia- Jane be 
 Miss Power," said Mary laughing. 
 
 "What nonsense ! " said her sister. "Sybil will call us 
 both by our names, of course. And you will sing to us 
 to-day, won't you ? I do dote on English ballads. Do 
 you sing English ? " 
 
 " Sometimes ; I can sing English if you like — but what 
 would your brother like best ?" 
 
 " Charlie ? — oh ! anything — everything ! " 
 
 " But I should like to know what he prefers," persisted 
 Sybil; and they got into a discussion upon different kinds 
 of music, which lasted till they reached the farm. 
 
 Sybil went at once into the drawing-room, where Mrs. 
 Morley was lying on the sofa, and, without an apology, 
 walked straight up to the pianoforte, and began looking 
 over the music to find a song she wanted. 
 
 " They want me to sing, mamma, so we came here," 
 said Sybil, sitting down on the music-stool. 
 
 " I am so sorry we came in, Mrs. Morley. I am sure 
 we are disturbing you," said Mary, looking shocked at 
 Sybil's inconsiderate manner. 
 
 " No, my dears — I am very glad to see you. I was 
 only tying on the sofa, as the sun has given me a head- 
 ache. You had better stay to tea, and have some music 
 in the evening." 
 
Tastes. 75 
 
 " But music cannot be good for your headache — we 
 had better go," said Mary, turning to f er sister. 
 
 " Mamma doesn't mind music — she never does. Do 
 stay to tea. There will be so much more time after," 
 said Sybil, carelessly. 
 
 " Thank you, but mamma will expect us. If you like 
 to stay, I will go without you," said Mary, turning to her 
 sister. 
 
 " Well, I should like to stay, and, as no one wants me, 
 I don't see why I shouldn't." 
 
 " I will write a note to Mrs. Power, to tell her that 
 you are here, and then you can both stay," said Mrs. 
 Morley. 
 
 " Thank you ; but do let me write and save you the 
 trouble," said Mary, standing by the sofa, and arranging 
 the cushions with a quiet determination that nothing 
 should be done till Mrs. Morley was lying down comfort- 
 ably again. 
 
 She submitted and looked thankful for such unwonted 
 attention, only saying, 
 
 "Will you ring the bell, my dear, when you have 
 written your note ? " 
 
 Sybil looked on with an odd feeling that in some way 
 or other Mary was taking her place, and felt less disposed 
 to like her than usual. She was no better pleased when 
 Eustace came down to tea, and immediately began to ask 
 Mary several questions about some of the people in the 
 village, and which, from having lived in the neighbour- 
 hood with her grandmother from a child, she was able to 
 answer. The conversation was kept up so briskly that 
 the tea seemed endless to Sybil, who thought with some 
 resentment that the object for which Mary was staying 
 was quite forgotten, and she felt jealous of her brother's 
 sudden devotion to a stranger. But Eustace was not 
 thinking at all of Mary, though he was talking to her ; he 
 wanted information, and she happened to be able to give 
 it to him in a concise, practical manner, that insensibly 
 attracted him. 
 
 " Are we to have no music after all ? " said Sophia- 
 
76 Off the Line. 
 
 Jane at last, piqued at Eustace's exclusive attention to 
 Mary. 
 
 " I hope so," said Mary, rising at last ; " you promised 
 to sing to us." 
 
 Sybil led the way into the next room, saying carelessly, 
 
 " If you like, but I did not think you seemed to care 
 for music to-night." 
 
 "Sing 'Rest in the Lord,'" said her mother; "you 
 like Mendelssohn." 
 
 " Sacred music ? Shall I sing that ? " 
 
 " Nothing can be more beautiful," said Eustace. " But 
 if you object to sacred music, play my favourite Volkslied, 
 'Es ist Bestimmt.'" 
 
 " But that is a quartette," objected Sybil. 
 
 " I can take the bass ; perhaps we can all sing it — let 
 us try." 
 
 Sybil wished to sing herself, not at all to play for the 
 rest of the party, but she could not refuse. Mary had a 
 good contralto voice, and was a steady second, so upon 
 the whole it was performed tolerably well. As soon as it 
 was over, Sybil did not propose any more " part-singing," 
 but opened her music-book, and sang two or three songs 
 successively ; then stopping suddenly, said, 
 
 " Would your brother like these ? " 
 
 " He likes sacred music best," said Mary. Again she 
 seemed to oppose her. In a moment of irritation Sybil 
 rose from her seat and walked to the window, and stood 
 silently looking out without joining in the conversation 
 that was going on. 
 
 It was a relief when the servant came in to accompany 
 the young ladies home ; but Sybil, suddenly feeling her- 
 self called upon to do some civility, said it was " too 
 early to go." 
 
 " We must go, thank you. Come, Sophia- Jane, we had 
 better not keep John waiting." 
 
 " Good-bye, then, my dears," said Mrs. Morley. " I 
 hope you will soon be able to come and see us again." 
 
 "Thank you," said Mary; "and please send Miss 
 Morley to see us." 
 
Tastes. 77 
 
 " I shall go if I like, without being sent," was Sybil's 
 refractory feeling ; but she said nothing, and tried to be 
 responsive to Sophia- Jane's warm embrace. 
 
 As soon as they were gone, both Eustace and Mrs. 
 Morley began to praise Mary's amiable and pleasant 
 manners ; but Sybil preserved a dignified silence. 
 
 "Don't you like her, Sybil?" asked Eustace, in some 
 surprise. " I thought she would be such a charming 
 friend for you." 
 
 "I don't care much about friends here," returned 
 Sybil, "and of the two I think the other the more 
 pleasant." 
 
 " ImposshYe !" exclaimed her brother; "why, she 
 seems simply a goose ! " 
 
 " Well, it's better to be a goose than disagreeable," 
 said Sybil, crossly. 
 
 Mrs. Morley sighed; she had felt so glad of this 
 acquaintance for Sybil, thinking it would supply what 
 was needed to make her happy in her present life ; and 
 now it had proved a failure, like everything she had done 
 to please Sybil. But in spite of her passing fit of ill- 
 temper and contrariness, the change had done her good ; 
 she liked any society better than being alone, and she 
 fully intended to talk and sing to the sick boy, and to 
 cultivate the Miss Powers. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 FRUSTRATION. 
 
 1 Morning arises stormy and pale, 
 No sun, but a wannish glare, 
 In fold upon fold of hueless cloud, 
 And the budded peaks of the wood are bowed, 
 Caught and cuffed by the gale ; 
 I had fancied it would be fair." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 " Oh, my soul is full of longing 
 For the secret of the sea, 
 And the heart of the great ocean 
 Sejads a thrilling pulse through me." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 FEW days later brought Geoffrey down to Sand- 
 ling for a holiday. He had passed his examin- 
 ation, and was in the highest possible spirits, 
 ready to do anything and to go everywhere. 
 With a bright nature, and a good temper, always light- 
 hearted and happy, with far less thought than Eustace or 
 character than Sybil, he was much easier to live with, and 
 in many respects a pleasanter companion. The morning 
 after his arrival he got up early to bathe, and Sybil ran 
 down to the beach to meet him before breakfast. 
 
 " You never told me this was such a jolly place, Sybil 
 — so fresh, and really open sea, with no snobs to plague 
 one. It's ten to one better than Brighton, where I went 
 last week for two days, just to see Uncle Harold." 
 
 "How is he, Geoffrey? Is he better? — and is he 
 coming here ? " 
 
Frustration. 79 
 
 " I don't think so. He is still very seedy, and would 
 not come so far from London ; but he would like such a 
 quiet place as this, I am sure." 
 
 "Uncle Harold like quiet! Oh! Geoffrey, I don't 
 believe it the least in the world. He likes London, and 
 people, and all the things that I like." 
 
 " Not a bit. He is ill, and can't bear to see anybody. 
 He walks on the pier sometimes, and smokes on his 
 balcony, but he never goes to see anybody." 
 
 Sybil could not at all take in this new idea of her 
 uncle, and pondered over it in silence till Geoffrey spoke 
 again. 
 
 " Sybil, who is that man who is enticing Hannibal 
 away? Look, he is following him." And Geoffrey 
 called angrily to the dog to come back. 
 
 " Don't, Geoffrey — don't call him ; it's all right, he is 
 going to teach him to go into the sea." 
 
 " But who is he ? " repeated Geoffrey, as Hervey, hear- 
 ing the dog called, was bringing him back. " He's a 
 deuced good-looking fellow, whoever he is." 
 
 " I don't know," said Sybil, blushing, she scarcely 
 knew why. " A man who lives in that cottage — a fisher- 
 man." She felt an unaccountable dislike to tell Geoffrey 
 his name, but pointed to a boat lying on the beach near 
 them. " That's his boat." 
 
 " Hervey Feltham — a clean looking boat enough, and 
 a fi le name for a fisherman." 
 
 " But they are not exactly that sort of people," began 
 Sybil ; but before she could finish her not very lucid ex- 
 planation, Hervey came up to them. 
 
 " Shall I take Hannibal or not, Miss Morley ? " said 
 Hervey, as he took off his hat to Sybil, without appearing 
 to see Geoffrey. 
 
 " No, thank you," replied Sybil, with some hesitation ; 
 " I believe my brother wants him — don't you, Geoffrey ? " 
 
 " No ; I only thought he was going off with a stranger, 
 and the greatest fault a dog can have is to be ready to 
 follow any one who calls him \ but you are making a 
 water-dog of him, I hear." 
 
 6 
 
So Off the Line. 
 
 " I have tried, but he doesn't take kindly to the sea. 
 He should be taken out in a boat and made to swim for 
 his life, then he would always feel safe in the water \ but 
 Miss Morley is afraid of my doing this." 
 
 " Oh ! nonsense, Sybil," said Geoffrey, " let him go ; 
 he'll be safe enough — let this — let him (he was at a loss 
 what to call Hervey), u take him, if he's going out. I 
 only wish he would take me, too." 
 
 " But so he can — he will," said Sybil, eagerly — " he 
 can take us both. I have been waiting for you to come 
 home to persuade mamma to let me go out in a boat. I 
 never was on the sea in my life." 
 
 " Preciously sick you'll be, then, if it blows at all," 
 returned Geoffrey, laughing ; " but let us look at the boat. 
 Is it that little lugger ? She looks as if she would get 
 fast through the water." 
 
 " Ay, Sir, that she does ; I'll match her against any 
 boat for miles round the coast. She was built in 
 London." 
 
 " Seaworthy and all right — fit for my sister, eh ? " asked 
 Geoffrey, examining the boat as if he knew anything 
 about boats, which he did not. 
 
 Hervey did not reply for a minute. Sybil thought he 
 was annoyed at Geoffrey's off-hand manner. 
 
 " I should never take Miss Morley out if it was not 
 perfectly safe." 
 
 Hervey said this in such a low voice that Geoffrey who 
 was playing with Hannibal, did not hear him ; but Sybil 
 did, and turning to her brother, said, 
 
 " Do let us go to-morrow, Geoffrey. Mamma will let 
 me go with you. 
 
 " I don't care — we can go if you like, but you'll soon 
 have had enough. When will the tide serve best for 
 starting ? " 
 
 " Eleven o'clock would do very well," answered Hervey, 
 his face flushing with a delight he could not conceal, at 
 the prospect of having Sybil in his charge for so many 
 hours ; " but the wind is rather shifty to-day, I don't expect 
 the sea will be calm." 
 
Frustration, 81 
 
 " I daresay it will," replied Sybil quickly ; " we need 
 not settle now, we can come to the beach in the morning 
 and see." 
 
 Breakfast was half over when they came in, and Eustace 
 began to lecture them both on their unpunctuality. 
 
 " Sybil is always late as it is, and if you are going to 
 make her worse, Geoffrey, I don't know how there will 
 be time to do anything all day. We waited a quarter-of 
 an-hour-for breakfast. If you are going to idle all the 
 day on the beach you need not keep her with you." 
 
 " Really," replied Geoffrey, in a tone of mock penitence, 
 "how can I restore those wasted fifteen minutes to people 
 whose time is so valuable, or make up for the exhaustion 
 that waiting a quarter-of-an-hour for breakfast must have 
 produced ! " 
 
 " I was not thinking of myself but of mamma," said 
 Eustace, in a tone of reproach. 
 
 "I am sorry mamma was kept waiting; but really, 
 Eustace, I don't know what you expect. Here have I 
 come down for a lark, and you would have me shut 
 myself up all day with musty books, as you do. I delight 
 in this fresh sea air, and have been telling Sybil what a 
 jolly place it is — such good sands, and no people to pester 
 one." 
 
 " No, thank Heaven," said Eustace. 
 
 " No, indeed," replied Sybil, rather less joyfully ; " but 
 now, Eustace, don't get cross and preachy. Geoffrey 
 and I are going to be out all day while he is here. That's 
 what you like best, isn't it, Geoffrey dear ; and to-morrow 
 he is going to take me out in a boat" 
 
 11 My dear Sybil," exclaimed her mother, " I can't allow 
 you to run into danger in that way, it's bad enough for 
 your brothers." 
 
 " But, mamma, there is to be no danger. I am only 
 going if the sea is like a mill-pond, without a breath of 
 wind; and Geoffrey has seen the boat, and that's all 
 right." 
 
 " I sha'n't let her go, mother, if it's not — you needn't 
 be afraid. I should not like to be plagued with her." 
 
82 Off the Line. 
 
 " Do you think it safe for Sybil to go on the sea, 
 Eustace ? " asked Mrs. Morley anxiously. 
 
 " What can be the use of asking Eustace, mamma?" 
 remonstrated Sybil, " when he knows about as much of a 
 boat as I do of astronomy. Do pray trust us for once ! " 
 
 " Sybil will be looking green before we have been out 
 half an hour, and will be begging to be put on shore," 
 said Geoffrey, laughing. 
 
 Mrs. Morley was silenced, but not satisfied. Eustace 
 carried off Geoffrey to his farm, and no more was said 
 about boating that day. 
 
 Hervey was right in his predictions about the weather ; 
 when Sybil looked out of the window the next morning 
 the whole aspect of the place was changed. The wind 
 was blowing hard from the south-west ; black clouds were 
 chasing each other rapidly across the sky ; the sea was 
 a dull lead colour, flecked with white foam ; sea-gulls were 
 flying near the shore, and the lurid line of light in the 
 offing told of an impending storm. In spite of the wind 
 the air was oppressive, and this, combined with the dark 
 and stormy sky, was depressing to those who are 
 susceptible of changes in the atmosphere. Though the 
 weather in England is proverbially uncertain, most people 
 are more or less affected by it. It is true that there may 
 be times in our life when the sunny sky and smiling earth 
 only jar upon our spirits, when they seem but to mock 
 our bitter sorrow, so little are they in unison with our 
 sick heart. A dull leaden sky, a misty air, and moaning 
 wind would be welcomed as a relief, but these are excep- 
 tional cases. Generally the electric state of the 
 atmosphere that accompanies sudden storms, acts strongly 
 upon the nervous system, while the bright sunshine and 
 the 
 
 Rustling breeze so fresh and gay, 
 That dances forth at opening day, 
 
 is exhilarating in the extreme, especially to the young, 
 who are not weary either in body or mind, and who revel 
 in the simple fact of existence. Unfortunately Sybil was 
 
Fi-ustration, $3 
 
 not only depressed but very much out of temper at the 
 idea of being kept in the house ; and without Geoffrey 
 too, it was insufferable — unbearable ; and in a decidedly 
 unamiable mood she came down to breakfast. Geoffrey 
 was lounging about, watching the sky, and Mrs. Morley 
 felt relieved that the boating question was settled for that 
 day, at all events. 
 
 " Here is your friend, Sybil," said Geoffrey, " come to 
 tell us what we can see for ourselves," and he beckoned 
 td Hervey to come to the window. Sybil joined him, and 
 Hervey took off his hat with a glance that showed the 
 respect was intended for her alone. 
 
 " Not much chance for a sail to-day," said Geof- 
 frey. 
 
 " Certainly not for a lady, and a venture for any one 
 with this wind getting up, and a driving sea." 
 
 u We should get wet jackets, I suppose." 
 
 " And but little chance of changing them," returned 
 Hervey; "for if we got fairly out, we could not risk 
 running on shore till the wind dropped. It's a wild day 
 and a dirty sky, and I see no prospect of the weather 
 settling yet awhile," and he looked up at the clouds in a 
 very sailor-like fashion. 
 
 "Then it must be given up, I suppose," said Geoffrey; 
 " it does not even seem fit for Hannibal to-day." 
 
 " Better not try him, Sir. Then the first fine day you'll 
 want the boat ? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, certainly," said Sybil eagerly ; "and you 
 won't forget ? " 
 
 " No danger," said Hervey in a low voice, and with a 
 glance at Sybil. " I am going round by the sand-rock 
 by-and-by — would you like me to bring you any of the 
 pink flowers ? It is quite covered with them just now, 
 and there's not many flowers that will grow here." 
 
 " Thank you, I should like any flowers here. Geoffrey, 
 we must go to the sand-rock — I have been waiting for you 
 to go with me." 
 
 "Go where?" asked Geoffrey; "there doesn't seem 
 much chance of going anywhere to-day," and some heavy 
 
84 Off the Line. 
 
 drops of rain fell on his head as he leant out of the 
 window. 
 
 " To a rock near, covered with sea-pinks. We'll get 
 the Powers to go with us." 
 
 " Who are they ? I thought there were no people 
 here." 
 
 " Mr. Power is the clergyman. He has a wife and two 
 daughters, and a sick son." 
 
 " Well, and what are they ? Good for anything — up to 
 anything, I mean ? " 
 
 " I don't know much about that. I rather like the 
 eldest daughter Mary — that is, I ought to like her I 
 suppose ; and the other is only a young lady." 
 
 "A ' jeune meess ! ' You don't describe them as very 
 attractive people. Can't we walk to a rock without 
 them?" 
 
 " We can, only they know the way, and about the tide, 
 and all that sort of thing ; but I would much rather go 
 alone with you." 
 
 "I vote, then, for going without them — don't you, 
 Eustace?" 
 
 " I ? — oh ! certainly ; but I shall not be able to go. I 
 must be at the Farm all day." 
 
 " We don't want Eustace, Geoffrey ; he doesn't know 
 how to be idle, and keeps looking at his watch, and 
 saying he must go home to his letters or his books. He 
 calls being out, waste of time — pray don't make him go 
 with us." 
 
 Every one looked surprised. It was not often that 
 Sybil spoke so disrespectfully to her elder brother, but at 
 this moment she was glad of some vent for her pettish- 
 ness. 
 
 "But I am afraid we shall not go anywhere in this 
 horrible weather," she added, looking disconsolately at 
 the rain. 
 
 " Perhaps we might get as far as the Parsonage," sug- 
 gested Eustace. 
 
 "Why should we go there?" asked Sybil in some 
 surprise. 
 
Frustration. 85 
 
 " I must go there presently, and I thought we might all 
 go," he replied carelessly, and he gave Sybil some books 
 which he asked her to wrap up in paper for him. 
 
 " Are all these books for Mary Power, Eustace ? " 
 asked Sybil. " If you are really going there we will come. 
 It does not rain at this minute. Do come, Geoffrey — 
 anything is better than staying at home all day." 
 
 They were very welcome at the Vicarage, especially to 
 Sophia-Jane, who was delighted to see Geoffrey. Mrs. 
 Power was very civil and talked much to Sybil, but she 
 soon became weary and impatient, for Mary was engaged 
 in an eager discussion with Eustace, and Sophia-Jane was 
 quite engrossed with Geoffrey. Sybil resolved that she 
 would never again suggest taking them out on any pre- 
 lected excursion. She had no fancy for being put on the 
 shelf, especially by Geoffrey, whom she considered her 
 exclusive property. 
 
 " We were going on the water to-day," said Sybil, " but 
 the weather was too bad." 
 
 " Much too bad," said Mary, looking up in surprise. 
 "I wonder you even thought of it." 
 
 "We did not think of it to-day," she replied carelessly ; 
 "we settled it yesterday." 
 
 " What boat were you going in ? " suddenly asked 
 Charlie Power, who was lying unnoticed on a sofa at the 
 furthest corner of the room. " There are no boats here 
 but fishing-boats." 
 
 "Don't you go out in a boat sometimes?" said Sybil, 
 answering one question with another. 
 
 "Yes, but then it doesn't matter — I mean it doesn't 
 signify for ' men about boats being clean and all that. 
 There is only one clean boat here, and that is Hervey's." 
 
 "And that you know papa doesn't like you to use," 
 said Mary reprovingly. 
 
 " I know, and confounded twaddle it is," he muttered. 
 
 Mary looked grave, but said nothing. 
 
 " Whose boat do you say ? " asked Geoffrey, turning 
 towards him. " Surely Hervey Somebody is the name 
 of your hero, Sybil ? — the man we were going out with ? " 
 
86 Off the Line. 
 
 The two girls turned round and looked at Sybil, while 
 with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes she declaimed 
 against any one being a hero of hers. 
 
 " Well, you need not be so angry about it ! He is a 
 good-looking fellow enough," he added with a brother's 
 love of teasing, " and would do just as well for your hero 
 as anyone else. Why is his boat tabooed ? " 
 
 "We see very little of him now," said Mary ; "at one 
 time papa took a great interest in him, but I believe he 
 has not been leading at all a respectable life lately." 
 
 " Then Sybil, you will have to give him up after all, 
 you see," said Geoffrey, still laughing. But it was no 
 laughing matter to Sybil ; the subject annoyed her, and 
 she was extremely provoked at Geoffrey's ridicule. 
 
 " I have no one to give up, and I don't know what you 
 mean ! " she exclaimed, starting up. " I must go now. 
 You can follow me. Good-bye, Miss Power." And she 
 swept out of the room in a dignified manner. 
 
 Her brothers soon overtook her, but she walked on in 
 sullen silence, neither heeding Geoffrey's teasing nor 
 Eustace's remonstrances. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "YOU ARE NOT MY MASTER, EUSTACE." 
 
 " Into my heart a silent look 
 
 Flashed from thy careless eyes, 
 And what before was shadow, took 
 
 The light of summer skies. 
 The new-born love was in that look ; 
 The Venus rose from out the deep 
 Of those inspiring eyes." 
 
 Sir E. L. Bulwer. 
 
 JLL that was said against Hervey Feltham had 
 made but little impression on Geoffrey's vola- 
 tile mind, for a few days after he told Sybil 
 that he had met Hervey on the beach, who 
 said that it would be a perfect day for a sail, and that he 
 had agreed to go. 
 
 " And to take me, Geoffrey ? Please take me — there 
 is nothing I should like so much ! " 
 
 "Well, then, you must come at once. We shall be 
 back early, and it will only worry mamm a to tell her 
 about it beforehand." 
 
 Sybil agreed, and in half-an-hour they were gliding 
 smoothly over a summer sea. She was delighted with the 
 novelty of the motion, the soft sea, and the clear sky, 
 which was reflected on the still water. She did not 
 listen to the conversations of her companions, but re- 
 signed herself to dreamy enjoyment, with all the suscep- 
 tibility of her impressionable nature. 
 
 At home no one had missed them. Sybil mentioned 
 casually that she had had a short sail with her brother, 
 and no objection was made. The expedition was re- 
 
88 Off the Line 
 
 peated frequently, as she proved so good a sailor that 
 even rough weather did not mar her pleasure. 
 
 By this time Hervey and Geoffrey had become con- 
 stant companions. Geoffrey often accompanied Hervey 
 when he went out fishing, utterly heedless of Eustace's 
 remonstrances at his long days spent in idleness. He 
 was going back to Woolwich, he said, and could read there. 
 
 It was unfortunate for Sybil that Geoffrey's departure 
 was a necessity, for dullness and solitude oppressed her 
 more than ever. She did not feel much inclined to renew 
 her intimacy with the Powers, which had been partially 
 suspended during Geoffrey's visit. She longed for the 
 rambles she used to take with her brother — longed to be 
 out on the sparkling summer sea, with the fresh sea 
 wind blowing in her face ; and to revel in the delicious 
 sense of freedom, which belongs especially to sailing. 
 
 " Oh ! if Eustace were not always busy," she sighed as 
 she flung herself down on a coil of rope on the sands. 
 " How shall I bear dull stupid walks by myself, or, worse 
 still, with Hartly ? And then it is worse in ' the house 
 those long silent evenings. When Geoffrey comes back 
 it will be winter and Christmas, and too cold to go out 
 much. Fancy Christmas in this place ! " And she 
 looked around on the flat dull sands with a shudder. 
 
 She sat idly watching a boat which was coming in, and 
 which, till it was quite close, and a man jumped on 
 shore, she did not see to be Hervey's. He came up to 
 her at once. 
 
 " Oh ! if you knew how I've been longing to be in 
 that boat!" she exclaimed. "I did not know it was 
 yours. It is all so stupid now Geoffrey is gone." 
 
 " Will you come now, Miss Morley ? Only a very little 
 way, just for half-an-hour. I wish you would." 
 
 " Oh ! no, thank you," said Sybil colouring, and shrink- 
 ing back from the hand which was stretched out to help 
 her into the boat. " I could not go alone." 
 
 "I only meant just across the bay," said Hervey, 
 looking hurt ; " and perhaps I could land you beyond the 
 point — but, of course, it's as you please." 
 
"You are not my Master, Eustace? 89 
 
 "That is not far — I think I might just go there," said 
 Sybil, gradually yielding. " I will get in at once." 
 
 Both were secretly conscious that they preferred to 
 start without any curious bystanders. Hervey pushed 
 off at once, and again on the water, Sybil's spirits re- 
 turned. She seemed quite unwilling to come back, and 
 it was Hervey who suggested that they had better run on 
 shore. He had been very silent during the half-hour he 
 had spent alone with Sybil. His heart throbbed so 
 tumultuously that it almost impeded his utterance. Be- 
 sides, what could he say? how could he talk to her, 
 whose very presence seemed to annihilate thought, and 
 render all life nothing beyond the consciousness of her 
 existence? When he proposed to land, Sybil, half piqued 
 and half surprised, asked "if he were tired of her." 
 
 Hervey had to put a great constraint on himself, to 
 check the eager words that rose to his lips ; words which 
 would have revealed a very different state of feeling ! 
 But he had sufficient presence of mind to remember that 
 any revelation of the kind would probably prevent a 
 repetition of the step ; so he looked at her for a moment, 
 raised the heavy eyelids that veiled the sleepy dark-blue 
 eyes, and only said very quietly, — 
 " You know it is not so." 
 
 Sybil coloured deeply, and got out of the boat at once, 
 saying she would walk home. 
 
 Hervey stood silent, debating whether it would be 
 prudent to accompany her any part of the way, and 
 finally decided that it was better not. Sybil walked home 
 quickly, with burning cheeks, and a consciousness very 
 like guilt, a feeling entirely new to her truthful, though 
 headstrong nature. 
 
 She met the two Miss Powers, who said they had been 
 calling at the Farm, but finding her out, had left a 
 message with Hartly to ask her to come and lunch with 
 them the next day. 
 
 " Do you think Mrs. Morley and your brother would 
 come too ? " asked Mary. " We left no message for them, 
 thinking it better to ask you first We have some cousins 
 
9o Off the Lijie. 
 
 staying with us, and I think Mr. Morley and Hugh 
 would suit each other." 
 
 " Not unless some one dreadfully dull and tiresome 
 would suit him," said her sister to Sybil in a low voice. 
 
 Sybil was not in a mood for visitors — she was per- 
 turbed at what she had done, and in a hurry to get home. 
 Besides, she always felt annoyed when Mary manifested 
 her pleasure in Eustace's society. " I don't know, I will 
 ask mamma, but I think Eustance is too busy to go any- 
 where." 
 
 "You said so before," remonstrated Sophia-Jane; 
 " what can he possibly have to do ? " 
 
 Sybil often wondered too, but she said, — 
 
 " Oh ! a great [deal — he reads so much, and has all 
 kinds of business to attend to." 
 
 " At all events you will come, dear, won't you ? " Sybil 
 promised, and the young ladies kissed as affectionately 
 as if they had the smallest regard for each other, and 
 parted. 
 
 Sybil ran into the house, and was again waylaid by 
 Hartly, who looked at her curiously. 
 
 " Dear me, Miss Sybil, what a time you've been out 
 —the two Miss Powers " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I know, Hartly — I met them," said Sybil 
 impatiently ; " they want us to go there to-morrow — so 
 tiresome ! " 
 
 " Now, that's what I can't at all understand. Young 
 ladies like yourself— clergyman's daughters, and all so 
 respectable, too. I wonder why it's tiresome to go to 
 them ! " 
 
 " I don't know ; I think they are rather dull." 
 
 " They can't be so dull as other sorts — as some as is 
 unfit companions for you, Miss Sybil." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," said Sybil crossly. 
 But her cheeks flushed, and she had no wish for Hartly 
 to explain. 
 
 " Whatever I mean," said Hartly, nodding her head 
 sagaciously, " there's one thing I know, and that is, that 
 it comes to no good when folks take up with those be- 
 
" You are not my Master, Eustace" 91 
 
 'specially gentlefolks, except in the way of 
 charity, and that's fitting enough." 
 
 Sybil did not stay to hear more, but ran into the 
 drawing-room to escape any further comments. Her 
 mother was looking tired and flurried, as she always did 
 whenever she had to entertain visitors alone. 
 
 u My dear, how long have you been out ! Eustace f 
 thinks it such a pity that you waste your time so much. 
 If you never read or practise you will forget all you 
 ever did know." 
 
 Mrs. Morley was as much put out as her gentle nature 
 could be, and, under the shelter of Eustace's name, 
 ventured to find fault with Sybil. 
 
 " Eustace really need not trouble himself about me 
 at all," said Sybil haughtily ; "lam not a child to be 
 cooped up and lectured by him." 
 
 " How very ungrateful of you to talk like that," said 
 her mother querulously ; " if your poor father could have 
 known how little you cared for " 
 
 " Mamma," exclaimed Sybil in a voice tremulous with 
 suppressed anger, " I can't bear this ! If my father were 
 alive, I should not be ^.lways found fault with, or be 
 always lonely. You may tell Eustace that when he 
 cares enough for me to give up his business or his 
 pleasure to be with me, he may speak. Till then I will 
 not brook any interference from him." 
 
 Goaded, wounded, and angry, Sybil escaped to her 
 room, and hastily locking the door, gave way to a 
 passion of tears. An ebullition of this kind was very 
 foreign to her nature, but she was over- wrought, and it 
 was some time before she grew calm. She sat down 
 listlessly by the window to let the cool air blow on her 
 hot forehead, and remained watching the early autumn 
 sunset till the sea looked cold and grey, and the dreary 
 waste of sand lifeless and deserted. 
 
 There was a yearning in Sybil for something to 
 cling to — a cry in her heart for protection, even 
 against herself. All that was bright in her youth seemed 
 drifting away from her, and she felt as if she were 
 
92 Off the Line. 
 
 mentally as well as bodily stranded on that desolate 
 shore. Was day after day to be spent in this dreary 
 monotony ? She could not — she would not bear it S 
 Why should she give up the only companionship that 
 created any interest in her life for a fancy of Eustace's, 
 or because it might create wonder and blame in the 
 very small world of Sandling ? What was the world to 
 her ? Nothing. She would never be fettered by such 
 absurb trammels as the conventionalities of society. She 
 had no interest in this man. It was absurb to sup- 
 pose that she could have, but his homage satisfied her 
 love of power and her craving for admiration. Per- 
 haps it would be better not to go out in his boat 
 again without Geoffrey, but she would go and see Mrs. 
 Feltham — she was far more interesting than Mrs. 
 Power. 
 
 Sybil could not give up the one golden thread of ro- 
 mance that had crept into the dull tenour of her life, 
 and but little understood the danger of the desperate 
 game she was so thoughtlessly playing. 
 
 A knock at the door interrupted her musings. 
 
 " Mrs. Morley was waiting fqj tea." 
 
 " I am not coming down. I don't want any tea," was 
 Sybil's impatient reply, without stirring from the window ; 
 but the next moment she left her seat, bathed her red 
 eyes and smoothed her hair, so as to avoid any questions 
 in case she we're again summoned. 
 
 Another message speedily followed, to entreat her to 
 come down. She reluctantly obeyed, feeling too much 
 irritated with Eustace to wish to see him, and dreading 
 any further discussion with her mother. 
 
 " I am sorry you did not come down, my dear. I am 
 afraid the tea is cold," said Mrs. Morley soothingly, 
 evidently anxious to efface all recollections of their last 
 stormy interview from Sybil's mind. 
 
 "I don't care — I don't want any. I only came down 
 because you sent for me twice." 
 
 Mrs. Morley looked nervous, and Eustace came to 
 the rescue. 
 
" You are not my Master, Eustace? 93 
 
 "What message did the Powers leave about going 
 there to lunch ? Was it for to-morrow ? " 
 
 "Yes, they said they had some cousins staying with 
 them, and some one you would like to meet. They 
 hoped we should all go." 
 
 " Of course I cannot," began Mrs. Morley. 
 
 "My dear mother," pleaded Eustace, "I wish yo-i 
 would." 
 
 "Then you intend to go?" said Sybil, in rather a 
 scornful voice. 
 
 "Yes, certainly — why not?" 
 
 " For no special reason, only that you always say you 
 have no time even to go out for a walk." 
 
 " That is different ; one does not' want to be unneigh- 
 bourly or uncivil." 
 
 " Very well," said Sybil listlessly ; M then you will go 
 with me, I suppose ? " 
 
 There was not much more conversation that evening — 
 a constraint seemed to have crept over everyone, and all 
 were glad when bed time came. 
 
 " Now, Sybil, are you ready ? " said Eustace the next 
 morning, as he came into the drawing-room, where she 
 was idly turning over the leaves of a book with evidently 
 but little attention. 
 
 " Ready ? " she repeated, looking at him with unintelli- 
 gent eyes, as if slowly awaking from a dream. " Oh ! 
 yes, to go to the Powers — but it's not twelve o'clock, 
 surely it's too early ? " 
 
 " I think not. I want to see Mr. Power, and I shall 
 have to ride to Hinton in the afternoon — and I promised 
 to see the fernery." 
 
 " Oh ! Mary Power wants you then ; I understand," 
 said Sybil in a slow and distinct voice, which to a less 
 disciplined temper than her brother's would have been 
 aggravating in the extreme. " I shall soon be ready." 
 
 Sybil walked slowly up-stairs ; Eustace looked after her 
 with a puzzled and anxious countenance. What was this 
 new phase in his sister ? Jealousy and discontent were 
 new elements in her restless life. He was accustomed 
 
94 Off the Line. 
 
 to her wilfulness, but this he felt quite at a loss how to 
 meet. 
 
 Sybil soon appeared, and they walked on silently 
 for a time ; then Eustace stopped short, and turning 
 round, looked gravely into his sister's face. 
 
 "Sybil, I wish you would tell me why you are so 
 changed ? " 
 
 " I don't think I am changed. Everybody and every- 
 thing else is, perhaps. " 
 
 " How — in what way ? " 
 
 " Everything is dreary. No one cares about me. You 
 only go out with me now to see Mary Power." 
 
 "Sybil, is this just?" 
 
 "Yes, quite just," she said passionately, "and quite 
 true ; " her voice trembled, and hot tears welled up into 
 her eyes. 
 
 Eustace felt more at a loss than ever, but would have 
 thought it wrong to show sympathy to what he considered 
 a mere ebullition of temper. 
 
 " Why do you dislike Miss Power so much ? I should 
 have thought her friendship would have been a great 
 advantage to you." 
 
 "It is one that I have no wish to profit by," she 
 replied proudly and sullenly, all her better nature repelled 
 by Eustace's want of sympathy. 
 
 " But if you will not profit by advantages that are 
 thrown in your way, what can you expect ? " 
 
 " Nothing," she said defiantly, " and then I can never 
 be disappointed. You are not my master, Eustace, 
 and need not trouble yourself to comment upon what I 
 do." 
 
 Sybil was by this time thoroughly angry, and Eustace 
 perplexed and annoyed ; and with very ruffled tempers 
 they arrived at the Vicarage. It was a long, low, irregular 
 house, having been altered and added to by many different 
 incumbents. A verandah covered with creepers ran round 
 one side of the house ; a garden laid out upon turf 
 fronted it, and the windows of the library opened into it. 
 This so-called library — for the books which had originally 
 
" You are not my M aster , Eustace? 95 
 
 given it the name had long been transferred into Mr. 
 Power's study — was the usual family sitting-room. This 
 also was low and irregular, with many nooks and corners 
 in it, and was a privileged place for work, the dull stiff 
 drawing-room being kept intact for dinner-parties and 
 other extraordinary occasions. Even the amount of litter 
 which Charlie's attempts at wood-carving produced was 
 tolerated here. There was an open piano, upon which 
 music was scattered ; a guitar thrown down on a sofa, as 
 if recently used ; tables small and large, of every con- 
 ceivable shape ; books and work lying about — the whole 
 a mixture of comfort and confusion, the frequent charac- 
 teristics of a common sitting-room in an English country- 
 house. 
 
 Eustace and Sybil were ushered into this room. It 
 looked dark after the glare of the sunshine, and at first 
 they did not see the crippled boy, who was lying on the 
 sofa at the furthest corner of the room, looking wan and 
 weary. 
 
 " I did not see you, Charlie," said Eustace, as he went 
 up to the boy, and laid his hand kindly on his head. " Is 
 this one of your bad days, and are you the only person at 
 home?" 
 
 " Most of them are out. I've only a headache with 
 jabber and clatter," he replied rather crossly. " Mary's 
 there," and he pointed over his shoulder to the veran- 
 dah. 
 
 " Where ? " asked Sybil ; " and who jabbered ? " 
 
 " Sophia- Jane and those girls. But they are gone out 
 now." 
 
 " I think we are too early," said Eustace ; " we will 
 walk a little, and then come back, or we shall tire you 
 still more." 
 
 " No, don't ; they stayed because they expected you," 
 and then Sybil discovered that a lady and gentleman were 
 sitting at the further end of the verandah. 
 
 " Hallo ! Mary, they are come ! " shouted the boy ; 
 and Mary, looking fresher and brighter than usual, stepped 
 into the room, followed by a young man whose face of 
 
96 Off the Line. 
 
 intelligence immediately prepossessed Sybil in his 
 favour. 
 
 _ " My cousin, Hugh Dormer," said Mary introducing 
 him. " We were talking so eagerly that we did not hear 
 you come in." 
 
 " Yes, Mary was taken with an argumentative fit, and 
 when such very unexpected events happen, one does not 
 know how to meet them," and he looked at his cousin 
 with a smile that did not altogether please Eustace. 
 
 " I'm afraid we came too early, Miss Power," he said 
 somewhat stiffly. "It was my fault; but as I was 
 going to Hinton this afternoon, I thought you would like 
 me to see what ferns you had already, so that if I can 
 bring any back with me, they may be new ones." 
 
 " How very kind of you ! My little fernery is quite 
 near, will you come and look over them now ? Hugh, 
 you must stay and entertain Miss Morley. I advise you 
 to make him play to you on the guitar," she added, 
 turning to Sybil. " He has brought home such pretty 
 Spanish songs ! " 
 
 " Thank you," said Hugh ; " first I am to do an im- 
 possibility, and next to make a fool of myself." 
 
 " What is an impossibility ? " asked Sybil. 
 
 "And what's making a fool of yourself?" asked 
 Charlie. 
 
 "The impossibility is to entertain Miss Morley; and a 
 man who sings to a guitar always looks like a fool." 
 
 " But you do it, Hugh," said Charlie, staring at him. 
 
 " Yes, but it's pleasant for me to relax from my usual 
 wisdom. I do it as a necessary recreation ; but then, you 
 know, few people are as wise as I am, Charlie." 
 
 He spoke so seriously that Sybil hardly knew how 
 much that was earnest was hidden beneath his bantering 
 manner. 
 
 "Why is it an hospitality to amuse me?" she asked 
 again. 
 
 " Because it is written on your countenance that no 
 one shall amuse or please you this day." 
 
 " What nonsense ! " she said, half-offended, half amused. 
 
" You are not my Master, Eustace. 19 97 
 
 " I think it's true, though, Hugh," said Charlie, in a 
 low voice ; " for Mary said if I stayed she would sing to 
 me, and when she came in I thought she looked too cross 
 for me to ask her." 
 
 Charlie had all the free speaking and some of the pert- 
 nrss that usually belongs to a delicate petted boy who has 
 never been at school. No one ever thought of being 
 offended with him. Sybil felt that she did not wish that 
 Hugh Dormer should think her cross, though she scarcely 
 knew why. 
 
 " I will sing if you like. I promised your sister that I 
 would." 
 
 " Now, Charlie, that is a great deal more than you de- 
 serve. Can I find any music for you, Miss Morley?" 
 
 " What can I sing ? " she said, turning to the boy ; "for 
 your sisters say you only like sacred music." 
 
 " What humbug ! I don't ; but I get tired of their 
 everlasting Italian, when one never knows the least what 
 it's about. I like English songs." 
 
 " I don't know many, but I will sing you an old English 
 ballad. Do you know ' The Banks of Allan Water' ? " 
 
 " I do," said Hugh ; " it is a beautiful song." 
 
 Sybil did full justice to it. Her rich young voice was 
 so full of sweetness and pathos that it thrilled the hearts of 
 her hearers. Charlie's face was paler than ever, and the 
 tears stood in Hugh Dormer's eyes when she con- 
 cluded. 
 
 "Thank you," he said, " that is a real treat — but how 
 very sad it is. I don't like tragical endings." 
 
 " I think I do," said Sybil abruptly, " if it is tragical to 
 die when life is miserable." 
 
 This seemed so inconsistent with her bright manner, 
 her youth and beauty, that as Hugh looked at her face, 
 which was full of animation, while the soft expression 
 rested on it which music always produced, he could not 
 conceal his surprise. What cculd she know of misery? 
 
 "How strange that you should say so ! Of course 
 happiness is comparative, but surely no one ought to b~ 
 wretched enough to wish to die 1 " 
 
9$ Oft the Line, 
 
 "I know exactly what you mean, and what you think," 
 said Sybil coldly. 
 
 "I don't believe you do — I wish you would tell 
 me." 
 
 " That, like all young ladies, I take my views of like 
 from novels or poetry, and that, however dreary people's 
 lives may be, they should be always contented and 
 happy." 
 
 " I don't plead guilty to such a sweeping assertion as 
 that — perhaps I did think that 
 
 ' The daily round, the common task 
 Would furnish all we ought to ask. ,: 
 
 * Yes, of course you and Eustace think just alike," she 
 replied rather contemptuously. " It is so easy for people 
 to talk of things they don't feel." 
 
 " Can't you sing any more ? " said Charlie, who was 
 growing impatient. 
 
 " Yes, I will sing something you will like better, 
 perhaps." 
 
 She sang a lively little French air, provokingly frivolous 
 both in words and music. 
 
 " I don't like it nearly as well," said Hugh. 
 
 " And I hate all French songs," added Charlie. " At 
 all events, it was unlike the other. Now you had better 
 choose the next." 
 
 Hugh began to look through a music book that was 
 open on the piano. 
 
 " That is not my music book, and if it were, I daresay 
 you would not like any of the songs in it. I think it is 
 you that are determined not to be pleased, for you neither 
 like grave nor gay. It is your turn to sing to the guitar 
 now," said Sybil brightly. 
 
 " Do, Hugh, and make a fool of yourself," said Charlie 
 laughing. 
 
 Hugh Dormer had spent the summer in Spain, and 
 brought home several national melodies. He had a 
 
"You are not my M aster r Eustace!* 99 
 
 good ear and a rich tenor voice, but no real knowledge 
 of music. His consciousness of this deficiency always 
 made him unwilling to sing except to his own family. 
 He did not like, however, to refuse Sybil, and had sung 
 one song when Eustace and Mary came in. 
 
 " Now my duty is over," he said to Mary, " I have 
 done your bidding as far as I could, and sacrificed myself, 
 as you perceive." 
 
 " Don't stop, Hugh," said Mary; " let us sing the duet 
 we learnt last night." 
 
 Several songs followed, till they were interrupted by 
 the entrance of Sophia-Jane and Hugh Dormer's sisters. 
 Sybil was surprised to see how young they looked ; so 
 much younger than their brother. She said this to Mary 
 as they went up-stairs together to take off their bonnets 
 before luncheon. 
 
 " Julia is sixteen, but they are quite children compared 
 to Hugh. His favourite sister, and the one next to him 
 in age, died last year. It was for her that they lived 
 abroad. She was my great friend — my only friend, 
 indeed," said Mary sadly ; " and I have scarcely seen 
 Hugh since Caroline's death." 
 
 " He looks happy enough, and does not seem 
 to understand why everyone should not be so," 
 replied Sybil, thinking of what he had said about her 
 song. 
 
 Mary shook her head. 
 
 "He may not think it right to be unhappy, but no one 
 understands it better. He does not wear his heart on 
 his sleeve, as many men do ; quite as much as women, I 
 think." 
 
 11 Have you lived a great deal together ? " 
 
 " Yes. He is only my cousin. His mother was my 
 mother's only sister. Dear Aunt Mary, I quite dread 
 to see her — I fear that I shall remind her so much of 
 Caroline." 
 
 The two girls were standing near the window in Mary's 
 room, Sybil taking note, as she always did, of everything 
 around her. Tt was rather a dull room, and the furniture 
 
ioo Off the Line, 
 
 common-place, with the exception of a pretty carved oak 
 book-case filled with books, and an oil picture, the portrait 
 of a young lady, that hung above it. 
 
 " What a sweet face ! " said Sybil, as she walked up to 
 the picture, and looked at it for some time. " It is like 
 you, I think." 
 
 " It is my mother. Papa was very kind, and let me 
 have all the books that were hers, and her picture, when 
 the drawing-room was refurnished, in my room. They 
 are my great treasures. But I almost like this better," 
 she said, as she opened a small morocco case containing 
 a miniature. 
 
 "This was done much later, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes, during her last illness. Mamma has only one 
 sister, so I feel that the Dormers are my only real rela- 
 tions." 
 
 " I understand that. It must have seemed hard ! " 
 
 " Not very," said Mary, answering Sybil's thoughts 
 rather than her words. " I was so young, only six years 
 oM, and for many years after I lived so entirely with 
 grandmamma, either here or at Richmond. Papa lived 
 
 at , where he was Canon. None of the others are 
 
 used to a country life." 
 
 Sybil began to feel interested in Mary Power, notwith- 
 standing her incipient jealousy of Eustace. But a sum- 
 mons to luncheon prevented any further conversation, 
 and in the afternoon the whole party accompanied 
 Eustace and Sybil back to the Farm. Hugh Dormer and 
 Eustace soon fell into a political discussion, which lasted 
 through the waif, and was left unfinished, as Eustace 
 had to ride to Hinton, as he had told Mary in the 
 evening. 
 
 "Will you come and let me convince you another 
 day ? " said Eustace, and Sybil listened interestedly for 
 Hugh's answer. 
 
 " I should like to convince you, but we go to-morrow, 
 so the discussion must be put off sine die, for I am such 
 an erratic being, it may be four years more before I see 
 Sandling again." 
 
" You are not my Master, Eustace." 
 
 101 
 
 " How very unkind ! " said Mary. 
 
 "Then there can be no engagement or even 
 attachment between them," thought Eustace ; and his 
 farewell to Hugh Dormer was very warm in con- 
 sequence. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 HERVEY FELTHAM DECLARES HIS LOVE. 
 
 " Discontent is the want of self-reliance — it is infirmity of the will." 
 
 Emerson. 
 
 " And each forgot how, cloudlike, passions mar 
 In the vexed wave, the image of the star ; 
 How all unquiet thoughts which life supplies 
 May swell the ocean but to veil the skies." 
 
 HE visit at the Vicarage had given a different 
 turn to Sybil's thoughts for that day at least. 
 Charlie Power had extorted a promise from her 
 that she would come and sing to him again, 
 and she looked forward to this with a degree of pleasure 
 that surprised herself. For a few weeks she persevered 
 in visiting the sick boy ; then the days grew short, and 
 she preferred spending the fine part of the day in 
 rambling about the beach with Hannibal. It pleased 
 her more than singing to a boy who only said " Thank 
 you " rather ungraciously, for her trouble. Any passing 
 curiosity she had felt about Hugh Dormer had com- 
 pletely faded, and again the interest of her life centred 
 more than ever in Hervey Feltham and his mother. 
 There were few days in which they did not meet, but 
 Sybil never accompanied him in his boat, and after she 
 had once refused he had never again urged it. The 
 passionate and intense admiration betrayed in every 
 word and look of Hervey's, fell soothingly upon her 
 chafed and morbid spirit, and in all her visits to his 
 mother he was their constant topic. Mrs. Feltham's 
 
Hervey Feltham Declares His Love. 103 
 
 natural astuteness, quickened as it was by her desire to 
 assist Hervey in his strange and unprincipled passion, 
 enabled her to read in Sybil's transparent countenance 
 exactly how far she could venture to go without putting 
 her on her guard. As she soon found that love of power 
 was Sybil's predominant failing, she fostered it by pro- 
 fessing the deepest gratitude to her for her kindness to 
 the " dear boy," as she called him, and constantly re- 
 peated how beneficial the refining influence of her society 
 had been, and how it had detached him from the rough 
 people with whom he was becoming intimate. 
 
 Mrs. Feltham was naturally clever, and in this case 
 played her cards with a tact and diplomacy worthy of a 
 better cause. She led her on to speak of her dull and 
 lonely life, and showed tenderness and sympathy for 
 every grievance, covering her utter want of principle with 
 a smattering of good feeling and strong sense that com- 
 pletely blinded the inexperienced and wayward girl. In 
 every conversation she contrived to shatter some of 
 Sybil's early impressions, and spoke with infinite contempt 
 of all social distinctions, and of the conventionalities of 
 life. Though occasionally Sybil felt instinctively that 
 some of Mrs. Feltham's remarks were unprincipled and 
 unsound, she was quite unable to cope with her un- 
 scrupulousness, or her clever and Specious arguments, 
 especially as whenever Mrs. Feltham perceived that she 
 had shocked her, she always contrived to gloss over all 
 she had said, till the impression made on Sybil's mind 
 should be effaced. 
 
 Her visits to the cottage in the churchyard lane had by 
 this time become so constant, that Mrs. Feltham dreaded 
 lest they should attract observation ; and as she was a 
 proficient in the mysteries of needlework, she offered to 
 teach Sybil to make some beautiful lace, that she might 
 be able to account for them. The same fear had crossed 
 Sybil's mind, and she gratefully accepted her offer. 
 Neither expressed their thoughts, but both were per- 
 fectly conscious of the cause of the offer and its ready 
 acceptance. Much as Sybil hated needlework, to have 
 
104 Off the Line. 
 
 a reason to give for such an unusual intimacy was a relief 1 , 
 especially as Christmas was fast approaching, and she 
 dreaded Geoffrey's comments upon her constant visits to 
 Mrs. Feltham. She felt, with something like a pang, that 
 she did not look forward to his coming with her usual 
 eagerness; and this consciousness revealed to her that 
 she had interests out of her home, which were becoming 
 more absorbed every day, and which no expostulations 
 should induce her to give up. No day passed without, 
 some intercourse with Hervey. He was either hanging 
 about the cottage, or at hand on the beach to accompany 
 her there, and, by going some way round, he was 
 often able to walk a great part of the way home with 
 her. 
 
 His mother often pretended to wish him away, he 
 was " such a hindrance " to her instructions, she would 
 say, and begged Sybil to insist on his leaving them 
 alone. 
 
 "If Miss Morley wishes it, mother, I will go," he 
 answered one day, almost savagely, " but I will never 
 come back again." 
 
 His mother only smiled, but Sybil was becoming 
 mastered by the two strong natures that had taken such 
 forcible possession of her life. 
 
 She was especially glad of the excuse of learning to 
 make lace, as she occasionally met the Powers near the 
 cottage, who at first expressed considerable surprise 
 to meet her there, and yet to see so little of her them- 
 selves. 
 
 She fancied that of late Mary's manner had been cold 
 and distant, and there was no apparent wish for any 
 increased intimacy, though she felt convinced that 
 Eustace's prepossession of her was gradually ripening 
 into a mutual attachment. This did not lessen her dis- 
 taste for the Powers — a distaste increased by her present 
 infatuation. Sybil never looked beyond the present mo- 
 ment — she felt that Hervey's love and admiration, no 
 longer concealed, if not only openly expressed, coloured 
 her existence, and filled up the monotony of her life. Day 
 
Hervey Feltham Declares His Love, 105 
 
 by day she yielded gradually to the intoxication of a 
 passion that must prove fatal to her happiness, and day 
 by day she became more entangled in the net that Mrs. 
 Feltham's flattery and adroit management had woven 
 around her. 
 
 For some months Mrs. Morley's health had been 
 failing, and Hartly's time was so completely taken up in 
 attending to her, that she paid much less attention than 
 usual to what she called Sybil's " vagaries." She had 
 never even heard of her intimacy with the Felthams, 
 owing to her having been kept at home so much with her 
 mistress, otherwise she must have done so, as it had 
 already created considerable wonder among the poorer 
 inhabitants of the village. So Sybil was left unmolested, 
 for ordinarily Hardy was the only person who troubleu 
 herself much about her. 
 
 One stormy day, early in December, Sybil stood 
 looking disconsolately out of the window, wondering if 
 she could brave the wind and rain, or if it were possible 
 for her to find any occupation at home, that, in her present 
 restless mood, would not be eminently distasteful. She 
 held a letter in her hand, which she had received that 
 morning from Geoffrey, telling her that he should be at 
 home early in the next week. She knew that as soon as 
 he came it would be impossible for her to continue her 
 visits to the cottage, and wanted to prepare Hervey for 
 this change, perfectly conscious that any sudden cessation 
 of their intercourse would elicit a burst of resentment, 
 which she dreaded. The underhand way in which she 
 had been obliged to carry on her intimacy with those so 
 much beneath her, had lowered her in her own eyes — 
 conscience had made a coward of her. 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Morley, who was sitting shiver- 
 ing over the fire, wrapped up in a large shawl, " surely 
 you are not thinking of going out such a stormy day ? I 
 wish you did not dislike staying at home so much. I 
 never see Eustace till the evening, and the days are very 
 long and dreary." 
 
 Sybil turned round, and her eye resting on her mother's 
 
io6 Off the Line. 
 
 worn and faded face, a pang shot through her heart, as 
 she reflected how little she ever did to make the days 
 appear less " long and dreary " to her. She had a 
 momentary impulse to throw her arms round her neck, 
 and to assure her that she would gladly stay with her 
 whenever she liked, but Sybil had never been demon- 
 strative. 
 
 " I don't care, I need not go out," she said in a tone 
 that only betokened indifference. " What can I do at 
 home ? Would you like me to read aloud ? " 
 
 " If you please, my dear. I should like it very much," 
 and Mrs. Morley looked really pleased. 
 
 " But there is nothing to read. All the books are so 
 old. I wish we could get books from a library in 
 London. Here is Eustace's new Quarterly — perhaps that 
 will do." 
 
 " Oh ! no, my dear, I did not mean that sort of book 
 at all," said her mother plaintively ; " there is a book of 
 sermons on the shelf that I have read lately, and found 
 very comforting." 
 
 That was the very last result Sybil expected from the 
 dull-looking old book her mother put into her hands, 
 with its faded print and brown cover. But she opened 
 it at once, and began to read " On a Due Contentment of 
 Spirit;" a very profitable subject if she had paid the 
 smallest attention to the meaning of the words that 
 mechanically passed her lips. After a time she looked 
 up, and saw her mother sitting upright, with her hands 
 religiously folded together, but her closed eyelids and 
 regular breathing showed that to her it was equally profit- 
 less, for she was in a sound sleep. 
 
 " It will do as much good as that stuff," thought Sybil, 
 as she tossed the book upon the table, and looked round 
 the room for some other occupation. " I can't play, it 
 will wake her ; I wish my lace-work was here ! What 
 can I do?" 
 
 Mrs. Morley slept on, and Sybil sat still, staring into 
 the fire with dreary thoughts and listless hands, only 
 looking up when the wild gusts of wind and the rain 
 
Hervey Feltham Declares His Love, 107 
 
 against the windows startled her. The clock struck 
 quarter after quarter with a solitary distinctness that 
 jarred upon her nerves. Still her mother slept on. 
 
 u I wish I was asleep," she thought, becoming mere 
 impatient and restless every minute — " or dead ? I 
 think that would be best," and she rose and looked out 
 upon the wild and wintry sea. " It is of no use to stay 
 at home, and it doesn't rain much now ; I think I had 
 better run down to the beach and tell him about Geoffrey. 
 I may sit here all day doing nothing." 
 
 Everything with Sybil was done on the impulse of the 
 moment, and in a few minutes she was standing on the 
 shore, with the spray of the waves dashing into her face, 
 struggling against the wind, which almost took away her 
 breath ; but still alone, for Hervey was not there. 
 
 " How very odd ! — he cannot be out such a day as 
 this. I had better go back, I suppose." 
 
 Then the^ silence and oppression that awaited her in 
 the house came full into her mind. 
 
 " I shall go mad ! " she exclaimed aloud, " if I go 
 back and sit in that room ! Mamma is sure to sleep 
 half the day. It will do as well if I tell Mrs. Feltham. 
 I will just run down to the cottage — I shall be back in no 
 time ! " 
 
 Poor child ! poor, selfish, wayward child ! How 
 little she could imagine the misery she was bringing upon 
 herself by yielding to a momentary and selfish impulse ! 
 Led away by an infatuation that for the time superseded 
 all right feeling and judgment, she recklessly took her life 
 into her own hands, and it was not till crushed beneath 
 the weight of her own misdoings, that she could see it as 
 in after years it stood before her in its true colours. 
 
 Breathless with running, her cloak flying open, and her 
 hair blown wildly over her face, she rushed into the 
 cottage. Mrs. Feltham was not there, but Hervey was 
 leaning over the fire, his head buried in his hands. 
 
 He started up as she entered. 
 
 " Good God, Miss Morley ! what is the matter?" 
 
 " Nothing," said Sybil, laughing at his consternation. 
 
io8 Off the Line, 
 
 Her battle with the wind and the rain had restored her 
 spirits. " I did not think you would be so horrified to 
 see me." 
 
 Hervey looked at her reproachfully. 
 
 " Your cloak is wet, let me take it off," and he brought 
 her a chair. 
 
 " No, I must not stay ; I came for my work for one 
 thing — but your mother is out." 
 
 " Yes, she has gone to shop at Hinton ; she won't be 
 back yet." 
 
 " I wanted to see you, too," continued Sybil, " because 
 Geoffrey is coming very soon, and then you know I can't 
 come here — at least, I suppose not so much," she added, 
 more timidly, as Hervey's countenance, that had lighted 
 up with pleasure at her entrance, became dark and 
 clouded. 
 
 " I suppose not," he said gloomily. 
 
 She looked up into his face, and he saw how much she 
 wished not to give him pain. 
 
 " Geoffrey will want me all day ; he always does, so I 
 thought I would take my lace-work home. But it does 
 not signify, I will come again for it." 
 
 " Thank you," he said in a low husky voice, as he 
 stood leaning over the fire in moody silence. 
 
 "Well?" asked Sybil, after a few minutes had elapsed, 
 "why don't you speak to me?" Hervey only buried his 
 head in his hands, but did not answer. " What is the 
 matter ? " she said, going up to him. " Are you vexed 
 because I cannot come here while Geoffrey is at home ? 
 It is only for a time. Tell me what it is," and she laid 
 her hand upon his arm. 
 
 A shiver passed through his frame, but he did not speak. 
 
 " Hervey," said Sybil, in a low voice, for his manner 
 frightened her. 
 
 He bent his head low, and kissed the little hand that 
 lay on his rough sleeve. Sybil blushed, and would have 
 withdrawn it, but he detained her. 
 
 " No," he said vehemently. " I see you near me now, 
 and you shall not go away. You say I am not to see 
 
Hervey Felt ham Declares His Love, 109 
 
 you. Don't you know that all life is nothing to me except 
 when I see you ? What is your presence to your brother ? 
 Is his life a blank, a misery to him when you are not by? 
 No, don't speak," he continued, in great agitation, " I 
 know what you would say — that I have no right to speak 
 to you like this, that my love is a disgrace to you ; but I 
 say that it is not, and that you have no right to come 
 before me, only to break my heart and to blight my life. 
 Have pity on me, have mercy on me, for I cannot live 
 without you 1 " and he crouched and almost grovelled at 
 her feet. 
 
 Bewildered, touched, and half frightened, Sybil burst 
 into tears. 
 
 " I never meant to make you unhappy — I never 
 thought " 
 
 " You must have thought, you must have known," he 
 continued, as he still knelt before her, " that from the 
 first moment my eyes ever rested on your wonderful 
 beauty, that you were everything to me ! — all I lived for, 
 all I cared for ! I will wait years — I will never see you 
 when you do not wish, but give me some hope, do not 
 let absurd distinctions of rank come between us — say 
 that in time you will return my love, for I will never, 
 never give you up ! " 
 
 Sybil's head was bowed down, and Hervey could not 
 see her face. He took her hand, but she turned away. 
 Stung with what he considered her coldness, he started to 
 his feet and said bitterly. 
 
 " A time may come when you will not think love like 
 mine as despicable as you do now. But you will soon be 
 freed from the annoyance of my presence. I have often 
 thought of going to settle in America. I have the chance 
 now — you have decided it for me. For that I thank you. 
 For your sake * I would have done anything — now you 
 drive me away from you a reckless and desperate man ! 
 Only forgive my presumption ; I will never annoy you 
 again, only bid me farewell ! " 
 
 " You must not go away," she murmured ; " you 
 cannot — your mother " 
 
no Off the Line. 
 
 " She may follow me if she likes — I care not." 
 
 "It is cruel to talk in this way — you make me 
 miserable." 
 
 M Love like mine would make the happiness of your 
 life," said Hervey gently, seeing the effect his threat had 
 produced, " but you spurn it ! : ' 
 
 " I don't — oh ! you know f don't ! " said Sybil, as she 
 looked up into his face, whicn was deadly pale, and his 
 eyes were full of tears. 
 
 Touched by his manner, and carried away by the 
 impetuosity of his passion ; she had no strength to resist 
 the more powerful will that had so completely obtained 
 the mastery over her. The idea of his leaving England 
 on her account terrified her — her own impression was 
 that she loved him very much, and she thought that she 
 would brave all opposition, and own that she returned his 
 love. 
 
 These thoughts darted almost unconsciously through 
 her brain ; while Hervey, fancying that he saw signs of 
 relenting in her face, ventured to draw her gently towards 
 him. Her head sank lower and lower, and her tears fell 
 fast. 
 
 " I would die for you ! " he murmured ; "do not drive 
 me from you — I have nothing else to live for." 
 
 And before she was fully conscious of all that had 
 passed, Hervey Feltham considered that he had won his 
 cause. 
 
 W J Sagftl 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MARY MAKES A PROMISE. 
 
 " From one stage of our being to the next 
 We pass unconscious o'er a slender bridge^ 
 The momentary work of unseen hands, 
 Which crumble down behind us." 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 ^"011 never told me of these new friends of 
 yours, Mary," said Hugh Dormer, when 
 they had deposited Sybil and her brother at 
 the Farm, after the early visit she had paid 
 to the Rectory. 
 
 " Because they have not been friends long — indeed, I 
 don't know that they are friends now. Don't you think 
 Sybil very pretty ? " 
 
 "Yes, more than pretty — quite beautiful. Such an 
 uncommon face. I like the brother, too." 
 
 " Yes," said Mary, a little indignantly, " but he is very 
 different." 
 
 " Don't you like Miss Morley, then ?" said Hugh with 
 some curiosity. 
 
 "She interests me, but as to liking,! don't know. She 
 is so wilful, and so undisciplined." 
 
 " Poor child ! " said Hugh compassionately, " one can- 
 not imagine her having a prosperous life." 
 
 " I don't know why. I think she makes troubles for 
 herself. She is always complaining of loneliness, and 
 then rejects all society." 
 
 " Except yours." 
 
 " Oh ! no, she does not care for ours, or for any except 
 that of some People in the village. Tkey are not nice 
 
ii2 Off the Line, 
 
 people — a fisherman and his mother. We knew him well 
 some years ago j he was a very clever handsome boy, but 
 he has led a wild life lately." 
 
 " I don't understand, Mary. Do you mean that Miss 
 Morley makes friends of these people ? " 
 
 " So we hear j and papa says he has seen them walking 
 together, and is going to speak to Mrs. Morley about it. 
 But it seems so strange, I can hardly believe it." 
 
 " But, then, why don't you have her more with you, 
 and prevent such an intimacy ? Poor girl ! I daresay 
 her life is lonely." 
 
 " She does not like to be with me. I fancy she is 
 jealous of anyone her brother talks to," said Mary, 
 blushing. 
 
 " I see," said Hugh, thoughtfully ; " but is there not 
 another brother?" 
 
 " Yes — one much younger, who is guiug feiuj the army ; 
 a sort of harum-scarum boy. It was in some of her wild 
 excursions with him that she became acquainted with 
 Hervey Feltham." 
 
 " Did you ever speak to her about it ? " 
 " Oh ! no — I could not — I would not for the world ! 
 It may not be true." 
 
 " I daresay it is exaggerated, as such stories in villages 
 always are ; but it would be worth while to tell her of 
 the report — either to put her on her guard, or to give her 
 the opportunity of denying it. I should think she was 
 truth itself." 
 
 " Why, Hugh, how deeply interested you seem to be 
 in her ! " said Mary, with some surprise, and perhaps a 
 little annoyance. 
 
 11 1 think I am," he said gravely. " You must tell me 
 about her when you write." 
 
 " Very well," she replied. " Must you go to- 
 morrow ? " 
 
 " Yes — ' it is decreed,' alas ! I want to have a talk 
 with Charlie first. I wish I could persuade him to read 
 more." 
 
 Mary shook her head, t 
 
Mary Makes a Promise. 113 
 
 " I think you will find that rather a hopeless task. But 
 I am going to him now, and will tell him that you are 
 coming to see him." 
 
 Mary, walked slowly into the house, pondering over 
 Hugh's sudden interest in Sybil. Charlie had heard their 
 footsteps, and was impatiently awaiting her. 
 
 " How long you have been ! " he exclaimed ; " I 
 thought you were not coming back to-day ; and I want to 
 see Hugh again, if he is going to-morrow." 
 
 " He is coming to see you. I am sorry you have been 
 alone — why did not you send for mamma or Julia ? " 
 
 " Pshaw ! — what good would that be ? If you had left 
 Miss Morley here, that would have been something. She 
 is such a jolly girl — she would be some good — not like 
 the Dormers ; and, besides, they are children," he added 
 contemptuously. 
 
 Poor Mary felt she was destined to hear nothing but 
 praise of Sybil from all those that were dearest to her ; 
 but she was always gentle with the sick, captious boy. 
 
 " Well, you must ask her to come again. I daresay 
 she will. She is more likely to come if you ask her, than 
 if I do." 
 
 " Because she sees that you don't care a straw to see 
 her, and only like her brother. I can see that quite 
 plain, Mary ; and I think him a tiresome prig." 
 
 " What nonsense, Charlie ! " said Mary, feeling really 
 provoked ; " if you will be sensible, I will stay and read 
 to you. Do you like me to stay, or not ? " 
 
 " Not if you are going to look as cross as two sticks," 
 returned the boy, delighted to have got what he called 
 " a rise out of Mary," a thing not easy to accomplish. 
 
 "Very well," said Mary, coolly, "then I will send 
 Hugh," and she went into her room, wondering if Sybil 
 Morley was always to come between her and those she 
 loved best. 
 
 Hugh was to leave Sandling early the next morning, 
 and waylaid Mary as she was going up to bed, to wish 
 her good-bye. They turned into the library, and sat 
 down, while Hugh told her all he had said to Charlie ; 
 
ii4 Off the Line. 
 
 and, after some further conversation, said, " Now I will 
 release you, Mary ; but you will write to me ? " 
 
 * About Sybil Morley ? " said Mary, looking up at him 
 with a smile. 
 
 "About everybody and everything —Miss Morley 
 among the rest ; and, Mary, I want you to make me a 
 promise." 
 
 " Which is the same thing as giving an order you know 
 of old, Hugh." 
 
 " I want you to do all you can for the poor girl ; and if 
 she gets into trouble, which assuredly she will if this state 
 of things continues, to stand by her and help her." 
 
 Hugh spoke from his heart, and so earnestly, that Mary 
 could not treat his words lightly. She was silent for a 
 minute, and then said — 
 
 " I will do what I can, Hugh, and as far as she will let 
 me ; but you know that perhaps I might not be able — 
 not be allowed to help her." 
 
 " Yes, I know," he said — " but only as far as you can, 
 you will promise ? " 
 
 Mary gave him her hand, and so they parted. 
 
 The wintry weather prevented much intercourse be- 
 tween the Farm and the Parsonage, and in the meantime 
 Geoffrey arrived to spend his Christmas at home. Sybil 
 was apparently entirely occupied with him, but she was 
 in some indescribable way changed. Geoffrey felt this, 
 though he was scarcely conscious that he did, and could 
 not have expressed it in words. She was restless when- 
 ever he was out of her sight, and in spite of the weather, 
 insisted upon accompanying him wherever he went. 
 
 " Why, Sybil, I do believe you think I cannot take care 
 of myself ! " he exclaimed one day, as she started up 
 anxiously, and begged him to wait for her, when he pro- 
 posed to take Hannibal to the beach. 
 
 " Nonsense ! — it's only because I like to go with you — 
 please wait for me," she answered nervously, for she 
 dreaded his meeting with Hervey Feltham unless she 
 were by. 
 
 She need not have been afraid of any indiscretion on 
 
Mary Makes a Promise, 115 
 
 Hervey's part. He was playing for too high a stake to 
 risk losing the game by any imprudence. He was far too 
 wary for this. As yet he had said but little to his mother, 
 but that little had shown her the real state of the case, 
 and she was too ambitious for her son, and had his 
 interests too much at heart, not to be entirely guided by 
 his wishes in the matter. 
 
 As to Sybil, she had as yet never realised all that had 
 happened — all that the meeting with Hervey in the cot- 
 tage involved. She did not always like to remember that 
 interview, and her own share in it — at other times she 
 would do so with a feeling of happiness at being loved as 
 she now knew Hervey loved her. But at all times she 
 was of too truthful a nature not to suffer acutely from the 
 double part she felt she was playing, and too undiscip- 
 lined not to chafe at the bondage she had put herself 
 under in doing it. They constantly met Hervey in their 
 walks, but it was only in those few minutes that Sybil saw 
 him now. She had never been again to his home. There 
 was nothing in his manner that could imply any conscious- 
 ness of the change that had taken place in the relation- 
 ships, and it was only by an occasional glance that Sybil 
 felt that he lived only for the few moments of the day 
 that were spent in her company. 
 
 It was a strange position for a girl to be placed in — the 
 romance of it intensified her feelings towards him. Then 
 Geoffrey's manner towards Hervey made her cheeks tingle 
 with mingled shame and anger, it was so decidedly that 
 of a superior to an inferior. Sybil knew that Hervey 
 must feel this, and was grateful to him for the quiet way 
 in which he always replied, and used to look up for a 
 moment with a deprecating expression in her beautiful 
 face that touched Hervey to his heart's core. His present 
 aim — and this was instinctively taught him by the depth 
 of his love for Sybil — was to avoid anything that could 
 cause her pride or sensitiveness to take alarm. He felt 
 as if she were a newly-caged bird, that would beat itself 
 to death if not treated in the gentlest and most con- 
 siderate manner. 
 
Ii6 Off the Line. 
 
 So Hervey was content to go on from day to day with- 
 out any demonstration from Sybil, knowing that the longer 
 he could bind her to himself without anyone being aware 
 of his prize, the more accustomed she would be to the 
 idea, and the less danger there would be of her eventually 
 fluttering away from him. However mistaken men may 
 be in their judgments, the instincts of love are usually to 
 be trusted. Geoffrey's stay was to be short, and it was 
 not weather for boating, so he saw less of Hervey than in 
 "his former visit. He was less disposed for amusement, 
 too, than usual; his mother's wan face and the un- 
 definable change in Sybil made him sad and anxious, and 
 he speculated upon it a good deal. Though he did not 
 possess any great intellectual power, his nature was warm 
 and affectionate, and quick to see any change in those he 
 loved. To the others Sybil simply appeared improved, 
 more gentle and more considerate, but Geoffrey knew her 
 best, and was aware of an undercurrent in her life to 
 which he was a stranger. 
 
 " I must go next week, Sybil," he said, as they were 
 walking home one cold evening. " I wonder when I 
 shall see you all again ? — you must write to me about 
 mamma ! " 
 
 " Do you think she looks ill ? She is so much better 
 now." 
 
 " Yes, but I have not seen her for months, and she 
 seems to me very much changed ; and so are you, Sybil, 
 only after a different fashion." 
 
 f< What do you mean?" said Sybil, looking steadily 
 over the sea, as she felt her cheeks becoming crimson at 
 his words. 
 
 " That is the very thing I want you to tell me. I only 
 feel that in some way you are different, but I can't tell 
 how. You know it, Sybil — don't you ? " 
 
 She did not reply ; a choking sensation in her throat 
 prevented her speaking, and Geoffrey continued — 
 
 " The reason, or at least one reason why I want to 
 know is that I thought it might be about mamma. If it 
 is, I would rather know before I go away." 
 
Mary Makes a Promise, 117 
 
 " No — oh, no, dear Geoffrey ! It is your fancy. Mamma 
 is really better." 
 
 "Well, then, it's something else," said Geoffrey de- 
 cidedly ; " and I suppose you won't tell me. Once you 
 told me everything, Sybil." 
 
 " What can I tell you, foolish boy ? " she replied lightly, 
 though with a dead weight on her heart ; " I have nothing 
 to tell." 
 
 Geoffrey turned round and looked at her steadily for a 
 moment, and shook his head. They were just at home, 
 and no more was said on the subject; but Sybil knew 
 then that the shadow which was hovering over her head 
 extended to her careless, happy-tempered brother, and 
 felt with a quick throb of pain how little he could imagine 
 the change that had taken place in her life. Happily he 
 suspected nothing — knew nothing — perhaps never would 
 know, for Sybil lived in the present, and never looked on 
 to a possible future. Le jour la journee was enough for 
 her. He was not likely to hear any reports about her, 
 from the fact that she had seen so little of the Felthams 
 lately, that the rumours that at one time were rife had 
 died away. When Sybil met Mrs. Feltham, which she 
 had occasionally done, she was quite unable to detect 
 from her manner whether Hervey had told her of the 
 visit she had paid to the cottage in her absence. She 
 was anxious to know this, and looked forward to 
 Geoffrey's departure in some sense as a relief; there 
 would be some one in whose society she need not be so 
 continually on her guard as she felt obliged to be at 
 home. Besides, she missed the excitement of her visits 
 to the cottage, seasoned as they were by Hervey's adora- 
 tion and his mother's flattery. 
 
 " Don't you think there is something odd about Sybil, 
 Eustace?" said Geoffrey, as the brothers were sitting up 
 late the night before his departure. 
 
 "Not more than usual. Sybil is always odd and in- 
 comprehensible. I don't see much difference." 
 
 11 But that is just what I do. She is quite unlike her- 
 self" 
 
n8 Of the Line. 
 
 " Well, I thought her improved — more gentle and con- 
 siderate. I fancied being with the Powers had done her 
 good." 
 
 "You think that because you like them," said Geoffrey 
 looking keenly at his brother ; " but the truth is, that 
 none of them have any more influence with Sybil than 
 Hartly's grey cat." 
 
 u Then what do you mean ? What difference do you 
 see ? " asked Eustace, roused at last by his brother's dis- 
 paraging simile. 
 
 " She is not natural — always on her guard, and never 
 talks openly, as she used to do." 
 
 " Perhaps that is as well. I suppose she is older and 
 wiser, Geoffrey." 
 
 " I don't know about that," he replied bluntly, u but I 
 wish you were more with her. She says she always goes 
 out alone when I am not here." 
 
 "Then why does she not walk with the Powers? They 
 have asked her continually." 
 
 " But why can't you go ? " persisted Geoffrey. 
 
 This was rather a sore point between Eustace and his 
 conscience, and he only gave an evasive answer, and 
 began to speak of something else. 
 
 "Well, good-night, Eustace," said Geoffrey, wearily. 
 " I wonder when I shall be back again. I wish I was 
 not going away just now." 
 
 " Not yet, I suppose. You forget that this is the only 
 time you will ever have in your life for study." 
 
 " Why," answered Geoffrey rather indignantly, " do 
 you think, when I am in the army, I shall spend my life 
 in riding and smoking, and perhaps drinking ? " 
 
 " Certainly not ; but you know a soldier's life • is 
 necessarily an idle one." 
 
 " I don't know what idleness is. Is it to work day and 
 night, and be shot at last, as Alex Douglas was ? " asked 
 Geoffrey quickly. 
 
 " You know I don't mean that sort of thing at all, 
 Geoffrey." 
 
 "Never mind," he returned good-humouredly, "you 
 
Mary Makes a Promise. 
 
 119 
 
 be 
 
 will see what I shall do when I join, and that won't 
 till next year. You will write often about mamma ? " 
 
 Eustace promised. 
 
 " And if anything new happens to yourself, old fellow," 
 said Geoffrey, putting his head just inside the door, 
 and shutting it so as to avoid hearing his brother's re- 
 joinder, • 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MR. POWER IS SHOCKED. 
 
 " Yet on the dull silence breaking 
 With a lightning flash, a Word 
 Bearing endless desolation 
 On its blighting wings, I heard ; 
 Earth can forge no keener weapon, 
 Dealing surer death and pain ; 
 And the cruel echo answered 
 Through long years again." 
 
 Adelaide Procter. 
 
 " Oh ! you who use hard words, however true they may be, when 
 will you be persuaded that every hard, cold word you use, is one 
 stone on a great pyramid of useless remorse." 
 
 *' The H'dlyars and the Burtons" 
 
 ARY POWER tried conscientiously to fulfil her 
 promise to Hugh Dormer, and took consider- 
 able pains to seek Sybil and to make her a 
 friend. But she did not feel as if her efforts were 
 successful, for though Sybil was passive in accepting 
 kindnesses, she never originated any plan for their meet- 
 ing, or appeared to reciprocate the interest Mary really 
 felt about her. She was passive and indifferent, and 
 Mary began to feel disappointed. She expressed some- 
 thing of this feeling in a letter to her cousin. 
 
 " I do all I can," she wrote; " but Sybil evidently does 
 not care for me, and there is an odd kind of reserve 
 about her, so that I never get much below the surface. It 
 is difficult to press intimacy upon a person who does not 
 respond, and who, you feel instinctively, would rather be 
 left alone. I have heard no more of the report we talked 
 of when you were here, so possibly it was an exaggera- 
 
Mr. Power is Shocked. 121 
 
 tion or a mistake, caused from her having taken lessons 
 in lace-making from the man's mother." 
 
 This letter was a great relief to Hugh, more so than 
 he would have liked to acknowledge ; for Sybil's lovely 
 face had risen up too often before his eyes, and though 
 he sternly repressed any thoughts concerning her, which 
 he knew in his own case must be worse than useless, still 
 in the depths of his heart he could not help cherishing a 
 lurking hope of one day seeing her again. Mary had 
 seen rather more of Sybil, from Mr. Power having per- 
 suaded Mrs. Morley to rest and lunch at the Parsonage 
 on Sundays, so as to be able to attend the service in the 
 afternoon. This had become so far a habit that frequently, 
 when she was unable to leave the house, Sybil and 
 Eustace came alone. The principal result of which 
 arrangement was an increased intimacy between Mary 
 and Eustace ; for Sophia-Jane, delighted to have anyone 
 to talk to, usually seized upon Sybil, and even Charlie 
 put in his claim, and insisted upon her singing to him. 
 The necessity of singing sacred music, which was the 
 only music allowed on Sundays, soon brought this to a 
 close ; but still he expected her to talk to him, and Sybil 
 felt more at her ease with Charlie than with any other of 
 the family ; and once or twice he had persuaded her to sit 
 with him while the rest were at church — the impropriety 
 of which was overlooked from its convenience. 
 
 Meanwhile things were apparently drawing to a climax 
 with Eustace and Mary. Though as yet nothing had 
 been said, it was an understood thing that they were to 
 be left tete-a-tete as much as possible. Her parents, of 
 course, were ready to further such a prospect for their 
 daughter, and as their quiet love-making was apparently 
 conducted according to the strictest rules of propriety, 
 none felt themselves called upon to notice it. Sybil 
 looked on with a sort of contemptuous wonder, but was 
 too much absorbed in her own affairs to feel any jealousy 
 of her brother, and was glad of anything that drew nig 
 attention from herself. 
 
 Comparatively unnoticed and uncared for at home, it 
 
122 Off the Line. 
 
 was not surprising that Hervey's passionate love and 
 admiration, and his mother's somewhat fulsome flattery, 
 gave a zest to her life, and that her visits to the cottage 
 were long and frequent. In fact, they had now become 
 a necessity. She would have thought it contemptible to 
 let any reflection on their inferior social position weigh 
 with her. Indeed, when such thoughts did intrude, as 
 they often did, they were indignantly put away. Hervey's 
 headstrong nature, and selfish temper, were never dis- 
 played before her; to her he was all tenderness and 
 consideration. Mrs. Feltham frequently speculated as to 
 the probable end of such an intimacy, feeling sure that 
 something must bring matters to a crisis ; still, at present 
 her son was happy, and she believed his love for Sybil 
 to be the only thing that could ever deter him from 
 following the vicious course in which he had so early 
 embarked. Still she knew it must eventually come to 
 the ears of the Morleys, as, grown reckless from habit, 
 they were more careless about being seen together; 
 and Mrs. Feltham had heard of rumours and inuendoes 
 that sooner or later she was sure must reach the 
 Farm. 
 
 " I sha'n't be able to come to-morrow," said Sybil, as 
 they stood at the cottage-door one cold March evening. 
 " I think Uncle Harold is coming." 
 
 " Oh ! that's bad news — you don't know how it is 
 with my poor boy when he does not see you. I tell him 
 he is more like a crazy man than anything else." 
 
 "I can't help it," said Sybil; "I would come if I 
 could." 
 
 " Now, there's my dearie," said Mrs. Feltham, caress- 
 ing her, "my beautiful birdie, what would her poor 
 friends do without her ! " 
 
 " Better than I should," answered Sybil, sadly ; " as no 
 one else cares about me, except perhaps Geoffrey." 
 
 " None love you as you are loved here — you may be 
 sure of that. Hervey's been looking out for you all day. 
 Here he comes ! I thought he was not far off." 
 
 Hervey came quickly into the cottage, with a bunch 
 
Mr. Power is Shocked. 123 
 
 of early spring flowers, which he put silently into Sybil's 
 hand. 
 
 " Have you been to get these for me ? Thank you, 
 they are lovely ! " and she looked up at him with a blush 
 and a bright smile. 
 
 " Oh ! Hervey, here's bad news for you," said his 
 mother. 
 
 "What?" he asked, turning pale, and looking at Sybil 
 for an explanation. 
 
 " It's nothing at all — only Uncle Harold perhaps is 
 coming, and then I shall be kept at home." 
 
 A shade came over Hervey's handsome face. 
 
 " When does he come ? I may walk back with you ? 
 Yes, I must — round by the point," he urged, as he read 
 hesitation in Sybil's face. 
 
 " Yes, of course you must, to carry the flowers," said 
 Mrs. Feltham. " He'll break his heart if you don't let 
 him go, poor fellow," she added in a low voice to Sybil, 
 as she stooped over her to fasten her cloak. 
 
 After they had walked some distance, Hervey said — 
 
 " And now tell me why I can't see you ? — I can meet 
 you anywhere ; and I'm not going to bear living as I did 
 that time your brother was here." 
 
 Sybil shook her head. 
 
 " I cannot — indeed I cannot — it would never do." 
 
 " Never do to be seen with me," he muttered gloomily; 
 " I can believe that." 
 
 " Never ! Oh ! Hervey ! that is not fair. We talked 
 of this the other day, when we settled that this subject 
 should not be spoken of — certainly not now." 
 
 "I shall always be just as unfit to associate with fine 
 folks as I am now. I can't go on this way — I want you 
 always — always," and he put his arm round her and drew 
 her towards him. 
 
 They had been walking slowly down a narrow path 
 which led to the shore, probably too much absorbed in 
 conversation to notice anything external to themselves; 
 or it might be that the noise of the waves, for there was 
 a high wind, deadened every other sound. At all events. 
 
124 Off the Line. 
 
 they did not bear a footstep which was rapidly approach- 
 ing ; and it was with a feeling of dismay that as they 
 turned on to the sands they suddenly found themselves 
 face to face with Mr. Power. Perhaps he was the most 
 confused of the party, for Hervey recollected himself 
 sufficiently to touch his hat, and Sybil was able to say 
 something about " its being late." He seemed absolutely 
 struck dumb with astonishment and horror, and after 
 uttering some unintelligible words, hastily walked on, 
 with an expression on his face that showed how much his 
 sense of propriety had been shocked. 
 
 " I must go home alone," said Sybil, after some 
 moments' silence, evidently much distressed, and holding 
 out her hand for the flowers. 
 
 "It can't signify now," returned Hervey, sullenly; "if 
 the parson don't hold his confounded tongue, it will be 
 worse for him ! " 
 
 Hervey never spoke coarsely before Sybil, but now his 
 words startled her. She shrank instinctively from his 
 side. He immediately detected the movement. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but everything bad happens at 
 once — it's enough to drive a man mad ; and then when 
 I am a day without seeing you, I think you will change — 
 but you won't — you never will — promise me ! " and he 
 seized her hand and kissed it passionately. 
 
 " Oh ! Hervey, somebody else will come ! Let me 
 go — pray let me go alone." 
 
 "Then I shall see you to-morrow?" he persisted, 
 still detaining her. 
 
 " Yes, yes, certainly, only let me go ! " she exclaimed, 
 disengaging herself, and, almost running till she reached 
 the Farm, entered the house in a state of great agitation. 
 
 It was with an equally perturbed spirit that Mr. 
 Power arrived at the Parsonage, and threw himself down 
 in his chair, to think over the atrocity he had witnessed. 
 He had occasionally heard a rumour of an intimacy be- 
 tween the young Morleys and Hervey Feltham, but he 
 had never attached any importance to it. Now that he 
 had seen with his own eyes such flagrant — such dis- 
 
Mr, Power is Shocked, 125 
 
 graceful — such scandalous impropriety, it absolutely took 
 his breath away. He pondered upon what would be the 
 best course to pursue, and finally resolved upon taking 
 his daughter into his counsels before he acted in the 
 matter. 
 
 Mary quickly obeyed his summons. 
 
 "Do you want "me, papa? Is there anything the 
 matter?" she added with a glance at his troubled 
 countenance ; " you look " 
 
 " Shocked and perplexed, Mary, probably, for I feel 
 so." Mr. Power was a pompous little man. " Re- 
 member that whatever I say to you now is for yourself 
 alone, and not to go further." 
 
 " Of course," she replied submissively. 
 
 "I am placed — accidentally placed— in a most 
 difficult and painful position. I intend to consult you 
 about it." 
 
 Mary's thoughts at once flew to Eustace Morley, and 
 she listened eagerly for the next words. 
 
 " I wish to know all you think — that is, exactly your 
 opinion, of your young friend at the Farm." 
 
 " Sybil Morley, papa ? " Mary hardly understood the 
 question, and wished to gain time. 
 . " Of course. Did you ever know or hear anything 
 against her ? " 
 
 " No, papa — nothing," answered Mary readily, though 
 she began to have a glimmering of what was coming. 
 
 " Then I am to understand that you never heard any 
 report about her ? " 
 
 Mary hesitated. 
 
 "It is absolutely necessary for me to know, therefore 
 I beg that you will inform me at once." 
 
 " There was a foolish report about Sybil and Hervey 
 Feltham, but that was some time ago, and explained 
 away by the fact that she went to Mrs. Feltham's cottage 
 to take lessons in lace-making." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Mr. Power. " Mary, what you heard 
 was true. I have seen it with my own eyes." 
 
 " Seen what ? " asked Mary, bewildered. 
 
126 Off the Line. 
 
 " The most — the worst — the most dreadful familiarities 
 — liberties ! " panted out Mr. Power, almost breathless 
 with horror; then he recollected what he had seen. 
 " Mary, I cannot tell you, but I met them both walking 
 together as I came home to-night." 
 
 " But Sybil probably met him accidentally ; she is 
 often out late." 
 
 " Accidentally ! I suppose it was accidentally that he 
 had his arm round her ! Mary, I am distressed beyond 
 measure to find you defending such things." 
 
 "But I do not defend anything, papa," said Mary 
 aghast at such an unfounded accusation. " I know 
 nothing about it — and I cannot believe anything so 
 dreadful.'; 
 
 " But it is true ; I tell you I saw it. I suppose her 
 brother is the best person to speak to ? " and Mr. Power 
 looked inquiringly at his daughter. 
 
 " Oh ! no, papa," said Mary, blushing — " pray don't. 
 He would be so angry ! " 
 
 " Of course, and so he should be. Do you mean that 
 you think this state of things should continue ? " 
 
 " No, but anything else — not that ! " 
 
 "Her mother, then, or the girl herself?" 
 
 "Mrs. Morley is not well enough to bear such a 
 trouble. Perhaps Sybil would be best, or her old nurse ; 
 or would it be possible to speak to Hervey himself? " 
 added Mary, timidly. 
 
 " I shall speak to him too, of course." 
 
 " It seems such a strange — swc-h an impossible state 
 of things ; and I believe Mr. Morley is coming to the 
 Farm. Perhaps, when he is gone " 
 
 " Could you speak to Miss Morley, Mary ? " 
 
 " No — quite impossible ! She would not bear any in- 
 terference from me." 
 
 " Well, I must see. Perhaps it would be as well to 
 speak to Hervey first Tn the meantime, the less you 
 see of her the better." 
 
 " Oh ! papa, I can't prevent her coming ! I need not 
 go there, if you dislike it ; and surely, if we all turn our 
 
Mr. Power is Shocked. 127 
 
 back upon her, it will be driving her into the very society 
 we wish her to avoid," said Mary, her promises to Hugh 
 coming into her mind with some wonder to find that his 
 fears were soon realised. 
 
 After some further discussion, Mary obtained a pro- 
 mise from her father not to speak to Eustace Morley for 
 a day or two ; and determined, if it were in any way 
 possible, to speak herself to Sybil — but this resolution 
 she was careful not to avow. 
 
 When Sybil arrived at home, after the walk that had 
 been so inopportunely frustrated, she found a letter from 
 her uncle, to say that he should be with them the next 
 day — that he was on his way to London, and could only 
 spare one night for Sandling. 
 
 " But that will give me the pleasure of seeing you all 
 again," he wrote j " and I hope to find my pet Sybil as 
 charming and lovely as ever." 
 
 The letter was to Mrs. Morley, though Eustace was 
 reading it when Sybil came in. 
 
 " Dear Eustace, I hope you will meet your uncle at the 
 station," said Mrs. Morley, anxiously, as he threw the 
 letter somewhat contemptuously on the table. 
 
 " If you like," he replied, carelessly ; " but I think it 
 would be more to the purpose for Sybil to go." 
 
 Eustace disliked his uncle as much as ever; he felt 
 that it was owing to him that they were exiled from 
 Cheveleigh, and the total unconcern of the attitude 
 Harold Morley always maintained towards him, irritated 
 him still more. 
 
 "I should like it extremely, Eustace. I am sure I 
 could drive your mare — may I try ? " 
 
 " My dear Sybil ! — pray, Eustace, don't let her," re- 
 monstrated Mrs. Morley. 
 
 " I was not in earnest, mamma, replied Sybil ; " but 
 why can he only stay one night, I wonder?" 
 
 "Because a dull place like this doesn't suit him. 
 You don't expect him to endure being bored for one day 
 for his dearest friend — if you do, you don't know Uncle 
 Harold. Besides, he is in a hurry to get back to this 
 
128 0# the Line. 
 
 bijou of a home he has furnished in London. Geoffrey 
 says it is the very perfection of comfort and luxury. I 
 wish he were less there." 
 
 " My dear Eustace, you are hard upon your uncle, and 
 it is better that Geoffrey should have some house that 
 he can go to in London. He is really very kind to him." 
 
 " Maybe so ; but it's not my idea of kindness to give 
 Geoffrey opera tickets, and encourage him in idling 
 away his time," said Eustace, sententiously. " Neither 
 can I pretend," he added, " to be sorry that he does not 
 think us worth more of his time. I cannot think, as 
 Sybil does, that anybody is better than nobody." 
 
 " I think it is, in this place," she answered quickly, 
 stung by the contempt of her brother's manner. " At all 
 events, Uncle Harold has been always kind to me, and 
 I shall be very glad to see him." 
 
 Sybil's eyes were full of tears at the memories her 
 uncle's name recalled. Eustace saw that she was hurt, 
 or, as he considered, " put out," and said no more. 
 
 Sybil sat down to her lace-work with a heavy heart, 
 and a bitter feeling of resentment against those who so 
 little appreciated her, and with even softer feelings than 
 usual towards those from whom she received nothing but 
 love, sympathy, and admiration. 
 
 Mr. Morley arrived the next day; his visit was 
 decidedly a greater pleasure to Sybil than to anyone else. 
 He had something of his brother's manner, and a " trick 
 i' the voice" that vividly recalled the father whose 
 memory was her most cherished recollection. She felt 
 happier than she had done for a longtime, whi'Je walking 
 about with him, and showing him the little that was to 
 be seen at Sandling ; and though flat sands and a barren 
 shore were not at all suited to Uncle Harold's taste, he 
 was delighted with Sybil, and at her request consented 
 to stay another day. 
 
 " I should like to take you away with me, Sybil — 
 will you come ? " he asked, as they were walking up and 
 down the sands the morning of his departure. 
 
 A quick throb of pleasure, a sudden lighting up of 
 
Mr. Power is Shocked. 129 
 
 her face, as the thought of life, gaiety, and new scenes 
 presented itself to her mind, quickly succeeded by the 
 recollection of the bondage in which she was, and that 
 all such thoughts must be relinquished. It was but a 
 momentary pang. She had chosen her life; she had 
 elected to link her fate with that of Hervey Feltham. 
 Sybil would have scorned to be influenced by any wordly 
 motives ; she had persuaded herself, strange to say. that she 
 did really love that man. His beauty fascinated her, his 
 love and admiration satisfied her yearning for affection, 
 au reste, she invested him with both moral and intellec- 
 tual gifts which he did not possess. She did not wish to 
 go to London : it was only a passing thought. 
 
 "Well," he asked, as Sybil did not reply, "will you 
 come and see my house ? It's not much bigger than a 
 nutshell, but I could squeeze you into it, I think." 
 
 " Oh ! Uncle Harold, thank you very much, but I 
 could not " 
 
 " Why not ? I am sure there is nothing for you to do 
 here. I must have you later, but I shall not be settled 
 just yet — I have promised to pay some visits in Kent. 
 It is early for London now j you shall come to me in the 
 season. I will talk to your mother about it before I go. 
 And he walked up to the house, and sought his sister-in- 
 law at once. 
 
 " Mabel, I want you to let Sybil come and see me in 
 London. I told you years ago that her beauty was of a 
 most uncommon kind, and she improves every year. I 
 should not be surprised if she were to make a really great 
 marriage. But she must come in the season, and I will 
 get Lady to chaperon her." 
 
 Mabel thanked him, in her usual passive and in- 
 different way ; and he extended his invitation to Eustace, 
 who refused at once with cool civility. The old antag- 
 onism between him and his uncle existed as strongly as 
 ever. 
 
 Mr. Power had consented to Mary's urgent entreaty 
 not to speak to Eustace till his uncle had gone. Apart 
 from the wish she felt to save the Morleys from mortifi- 
 
130 Off the Line, 
 
 cation, she had the further hope of being able to say 
 something to Sybil on the subject first. But the oppor- 
 tunity never came, and Mary was not courageous enough 
 to make one. 
 
 Some days after, her father told her that he had 
 spoken both to Hervey and his mother, but Mrs. Fel- 
 tham had professed entire ignorance of his proceedings, 
 and nothing could be elicited from her guarded replies. 
 He had a stormy interview with Hervey, in which he was 
 defiant and insolent. 
 
 " And in fact, Mary," he added, " my opinion of him 
 is so bad, that I will not delay speaking to Morley another 
 day." 
 
 Mary would not plead for further delay, but only sug- 
 gested that it might be better for Eustace to come to the 
 Vicarage. 
 
 " Then I will invite him to dinner. You must write, 
 as your mother is away. I daresay you think that 
 you are a gainer by this arrangement — eh, Miss 
 Mary?" 
 
 Mary, with vivid blushes, eagerly disclaimed all inte- 
 rested motives, but thought it would be better for Mrs. 
 Morley and Sybil if such a disagreeable subject were 
 broached elsewhere. 
 
 Her father agreed ; Mary wrote,* and Eustace, in 
 happy ignorance of what awaited him, accepted the 
 invitation. 
 
 The dinner was not very successful. Mr. Power was 
 so absent and fussy, Mary so nervous and distrait, that 
 Eustace saw at once something must be wrong. It struck 
 him the more forcibly as he was in unusually high spirits 
 himself from having a prospect of returning to Cheveleigh 
 sooner than he had anticipated : and when once he saw 
 daylight as to this, he meant to speak to Mary, and ask 
 her father's consent to their marriage. He felt little fear 
 of rejection from either. 
 
 The evening seemed interminable to Mary as she sat 
 alone in the drawing-room, hearing their voices in eager 
 conversation till past ten o'clock. Then she heard the 
 
Mr, Power is Shocked. 131 
 
 hall door shut, and her father came in alone. She looked 
 up curiously. 
 
 *• Well, Mary, I am very late, I fear. You must give 
 me some tea alone, for Morley is gone home. Poor 
 fellow ! he feels it acutely, and said he could not see any- 
 one to-night." 
 
 4 Is ht. very angry, or very unhappy ? " she asked, 
 thinking, nowever, that there were no circumstances in 
 which she could not have seen Eustace. 
 
 " Both. It was long before I could make him even 
 understand me ; then, on looking back, he remembered 
 some suspicious circumstances. His sister's deceit has 
 shocked him the most. I am glad, Mary, that you sug- 
 gested his coming here, for I am really thankful that 
 he should have a night to become cool before he speaks 
 to her." 
 
 44 Oh ! papa, I am sure he is dreadfully angry. I wish 
 I had seen him." 
 
 44 He would not have been likely to talk to you on 
 such a subject, so what good you could have done, I 
 don't see. I begged him to be gentle with her. Sh / - 
 is very young, and I daresay this has arisen partly from 
 thoughtlessness and vanity. I cannot believe she is 
 depraved." 
 
 44 Depraved ! " repeated Mary, horror-struck ; " Oh ! 
 no, she is only wilful, and possibly she is fond of admira- 
 tion. She is lovely, and her life is so lonely ! Mrs. 
 Feltham seems to me the most to blame of all — she has 
 no excuse." 
 
 44 And she is so plausible, and appears so respectable. 
 It is a very sad thing, but I do not see that Miss Morley's 
 life is more lonely than yours." 
 
 44 Oh ! yes, much — she has no sister, and she has 
 nothing to do. Music is her only pursuit. We are quite 
 different ; besides, I am growing into an old maid now." 
 
 44 You have always been a good daughter, Mary," re- 
 turned her father ; 44 God grant you may keep so ! " 
 
 Eustace rose very early the ne:-t morning, breakfasted, 
 and went out riding, leaving a message for his mother to 
 
132 Off the Line. 
 
 say he should not be out long. He would not trust him- 
 self to see Sybil before he was able to vent some of the 
 indignation that was burning at his heart. 
 
 He nodded to his mother as he rode past the window 
 when he came back. He did not come into the drawing- 
 room, but ran up-stairs to his own room, calling to Hartly 
 to follow him. 
 
 "What's up now, I wonder?" she muttered, as she 
 followed him at a slower pace. " Mr. Eustace looks 
 fashed to death. Shall I make you a cup of coffee, 
 Sir ? " she asked. " It is a long while since you break- 
 fasted." 
 
 Hartly thought creature comforts the only panacea for 
 all woes. 
 
 " No thank you, Hartly, never mind that. I want to 
 speak to you, and I trust to you not to reveal a word of 
 what I am going to say, especially to my mother." 
 
 " I'm not given to o'ermuch talking, Mr. Eustace." 
 
 " I know that, so I can trust you. I want you to tell 
 me the exact truth, Hartly," and Eustace turned pale, 
 and his voice trembled with the agitation of his feelings. 
 " Did you ever hear any report about my sister ? " 
 
 " Report ! and what report should there be, except 
 that she's the bonniest lassie in all the country round ? " 
 
 Hartly always spoke broad Scotch when she was deeply 
 interested. 
 
 " Because I have heard that there has been an in- 
 timacy between her and a man in this place — Hervey 
 Feltham — one of the fishermen, I believe." 
 
 " And who is it dare to say such things ? " 
 
 " I heard it from Mr. Power." 
 
 " And he a minister, traducing and blaspheming the 
 innocent ! Shame to him ! — and won't I tell him so ! " 
 
 " Foolish woman ! " interrupted Eustace. " I tell you 
 he saw them — met them together." 
 
 " Well, and what then ? " 
 
 " He was walking with his arm round her." 
 
 " The impudent scoundrel ! " exclaimed Hartly, per- 
 fectly aghast with horror. 
 
Mr. Power is Shocked. 133 
 
 " I can remember now that many months ago you 
 came and told me something about this man warning 
 Hannibal. Then Sybil and Geoffrey went out constantly 
 in his boat; and lately, I believe, she has been con- 
 tinually at the cottage, to learn to do some needlework — 
 at least, that is what she said, but it may be only an ex- 
 cuse. I am going to speak to her now, but I thought it 
 best to ask you about it first. God grant that she may 
 not bring disgrace upon us all ! " 
 
 "Disgrace! " repeated Hartly, angrily. "You'll never 
 name her and disgrace together, the bonnie lamb ! I 
 can't say what foolish pranks she may have played, for 
 she was ever a wild one, but she was as true as true, and 
 them as loved her could rule her ; and as you are speak- 
 ing to me, Mr. Eustace, I may as well tell you what's 
 been in my mind scores of times to say, and that is that 
 among you all she's been sadly neglected. You bring 
 her to a lone place like this, and she, no more than a 
 child, let to ramble about at will, and always alone. I 
 will say that for Mr. Geoffrey, he used to be with her — 
 but yourself, Mr. Eustace, what have you been to her ? 
 It's you as should have stood in the place of the father 
 she has lost, and the mother that's pretty well the same 
 as none. You are shut up day by day with books and 
 writings, and when you do go out it's after those Powers. 
 Well, I can only say that if she has put herself in harm's 
 way, it's the fault of them as took no heed to her." 
 
 Eustace buried his face in his hands. Hartly's words 
 touched him to the quick. 
 
 " I'll send her up to you, Mr. Eustace, to speak for 
 herself. I daresay it's all a pack of lies after all ; and, 
 above all things, don't let my mistress know — she is not 
 what she was." 
 
 Hartly's summons did not take Sybil altogether by 
 surprise. Ever since her unfortunate meeting with Mr. 
 Power, she had expected that he would call and speak to 
 her on the subject, but, as he had not done so, Eustace's 
 invitation to dine at the Parsonage, coupled with his dis- 
 appearance from the breakfast-table, enabled her to guess 
 
134 Off the Line. 
 
 the state of the case pretty accurately. For one moment 
 her heart seemed to stop beating ; then she nerved her- 
 self to hear whatever might be coming, and entered her 
 brother's room with an insouciant air. 
 
 " Hartly says you want me, Eustace. Where have you 
 been ? And how cold it is," she added, walking up to 
 the window and closing it. 
 
 11 Yes. I asked you to come up here, as I wish to 
 spare my mother the pain of hearing what I have to say 
 to you. When you can sit down and attend to me, I 
 will tell you what it is," he said, with compressed lips 
 and an icy manner. 
 
 " Well," she said, seating herself in the window, " I am 
 listening." 
 
 Angry as Eustace felt with his sister, he did not find it 
 easy to open the subject. When he looked at her as she 
 sat by the window, with Hannibal's head in her lap, and 
 the old child-like face looking up at him that had always 
 been part of his life, the last few hours seemed like a bad 
 dream. 
 
 " You probably know what I am going to say to you, 
 Sybil?" 
 
 Eustace's manner was somewhat dictatorial, and Sybil's 
 rebellious spirit was immediately roused. 
 
 " How can I tell ? " she asked. 
 
 " I should think your own conscience must tell you. 
 I have heard your name coupled with that of another in 
 the most scandalous and most disgraceful manner! 
 Good God ! to think that a sister of mine should allow 
 familiarities from a low-born man, an ignorant, ill-educated 
 fisherman ! I am told that, under some pretext or other, 
 you go to his house ; that you have been seen alone with 
 him in his boat ; that you meet him out and walk with 
 him at all hours — and this man, this Hervey Feltham, 
 the most unprincipled scoundrel in the place ! " 
 
 " That is Mr. Power's version of his having met me the 
 other evening, I suppose," replied Sybil, as indifferently 
 as she could. " He walked home with me to carry some 
 flowers." 
 
Mr. Power is Shocked. 135 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me that was all ? — that there 
 was nothing beyond that? You know it is not true," 
 said Eustace, angrily. 
 
 " Then if you know, why do you ask ?" she said, pro- 
 vokingly. 
 
 " Sybil ! " exclaimed Eustace, losing all patience, " I 
 see that you do not scruple to add lying and deceit to 
 your shameful behaviour ! But I tell you once for all 
 that you shall not disgrace the name you bear, and that 
 you shall never see this man again ! " 
 
 " And I say ! " exclaimed Sybil, with crimson cheeks 
 and flashing eyes, " that you have no right to speak to 
 me in this manner \ that I shall do exactly as I please, 
 and that neither from you nor anyone else will I brook 
 any interference ! " 
 
 " It is absurd for you to speak in this way," said her 
 brother, pale with suppressed anger ; " quite absurd ! I 
 tell you that you shall not have it in your power to dis- 
 grace yourself and us, and that I forbid you to see this 
 man again ! " 
 
 " So you may, but that will not prevent me, and I shall 
 do as I please." 
 
 "Then I must take measures to hinder your inter- 
 course." 
 
 " What measures ? Lock me up, perhaps," she said, 
 bitterly. 
 
 " I shall never allow you to go out alone." 
 
 " Try," she said, laughing scornfully. 
 
 " Do you mean to dare me, then ? I tell you that I 
 believe you to be both deceitful and unprincipled, and 
 utterly unfit to be trusted, and that for the future I shall 
 see that you are well taken care of ! " 
 
 Sybil's passionate anger was giving way to a feeling of 
 deep and bitter resentment, and she did not answer 
 immediately. 
 
 " Do you hear me, Sybil ?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, very quietly; "have you any 
 more to say?" 
 
 " Not if you intend to mind what I have already said." 
 
136 Of the Line. 
 
 " Have you any more to say ? " she repeated, mechani- 
 cally, as if her thoughts were far away. 
 
 "Only to give you one more warning, for I do not in- 
 tend to be trifled with ; and I tell you once for all, that 
 if I have any reason to think you continue to hold any 
 intercourse with this man, I shall not allow you to remain 
 in the place." 
 
 Sybil made no reply, but stood looking out on the sea, 
 which lay still, blue and glittering in the spring sunshine, 
 on the flat shining sands, on which groups of children 
 were playing and shouting with voices full of glee, a part 
 of the sound of young happy life with which the air 
 seemed rife that day ; and with the strange inconsistency 
 in which in sorrow, or any great mental pressure, people 
 frequently notice and remember the most irrelevant and 
 external circumstances, she watched a little ragged urchin 
 climb up the side of a boat, and as often as he reached 
 the top fall backwards on the sands. She never forgot 
 that child, or his futile and persevering efforts, to her 
 dying day. 
 
 She walked out of her brother's room in a dreamy way, 
 feeling as if paralysed. She did not shed any tears, or 
 evince any kind of agitation. 
 
 " I must think — I must think ! " she kept repeating to 
 herself. " I must go away — but I must have time. I 
 can't think now ! " and she mechanically walked down- 
 stairs, and sat down to the pianoforte, beginning to play 
 from the very bar in which she was interrupted by Hartly's 
 summons. 
 
 When Hartly heard the accustomed sound, she con- 
 gratulated herself on its being " all right somehow," or 
 there would be no music that day ; but the sweet notes 
 of Mendelssohn's " Liedohne Worter," which Sybil was 
 playing, only jarred on Eustace as a fresh proof of his 
 sister's heartlessness. 
 
 When he became cool enough to reflect upon the part 
 he had taken in his interview with Sybil, it was with some 
 feelings of compunction for the harshness he had dis- 
 played. He felt that he had been led away by his anger 
 
Mr. Pciver is Shocked. 137 
 
 and indignation, and doubted whether gentler manage- 
 ment would not have succeeded better. Hartly's words, 
 " Those who love her can rule her," rang in his ears, and 
 he felt a sudden dread lest she should be driven to take 
 some desperate step ; but the next moment he smiled at 
 the absurdity of his fears, as the soft sounds fell upon his 
 ear. 
 
 " 1 only wanted to show I was in earnest," he thought; 
 " we shall soon make it up again." 
 
 Never, Eustace — never ! Words once uttered echo on 
 to all eternity ! 
 
 "Every word has its own spirit, 
 True or false that never dies ; 
 Every word man's lips have uttered, 
 Echoes in God's skies." * . 
 
 Eustace glanced at Sybil when they met at luncheon \ 
 she looked just as she usually did, though she avoided 
 meeting his eyes, and only spoke to her mother. 
 
 Eustace tried to persuade his mother to take a turn 
 on the sands while the sun shone so brightly, and 
 suddenly turning round to Sybil, asked her to come with 
 them. 
 
 " No, thank you. I don't know that I shall go out," 
 she said, and her lip curled contemptuously. 
 
 " My dear, surely you are not going to stay at home 
 such a fine day ! said her mother, looking at her in 
 surprise. 
 
 " Perhaps — I don't know. I may go out later," she 
 said carelessly, for she knew that she could not arrange 
 any of the plans with which her mind was full until she 
 had seen Mrs. Feltham and Hervey. 
 
 Miss Adelaide Procter. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. . 
 
 SYBIL GOES TO LONDON. 
 
 ** Oh, judge none lost, but wait and see 
 With hopeful pity, not disdain ; 
 The depth of the abyss may be 
 The measure of the height of pain, 
 And love and glory that may raise 
 This soul to God in after clays. " 
 
 Adelaide Procter. 
 
 " Alas ! we trace 
 The map of our own paths, and long ere years 
 With their dull steps the brilliant hues efface, 
 On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears." 
 
 GREAT many schemes, or rather plans, by 
 which she could furrther one scheme, were 
 occupying Sybil's mind. She was perfectly de- 
 termined to leave the house, and so to show 
 that she considered herself entirely free from her brother's 
 control. She was not going to wait till she was sent 
 away. She would go, and at once, so that Eustace might 
 implore her to return — if, indeed, he cared at all for her, 
 which she doubted. But in this she was wrong. He 
 was not demonstrative, and his wounded pride had led to 
 an ebullition of temper quite unusual with him ; yet in 
 spite of this, and of his apparent neglect of her, he sin- 
 cerely loved his sister. 
 
 When Eustace uttered his hasty threat, the idea of 
 taking refuge with her uncle — at least, for a time — im- 
 mediately struck her, and this she determined to carry 
 into effect. She would go at once — not write ; if there 
 were any idea that she contemplated such a step, it 
 would certainly be prevented. No; she would go at 
 
Sybil Goes to London. 139 
 
 once, arrive there quite unexpectedly, and claim his pro- 
 tection, till — till when Sybil did not pursue that 
 
 thought ; her views of the future were very indefinite. 
 
 Occupied by this scheme, and considering in what way 
 she could carry it out, it was with no little annoyance she 
 saw Mary Power walking up towards the house. 
 
 " I cannot see her ! — I cannot see anybody ! " she ex- 
 claimed aloud ; but there was no one to heat her, and be- 
 fore she could prevent it, Mary Power was admitted. 
 
 A suspicion of her motive in choosing this especial day 
 for a visit, gave Sybil a peculiarly odd and ungracious 
 manner. 
 
 " I have just met your brother and Mrs. Morley, Sybil, 
 and asked them if you would be inclined to take a walk 
 with me, but they both professed entire ignorance of your 
 plans. It is a lovely day. Will you come ? " 
 
 " No, thank you," said Sybil, coldly. " If I go out, it 
 will be much later. I have so much to do." 
 
 " I am very sorry, and ' so much to do ! ' Why, that is 
 very unlike you, Sybil. What can it be ? — can't you put it 
 off?" 
 
 " No — I think not," she replied, carelessly. " How is 
 your brother ? " 
 
 " Only pretty well. Spring weather always tries him, 
 and makes him restless. By-the-bye, when are you 
 coming to sing to him again ? I assure you, you have a 
 very devoted admirer in Charlie," said Mary, smiling. 
 
 " Really," said Sybil, only half taking in what she was 
 saying, and only conscious of one feeling — impatience for 
 her to go. But Mary seemed determined to stay, as she 
 untied her bonnet, and sat down by the window. " She 
 will wait till Eustace comes back ! What shall I do ? " 
 thought Sybil, as she tried to discourage any such intention 
 by maintaining a rigid silence. 
 
 " I suppose I could not persuade you to spend the day 
 with me, Sybil ? Mamma and my sister are not 
 coming back for another week, and it would be a real 
 charity." 
 
 " Possibly," thought Sybil, " and give Mr. Power a 
 
140 Off the Line. 
 
 good opportunity to preach to me ; besides, to-morrow's 
 Sunday, and, after that, where shall I be ? " 
 
 " I think not, thank you ; and besides " 
 
 " Besides what ? " said Mary, eagerly. 
 
 "I was going to say that I doubted if your father 
 would desire my society either for yourself cr Charlie," 
 said Sybil, haughtily. 
 
 "What do. you mean, Sybil?" said Mary, blushing — 
 " no, I won't ask what you mean, for perhaps I can guess, 
 and that is one thing I want so much to say. Will you 
 remember that whatever people say makes no difference 
 to me, though it may to others, and I should be so glad 
 if you would tell me that all those foolish stories are 
 nonsense." 
 
 Sybil hesitated ; there was a great struggle between her 
 pride and her sense of justice, for Mary's manner was 
 so kind and affectionate, it was almost impossible to take 
 offence. 
 
 " I am not a child, so I suppose I may act as I choose," 
 she answered rather evasively. " I don't care what people 
 say." 
 
 " But I know you would not choose to act in any way 
 that would make your friends miserable." 
 
 " There is not much danger of anyone making them- 
 selves miserable about me," said Sybil pettishly j " and, 
 at any rate, Mary, though I give you credit for the 
 kindest intentions, there are some things that it is easier 
 and better not to talk about." 
 
 "Very well," said Mary sadly; "I should be very 
 sorry to annoy you, but I must say one thing, and that 
 is that if ever I can be of any help or comfort to you, 
 I hope you will tell me, for nothing would make me 
 happier." 
 
 Mary's manner was so earnest, and so truly kind, that 
 Sybil's eyes filled with tears, but she did not speak. She 
 kissed her silently, and turned away. 
 
 Mary did not like to remain when she felt instinctively 
 that her presence was an annoyance, so she walked slowly 
 home feeling very sad, and not at all satisfied with the 
 
Sybil Goes to London. 141 
 
 result of her visit. She knew as well as Hartly did that 
 Sybil's proud and wilful nature could only be influenced by 
 kindness, and yet she felt that she had made no way in 
 gaining her confidence. 
 
 " Reproaches or mistrust from everyone," said Sybil to 
 herself, as she watched her from the window ; " even from 
 Mary, who feels kindly towards everyone. I can never 
 bear it ! I must go away at once. I will ask Mrs. 
 Feltham to take me to Uncle Harold. When I am there, 
 I will write and say where I am, but not before — oh ! no, 
 certainly not before, for I should be stopped — locked up, 
 perhaps ! " 
 
 At the thought Sybil's evil nature was roused, her eyes 
 flashed, and she laughed scornfully. 
 
 This idea spurred her on to lose no time, and she 
 quickly put on her hat and cloak and walked towards the 
 cottage. She found Mrs. Feltham and Hervey in the 
 garden ; they said they had been looking out for her. 
 Hervey was training a creeper over the porch, and his 
 mother was watching him, 
 
 " And where has my beauty been ? " said Mrs. Feltham 
 as she led Sybil into the house ; "it's been such a fine 
 day that Hervey has been wondering whether you would 
 take a row, and had a mind to come up to ask you ; but 
 I kept him here, thinking you would come." 
 
 " It's very fine, but I don't want to go out. I came to 
 speak to you," said Sybil. Her lips quivered and she 
 seemed on the point of bursting into tears. 
 
 Mrs. Feltham looked at her curiously. 
 
 " What can we do ? How can we help you ? You 
 h ve only to say." 
 
 " May I not come in ? " asked Hervey, thrusting his 
 head in at the open window. 
 
 " No, go away, no one wants you," said his mother 
 smiling ; and she looked at Sybil, waiting to hear what 
 was the matter. 
 
 " There's no secret," she said ; " I have come to ask 
 you to do me a kindness. I want you to go with me to 
 London to my uncle." 
 
142 Off the Line. 
 
 This announcement took Mrs. Fetham entirely by 
 surprise. 
 
 " To London ? Are you going to London?" 
 
 "No, certainly not. You cannot go there," said 
 Hervey, who had come in while she was speaking. 
 
 " Why not ? " asked Sybil quickly ; " I am not going 
 to stay here, and bear all I have borne to-day ; but, of 
 course, if it is inconvenient," she said proudly, for Mrs. 
 Feltham had made no reply, " I can go alone." 
 
 * Go alone ! Do you think either Hervey or I would 
 allow that ? " she exclaimed. 
 
 She had taken a rapid survey of the circumstances, 
 and at once determined not to refuse, seeing at a glance 
 that it was the best possible opportunity for bringing her 
 son and Sybil together. 
 
 " I should be of more use than my mother," began 
 Hervey. 
 
 " I daresay, but no one wants you. Do go back to 
 the roses," said his mother, with a meaning glance. 
 
 With a clouded brow he obeyed, and Mrs. Feltham 
 and Sybil were left together. 
 
 " Now, my dear, tell me what you want." 
 
 " Only for you to go with me to Uncle Harold's house 
 in Hertford Street. I thought you would sleep there and 
 return the next day. It is giving you a great deal of 
 trouble, but then I have no one else." 
 
 " No one else would be so happy to do what you 
 like," said Mrs. Feltham, caressingly, "only tell me when 
 you want to go." 
 
 " As soon as possible ; only, as to-morrow is Sunday, I 
 must wait till Monday, I suppose." 
 
 Mrs. Feltham, rather aghast at such short notice, 
 murmured something about preparations. 
 
 "But no preparations are wanted," exclaimed Sybil, 
 impatiently. " I shall take nothing with me except what 
 I can carry in my hand ; I shall send for my things after- 
 wards, and of course you will not want anything for one 
 night." 
 
 "Certainly, that is true. I did not understand. In 
 
Sybil Goes to London, 143 
 
 fact, I had no idea that you thought of going 
 yet" 
 
 " I never meant it, but I am driven to it," said Sybil, 
 passionately; "driven to it by the things Eustace has 
 said to me to-day." 
 
 "Dear me, how very sad! How can he be so un- 
 kind?" 
 
 " Perhaps he did not think it unkind to say he would 
 keep guard over me, and lock me up if I came here \ but 
 I do, and I shall not give him the chance." 
 
 Eustace had not said that, but Sybil entirely believed 
 that he had. 
 
 " I should think so ! " exclaimed Mrs. Feltham, lifting 
 up her hands in well-feigned astonishment and indigna- 
 tion. " Indeed, I should think so ; and how glad I am 
 to see you have the spirit to resist such tyranny ! " 
 
 Sybil was quite ready to abuse her brother herself, but 
 she did not altogether like anyone else's doing so, and 
 said shortly, — 
 
 " Of course he thought it right, I suppose \ but as I 
 differ from him, I shall go away. I suppose the earliest 
 train on Monday will be the best to go by ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so," said Mrs. Feltham, who had been 
 quickly forming a plan in her own mind. " We shall get 
 to Rugby soon enough to catch the express train to 
 London, and then you will get in early — only there will 
 be an hour to wait there." 
 
 " That will not signify — I don't care how long I wait. 
 What o'clock does the first train leave this place ? " 
 
 " Half-past seven. Will that be too soon ? " 
 
 " On ! no. I often go out earlier than that in summer, 
 when I bathe. Then, if I do not see you to-morrow, 
 you will promise to meet me at the station at half-past 
 seven ? " 
 
 Mrs. Feltham promised, and well pleased at the 
 success of her scheme, Sybil walked home. 
 
 As soon as she had left the cottage, Hervey came in. 
 He had waited outside in the hope of seeing her alone, 
 but she would neither wait nor let him walk home with 
 
 \0 
 
144 Off the Line. 
 
 her; and though he was both disappointed and provoked 
 she looked so weary, and seemed so much in earnest, that 
 he submitted without much complaint. 
 
 " Well, mother, what's up now?" he asked. " What's 
 this new scheme, and what has happened ? " 
 
 * 1 scarcely know what has happened. Something to 
 put our young lady into a terrible taking, it seems." 
 
 And she is going to London, and you are going with 
 her, and so encourage her to go ! I think it's very 
 extraordinary and very foolish ! " 
 
 " That's because you can't see into a mill-stone, my 
 wise son ! You leave it all to me, and then you'll see if 
 it's not the best way to bring you together." 
 
 " It looks like it, certainly ! " said Hervey, with a sneer. 
 
 " Exactly — it does look like it. Now listen to me. I 
 shall go with her, but you will have to take her to 
 London." 
 
 " How ? What can you mean ? " 
 
 " Why, you must go by the same train that we do. It 
 all came into my head like a shot while she was talking 
 — only take care that she* does not see you. We shall 
 have to wait an hour or more at Rugby, and then I shall 
 not be very well, and get worse before the train comes, 
 and have a terrible attack of my spasms, so that I shall 
 not be able to stir. You may show yourself before that, 
 saying that you could not resist going so far with her ; 
 and I shall be thankful to see you, and think it most 
 fortunate, for it's only two hours by the express to London, 
 and you can take her on that little way, and then come 
 back to me." 
 
 " Come back to you? " 
 
 " Foolish boy ! say so, is all I mean." 
 
 " But I must do it, as well as say so — I can't go and 
 stay at Mr. Morley's house." 
 
 " Certainly not — neither will she — look here," and she 
 showed him a paragraph in a newspaper that was on the 
 table ; " it seems as if you were in luck's way, Hervey, 
 for it's the oddest thinsr that I should have seen this only 
 this morning." 
 
Sybil Goes to London, 145 
 
 Hervey took up the paper and read aloud, — 
 
 " The Earl and Countess of are entertaining a 
 
 large party. Among the guests are Lord , Sir , 
 
 and Lady , and Mr. Morley." 
 
 " Oh ! I see, mother ; you find out everything." 
 "Yes, you had better trust to me, if you will only be 
 patient, and not kick over your own milk as you are apt 
 to do ! I tell you Mr. Morley will be away, so she cannot 
 stay there." 
 
 " But where can I take her ? What can I do ? " 
 11 J've hardly had time to think over that. The best 
 thing would be if you could persuade her to go to your 
 Aunt Ramsden's, at Richmond — being an Inn, I daresay 
 she would — at all events, she would not like rn come back 
 here. Persuade her to wait there for a day or two ; and 
 when you've done that, if you can't manage the rest, and 
 get your own way, why, you're not fit to be my son ! " 
 
 " That's capital ! " said Hervey, rubbing his hands in 
 great exhultation. " Capital ! Why, mother, there is 
 nobody so clever as you. Surely she will listen tp me 
 when I have her alone, and there is no one to be afraid 
 of. Now she never lets me say one word about marrying 
 her." 
 
 " Lets you ! bless the boy ! don't you know that ' faint 
 heart never won fair lady.' Why, she's over head and 
 ears in love with you — anyone can see that." 
 
 u Do you think so ? do you really think so ? She is 
 always talking about my taking up some profession. She 
 will never marry me as I am," said Hervey despondingly. 
 " Bah ! don't tell me. You get her down to Richmond. 
 Perhaps I'd better write a note to your aunt, that you 
 may give her, to explain matters a little." 
 
 " But after all, Mr. Morley may have come back." 
 " Yes, and the skies may fall, and you catch larks," 
 said his mother contemptuously. "Always expect to 
 succeed; if we do fail, we do, that's all — it can't be 
 helped, and I daresay it would be the best thing for you 
 in the end. At any rate, it's no good to be down-hearted 
 yet" 
 
146 . Off the Line. 
 
 "Is this yesterday's paper? "Arrived yesterday," 
 he said, conning over the words of the paragraph. "Oh! 
 he won't come back. How fortunate that you had the 
 paper ! " 
 
 " Yes — I care to know what goes on in the world ; you 
 never seem to do so." 
 
 " I wonder if I could do anything — take up any 
 profession?" said Hervey, looking enquiringly into his 
 mother's face. 
 
 " What would be the good of that ! She has money 
 of her own, that would keep you doing nothing, like a 
 gentleman, all your life. I daresay she will have her 
 uncle's, too." 
 
 " Hardly, if our scheme succeeds. Oh ! mother, if it 
 does!" 
 
 " If it does ! — of course it will," answered his mother 
 confidently. " What's to prevent it ? " 
 
 Everything seemed to justify Mrs. Feltham's sanguine 
 expectations. Monday morning dawned in a flood of 
 sunshine that seemed quite to account for Sybil's early 
 rising and disappearance. 
 
 " She always did like to bathe," said the housemaid, 
 who saw her pass through the open door with nothing but 
 a small travelling-bag in her hand. So said Hartly, and 
 so said her mother long after the time had passed for her 
 appearance at breakfast, so that she was far on her way 
 before her disappearance caused any anxiety or alarm. 
 
 It was just seven o'clock when she arrived at the 
 station. No one was on the platform ; there was only a 
 porter unlocking the doors. A few people dropped in by 
 degrees, but she saw nothing of Mrs. Feltham. 
 
 " 7.20 — only ten minutes," she said in railway phrase- 
 ology, looking up at the clock. She began to feel 
 anxious, and to wonder if it would be better for her to 
 travel alone, or to wait till another day. Suddenly she 
 heard a voice addressing her, and saw it was Mrs. 
 Feltham. She looked pale and ill, and leant on her son's 
 arm in a languid manner, very unlike her usual brisk 
 movements. 
 
Sybil Goes to London, 147 
 
 "I was so afraid we were late," she said in a half 
 whisper, "but the fact was I have been so ill that I 
 scarcely expected to be able to come at all." 
 
 " You had better sit down, mother," said Hervey, 
 bringing her a chair. 
 
 * Thank you, dear, I will ; but surely the train is due 
 now?" 
 
 "Nearly five minutes, Ma'am," said a porter as he 
 passed ; " any luggage ? " 
 
 " None ; but I am sure you must not travel if you are 
 ill," said Sybil, feeling rather discomfited at the turn 
 events were taking. 
 
 " But I am really better. It won't hurt me ; anything 
 is better than that you should go alone." 
 
 " I can wait till to-morrow," said Sybil ; " pray stay." 
 But the train came shrieking and snorting into the station. 
 The carriage-doors were opened, and before she knew 
 where she was, Sybil found herself seated opposite to Mrs. 
 Feltham, in a first-class railway carriage. Hervey had 
 only time to hand them their tickets before the train 
 rushed on, carrying her further and further from the shelter 
 of her home, to be a waif and stray on the wide world ! 
 There was one elderly gentleman in the same carriage, so 
 there was not much power of conversation, and Sybil had 
 plenty of time for reflection. But she was still in too 
 great a state of excitement from the events of the last 
 few days, and from the anticipation of the kind of 
 reception she might meet with from her uncle, for any 
 calm or dispassionate thoughts. 
 
 The change of scene and the beauty of the country in 
 its early spring dress had its exhilarating effects upon her 
 impressionable temperament, and she sat so intently 
 looking out upon the moving panorama, that it was with 
 great surprise she felt the train slacken its speed, and 
 immediately after heard the hoarse shout, "Rugby — 
 Rugby ; any passengers for Rugby ! " The shrill cries of 
 " The ' Times ' — to-day's ' Times ' — morning papers ! " and 
 all the hurry and gabble of a large railway station, showed 
 her that the first part of her journey was completed 
 
148 0$ the Line. 
 
 " Ob ! this is Rugby — we must get out ! " she exclaimed, 
 jumping up eagerly, and looking round for the first time 
 at her fellow-passengers. The old gentleman was eying 
 her curiously, but Mrs. Feltham was leaning her head 
 against the side of the carriage, with her smelling-bottle 
 in her hand, apparently suffering. There was no time 
 for Sybil even to inquire if she were, — they were hurried 
 out, jostled on the platform, and finally found themselves 
 in a waiting-room belonging to first-class passengers. 
 
 " Are you ill ? Oh ! I hope you are not ill ! " said 
 Sybil in no little dismay, as Mrs. Feltham sank down on 
 the nearest sofa with a stifled groan. 
 
 "111! — indeed I am. I have been in torture for the 
 last half-hour. Oh ! my side — oh ! " and she gasped as 
 if in agony. . 
 
 " What can I do for you ? Is there anything I can 
 get ? " asked Sybil, perfectly aghast, and totally unused to 
 illness. 
 
 " Oh ! — ah ! — oh ! dear me ! — these terrible spasms ! — 
 they are so fearful "!vhen once they attack me ! " 
 
 " Perhaps the lady would take a little brandy," said 
 a civil-looking railway official who was passing through 
 the room, and had stopped to see what was the 
 matter. 
 
 " Oh ! yes — thank you — I daresay that would cure her; 
 but how can I get any ? " 
 
 " Plenty to be had in the refreshment-room, Ma'am. 
 Here," calling to a porter who was standing near, " show 
 this lady the way into the refreshment-room." 
 
 Sybil hurried along the platform, closely following her 
 conductor ; but before she had gone many yards she 
 encountered Hervey Feltham. 
 
 " You here ! I am so thankful — you will know what 
 to do — your mother is so ill — I am going for some 
 brandy." 
 
 Her relief at seeing him was so great, that she entirely 
 forgot to wonder at his sudden appearance, when she had 
 imagined him so many miles away. 
 
 "Spasms, I suppose?" asked Hervey quickly. "I'll 
 
Sybil Goes to London, 149 
 
 get it at once, if you will go back to her. She was not 
 fit to travel. Where is she ? " 
 
 " In that room. Oh ! thank you — pray be quick ! " 
 and she returned at once to Mrs. Feltham, who was lying 
 at full length on the sofa, apparently exhausted. Sybil 
 knelt down by her side. " Are you better ? — I do hope 
 you are better ! I have got such good news for you — 
 Hervey is here, and he has gone for the brandy, as he 
 knows how it should be mixed." 
 
 "Thank God !— oh ! thank God ! I do not care about 
 myself — it was for you I was so disturbed. My poor 
 boy ! — he was so uneasy at my coming — I suppose he 
 followed me here," and Mrs. Feltham turned up the whites 
 of her eyes, and then closed them, apparently in mental 
 thanksgiving. 
 
 " Here, mother, drink this," said Hervey, coming into 
 the room with a glass of hot brandy and water. " I 
 guessed how this would turn out." 
 
 " And so you came with us all this way ! — my dear boy, 
 you are always so anxious ! " 
 
 " Well, never mind that," he said impatiently ; " only 
 drink this and get well, for you have only half-an-hour to 
 wait before the London train comes in." 
 
 " I think I shall be better — I will lie quite still," she 
 said faintly. 
 
 " Do ; and try to sleep. We will walk up and down," 
 and Sybil followed Hervey into the refreshment-room. 
 As yet the difficulties of the journey had not disheartened 
 her. The new and stirring scene excited and amused her, 
 and she revelled in the new sense of freedom. 
 
 " Why did you come, Hervey ? I was so astonished 
 to see you," she said, as, after persuading her to take 
 some refreshment, they walked up and down the plat- 
 form. 
 
 " I was afraid my mother might be ill, for one thing ; 
 but it was mostly because I could not bear to lose sight 
 of you. How can I tell when I may see you again ? " 
 
 " So you really came all this way only for that ?" she 
 said, touched by such devotion. 
 
is;o Oft the Line. 
 
 " I would go to the end of the world to see you ! " he 
 said passionately ; " you ought to know that. But you 
 think nothing of going away for months ! " 
 
 " Indeed — indeed I do — but how can I help it ? " 
 
 " But you will write to me. I shall hear from you. 
 Promise me that?" 
 
 " I shall write to your mother " 
 
 " That's not the same thing, you must write to me." 
 
 "Well, I can enclose* a letter for you in hers; and 
 you can do the same, if you like. But surely it is 
 time to go?" she said, as a bell clanged ominously in 
 their ears. 
 
 " No, there is ten minutes more ; but we must go and 
 see how my mother is," and they hurried into the room 
 where Mrs. Feltham was still lying down. 
 
 " Well, are you better ? — I hope you are better," said 
 Sybil and Hervey simultaneously, as they came and stood 
 by her. • 
 
 " Yes, I hope so. I will try and get up now. Give 
 me your arm, Hervey," she said, rising, and taking his 
 arm, and walking towards the door. But after a; few 
 steps she staggered, and, with a cry of pain, sank down 
 again on the seat. 
 
 "You can't move — indeed you are not able," said 
 Sybil, greatly distressed. " What are we to do ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Hervey; " but you must settle 
 quickly, for there is only five minutes now." 
 
 "To go back seems the only thing to do," she replied, 
 despondingly. 
 
 " Go back ! " said Mrs. Feltham, rousing herself — 
 " that would be useless. Besides I could not move now. 
 There is only one thing to do — Hervey must go with you 
 to London." 
 
 " Oh ! impossible," said Sybil, shrinking back ; " be- 
 sides, how can he leave you ? " 
 
 " He will come back in time to take me home ; you 
 will get to London in two hours. You must see it's the 
 only thing to do," she said, earnestly. 
 
 " It seems to me the only thing to do. I must go and 
 
Sybil Goes to London. 151 
 
 get a ticket — mine is only to Rugby," and he hurried off, 
 leaving Sybil utterly bewildered and undecided. • 
 
 " I think I can't — I'd better not," she said, hesitatingly, 
 when he came back to fetch her. 
 
 " As you like," he replied, looking deeply hurt — " if 
 it's only on account of my being with you, I can go in 
 another carriage." 
 
 "What nonsense! — it's not that; but I don't like to 
 leave your mother here." 
 
 " But I shall be back in four or five hours, in time to 
 get her home to-night ; and if not, we can stay here till 
 to-morrow. She can never move for hours after an attack 
 of that kind." 
 
 " Oh ! do go ! — only go ! " exclaimed Mrs. Feltham, as 
 the bell rang, and the express train rushed into the 
 station. 
 
 Hervey put Sybil into her place, and then stood with 
 his foot on the step, undecided whether he should come 
 in. 
 
 " Shall I come ? " he asked, as the guard came up to 
 shjit the door. 
 
 The carriage was full of people, and Sybil only replied 
 by making room for him to sit beside her, and in another 
 moment they were whirled on towards London. 
 
 It may seem strange that, as we have only hitherto 
 looked upon Hervey Feltham in the light of a common 
 fisherman, he should not have appeared strangely out of 
 place by the side of a young lady in a first-class railway 
 carriage. But in fact, he had never dressed like the other 
 fishermen; and now, in better clothes, his strikingly 
 handsome face and tall figure only suggested some 
 gentleman in sporting attire. His naughty, intelligent 
 face did not bespeak him to be one of the people. But 
 little was said till they arrived at Euston Square. 
 
 " We have no luggage, and can get into a cab at once," 
 said Hervey, giving her his arm as they alighted, and he 
 hailed a cab. 
 
 "To No. — — Hertford Street," and it was now, as 
 they were jostled over the stones, threading their way 
 
152 Off the Line. 
 
 through the crowded thoroughfares in the murky 
 atmosphere of London, that Sybil's heart began to fail 
 her. 
 
 As they turned out of Park Lane, the man pulled up 
 suddenly. 
 
 " What house did you say, Sir ? No. seems to be 
 
 shut up." 
 
 " Oh ! impossible ! — let me see," said Sybil, eagerly 
 looking out of the window. 
 
 But blinds were down, and shutters were shut, and it 
 looked as dismal as an empty house in a London street 
 can look. 
 
 " I'll get out and see," said Hervey, jumping out of 
 the cab, and ringing the bell violently, his heart throbbing 
 with delight at the success of their well-laid scheme. 
 
 The door was opened by a deaf old woman, who 
 seemed either unable or unwilling to give them any 
 information. Her orders were, while the gentleman was 
 away, not to let anyone into the house. 
 
 " But when does he come back ? When did he go ? " 
 said Sybil, eagerly, as she stood on the door-step by 
 Hervey. 
 
 " She does not hear what you say. She told me ' in 
 a day or two!'" (She had really said " in a week or 
 two!") " Now what can we do? There is no one but 
 this old hag in the house, it appears." 
 
 " Oh ! Hervey," said Sybil, pale with fatigue and 
 disappointment, " how dreadful ! I must go back again — 
 
 and perhaps " The thought glanced through her 
 
 mind that if Eustace saw her now he would perhaps not 
 allow her to return. " I suppose there is nothing I can 
 do but return to your mother at Rugby ?" 
 
 " I don't know that you could do that, for we've been 
 too long coming to catch the next train. You could not 
 catch the four o'clock train down to Rugby, my man, 
 could you ? " said Hervey to the driver, showing plainly 
 by his manner what he expected his answer to be. 
 
 " Not if you gave me a guinea a mile — and I would 
 not try," was the reply. 
 
Sybil Goes to London. 153 
 
 "What can I do?" said poor Sybil, despairingly. 
 
 "There is one thing we might do, if you did not dislike 
 it, just for to-day ! " 
 
 " I should not dislike anything. What is it ? " 
 
 " I was thinking we might go to Richmond, to my aunt. 
 She keeps an Inn there, and would make you comfortable, 
 L am sure. We could go straight to the station now, and 
 it would only take half-an-hour to get there." 
 
 '• Oh ! that would be the best ; do let us go at once 
 away from this house, and I can write to Uncle Harold." 
 
 And with a promise of extra payment, the man was 
 induced to take them to Waterloo Bridge. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ON THE TRACK OF THE RUNAWAY. 
 
 " It was a phase of home-sickness ! I had wrenched myself too 
 suddenly out of an accustomed sphere. There was no chance now, 
 but to bear the pang of whatever heartstrings were snapt 
 asunder." 
 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
 
 " The hills were round us, and the breeze 
 Went o'er the sunlit fields again ; 
 Our foreheads felt the wind and rain, 
 Our youth returned : for there was shed 
 On spirits that had long been dead, 
 Spirits dried up and closely furled, 
 The freshness of the early world. " 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 RE you sure your aunt can receive us ? " said 
 Sybil, as soon as they were once again 
 seated in a railway carriage. 
 
 " I suppose so. People who keep an 
 Inn ought to be able to take in everybody. It will only 
 take us half-an-hour to get there, and as the Inn is near 
 the station, wouldn't it be best for me to go on and see 
 her first ? Should you mind waiting alone ? " 
 
 " Not the least ; and it would be better for you to see 
 her first. She will be so surprised to see me." 
 
 "Very much indeed," thought Hervey — but that he 
 cared very little about. He was only anxious to give her 
 his mother's letter unobserved. 
 
 " Is she like your mother, Hervey ? " 
 " Not at all — she is so much older ; but I have not 
 seen her for some years." 
 
 Mrs. Ramsden was a kind motherly old lady, as unlike 
 
On the Track of the Runaway. 155 
 
 her sister as possible. She was delighted to see Hervey; 
 her sympathies were instantly enlisted on behalf of the 
 u two young things," as she called them, and in conse- 
 quence her reception of Sybil was cordial in the extreme. 
 
 " Now, my dear, come with me. Well, you are a 
 pretty creature !" she said, half to herself. " You shall 
 have some tea in my room with Hervey ; or would you 
 rather have some dinner ? " 
 
 " I should like tea much the best, thank you," said 
 Sybil. " Can I stay here to-night ? " 
 
 " To be sure, to night, and to-morrow night, and as 
 many nights as you please. I have a nice little room 
 that opens into mine — you can have that, and then you 
 won't feel lonely. Shall I show it you ? " 
 
 a Then I will go and see what I can get to eat, aiint, M 
 said Hervey, u for I am regularly famished." 
 
 " Oh ! I wish I had asked him to send a telegram to 
 his mother," said Sybil, as soon as he had left the room. 
 " She will wonder what has become of him." 
 
 "Not a bit, my dear. She'll know he will be safe 
 enough here." 
 
 " Yes, if she knew it, but she was ill, and meant to 
 wait at Rugby till Hervey came back. Did not he tell 
 you?" 
 
 " No — yes," said Mrs. Ramsden, utterly mystified, as 
 she recollected the note she had then in her pocket, but 
 which she had been strictly enjoined by Hervey not to 
 mention. " But here he comes. How like he's grown 
 to his poor father, to be sure." 
 
 " I am glad you are come back," said Sybil ; " I wanted 
 to ask you to send to your mother. I think she will be 
 frightened about us." 
 
 That " us " sounded pleasant in Hervey's ears. 
 
 " I have done it," he said decidedly; " I thought she 
 would be wondering what had happened to me." 
 
 Mrs. Ramsden began to feel as if there was wrong and 
 falseness going on around her, but she could not un- 
 ravel the mystery without asking Hervey, so remained 
 silent. 
 
156 Oft the Line. 
 
 " It can't be really wrong, though, I suppose ; for Ivt 
 Sophia's own words as to theii coming here. What *. 
 fine fellow Hervey is grown, and as to her, she's the 
 prettiest girl I've seen this many a day ; but I should 
 like to know a little more about it all, and I think I 
 must." 
 
 With this on her mind, she called Hervey as scon as 
 she had taken Sybil to her room, and proceeded to 
 question him. But though anxious to propitiate his 
 aunt, she did not find him very communicative t for 
 beyond the fact that Sybil was a lady and persecuted oy 
 her family, she could elicit very little and did not feel at 
 all satisfied. 
 
 " All I want, aunt, is for you to keep her here for a 
 time — will you try?" 
 
 " She may stay if she will," returned his aunt doubt- 
 fully, " but unless she's made up her mind to marry you, I 
 can't think that she will — it must be all so different. 
 You are not married already ? " she said, as the thought 
 suddenly struck her that probably that was the key to 
 the mystery. 
 
 " No, no, aunt. I wish we were, or that I knew how 
 to bring it about. Mother thought you could help 
 us." 
 
 " I am willing enough to do that, as far as it's right, or 
 the young lady's willing," said his aunt, gravely; " but it 
 looks to me rather queer now." 
 
 It was all "very different" to Sybil, as Mrs. Ramsden, 
 from her greater knowledge of life, was more aware of 
 than Hervey. " Very different, indeed," Sybil felt, as 
 she sat down in the small bed-room Mrs. Ramsden had 
 allotted her. 
 
 The room was clean and comfortable, but Sybil felt 
 quite out of her element. All that was said and done, 
 and the way in which it was said and done, was so per- 
 fectly new to her — so entirely different to any of the 
 experiences of life she had met with in her sheltered 
 home. 
 fc_ She sat down by the window looking out on the river, 
 
On the Track of the Runazvay. 157 
 
 watching the flitting lights and listening to the loud 
 talking in the streets, and the noises in the house — for it 
 was still early — till a sudden feeling of terror came over 
 her at the step she had taken, and she would have given 
 worlds to retrace it. But it was impossible. What could 
 she do ? Naturally daring and high-spirited, and made 
 reckless by circumstances, she resolutely put away all 
 repentant thoughts. She would send to her uncle in the 
 morning ; it would be all right when she was once in 
 Hertford Street, so she laid her head upon the pillow, 
 and, really fatigued with the excitement of the day, sr.e 
 slept the deep, unbroken sleep of the young, and did not 
 wake till the early sunshine streamed full upon her face 
 through the shutterless window. 
 
 It was some minutes before she could remember where 
 she was; but the bright morning light dispelled any 
 feelings of despondency, and she dressed quickly, de- 
 termined to write to Mr. Morley, and beg him to send 
 for her that day. She would ask Mrs. Ramsden to des- 
 patch a special messenger to Hertford Street, and, if her 
 uncle had not returned, to obtain his address. The old 
 lady was astir early, and Sybil easily obtained writing 
 materials from her, and was writing busily when Hervey 
 came in. 
 
 "You are not tired, are you ? " he said, sitting down by 
 her side ; " it is such a beautiful day, I want to take you 
 on the river. You will trust yourself in a boat with me, I 
 hope?" he added, with a confident smile. 
 
 " I am writing to my uncle now. Your aunt says she 
 will send some one with it on purpose." 
 
 "Does she? Curse her for an old fool!" mut- 
 tered Hervey; but Sybil went on writing and heard 
 nothing. 
 
 " I was thinking it would be best for you to take it, 
 Hervey," she continued, without looking up \ " you 
 would find out something from that horrible old woman 
 — or, at all events, she would tell you of some one who 
 does know where my uncle is. He is sure to come back 
 soon; but then, you know, I ought to know to-day. 
 
158 Off the Line. 
 
 Don't you think it would be best?" she added, as she 
 saw the cloud on Hervey's brow. 
 
 " I can take it, if you wish," he said gloomily. 
 
 " It would be best, I think. And then at home — I 
 wonder if they know at home ? " 
 
 Hervey did not at all approve the way Sybil's thoughts 
 appeared to be drifting. 
 
 "Of course they know — I mean, they think that you 
 are with Mr. Morley," he replied impatiently ; " my 
 mother would go back when she found I did not return, 
 and she would tell them." 
 
 " Then I will only write to my uncle now ; and 
 when you come back, I shall know better what to 
 do." 
 
 Disappointed as Hervey was at this resolve of 
 Sybil's, he felt that the errand would be better managed 
 by him than by anyone else ; but he could not dis- 
 guise his mortification as he held out his hand for the 
 letter. 
 
 " I will obey your wishes, and go at once," he said 
 coldly. 
 
 " Why, Hervey, what is the matter ? — tell me ! " she 
 said kindly, instantly repentant at having given him pain, 
 as she recollected all the love and devotion he had shown 
 her the previous day. " I thought you would like to do 
 this." 
 
 " I would do anything in the world for you," he said, 
 turning away ; " only — only " 
 
 "Only what?" 
 
 " If I could only feel that you would ever feel for me 
 at all as I feel for you," he replied. " If I could believe 
 that you cared at all about me." 
 
 " You know I do. Why are you so fanciful, Hervey?" 
 she said; "but of course I must go to my uncle's." 
 
 "Why?" he asked. 
 
 " Why !" she repeated, looking at him in astonishment ; 
 " you know that I must." 
 
 I He saw that she was very little prepared to act as he 
 wished, but was afraid of alarming her by saying any, 
 
On the Track of the Runaway. 159 
 
 more to her then, and only extorted a promise that she 
 would go out with him on the river as soon as he came 
 back. 
 
 There had been no little consternation at Sandling 
 when once the suspicion arose that Sybil was really gone. 
 At first it was imagined that she had gone to bathe, and, 
 with her usual disregard of others, had not returned in 
 time for breakfast; then, that she had gone to the 
 Rectory, as, from the fact of the housemaid having seen 
 her go out, and from her not having taken anything with 
 her, no one imagined for a moment that she had left the 
 place. As nothing was heard of her at the Rectory, 
 Eustace went himself to Mrs. Feltham's cottage, which, 
 however, he found deserted. On inquiry for the girl who 
 acted as servant, he was told that she had gone to see 
 her mother, as Mrs. Feltham and her son had gone some- 
 where by the train, but only for the day. Then for the 
 first time Eustace took alarm, and to suspect that Sybil 
 had gone with them ; but as they appeared to have taken 
 no luggage, it could only be for a day's excursion. 
 "Could they take her to some place where this man 
 could marry her ? " thought Eustace, as he turned pale, 
 and his heart stopped beating at the thought. But on 
 reflection that seemed impossible, and he hurried on to 
 the railroad station, to try and discover something 
 there. 
 
 Then the clerk told him that Mrs. Feltham and a 
 young lady had gone to London by the first train, and 
 that Hervey had taken a ticket by the same train to 
 Rugby. Eustace at once determined to follow them as 
 far as Rugby, and to see if he could see anything of 
 Hervey there ; but before he went he called at the 
 Rectory, and asked Mary Power to go to his mother and 
 explain his absence, and to assure her that he would 
 soon bring back news of Sybil. Mary agreed readily, 
 and was full of sympathy for this new trouble which 
 had fallen on them, promising to do everything she 
 could for Mrs. Morley while Eustace was away - } for in 
 
 XI 
 
t6o Off the Line. 
 
 spite of the apathy into which Mrs. Morley had fallen, 
 she was terror-stricken when once her mind grasped the 
 fact that Sybil was really gone, and she was ready to 
 conjure up every possible accident that could have 
 befallen her. 
 
 " I know that you will do all a daughter can do," 
 said Eustace, as he wrung Mary's hand. " You would 
 be a very different one to Sybil, who has caused her 
 nothing but anxiety all her life," he added with some 
 bitterness. 
 
 He could not get to Rugby till late in the afternoon, 
 and by that time Mrs. Feltham was on her way home. 
 She had returned by the next train, knowing it useless to 
 wait for Hervey, as she had pretended that she meant 
 to do. 
 
 All Eustace could hear of the travellers at Rugby was, 
 that a lady who had come by the first train had been 
 taken ill, and was detained there some time ; but of the 
 others he could hear no tidings. Suddenly the possibility 
 of her having gone to Mr. Morley struck him. He re- 
 membered the warm invitation she had from her uncle, 
 and felt convinced that she had gone to him. He 
 decided to telegraph to London, and desire that the 
 answer should be sent to the station at Sandling, and by 
 this means he would find it on his return, and be able 
 to relieve his mother's anxiety. Having settled this, 
 there was nothing to prevent his returning home thac 
 night. 
 
 It was quite late in the evening before he arrived, but. 
 to his great disappointment, he found that no answer 
 had been received to the telegram he had sent from 
 Rugby. He was very unwilling to return to his mother 
 with such unsatisfactory intelligence, and as he walked 
 home sadly and slowly in the clear starlight, a light 
 in Mrs. Feltham's window caught his eye. He might 
 find Hervey at home and learn something of his 
 sister; so instead of going at once to the Farm, he 
 turned down the road that led to the churchyard 
 lane, and walked to the cottage. His knock was not 
 
On the Track of the Runaway. i6t 
 
 answered for some time, and then only by the little 
 servant. 
 
 " Is your master at home ? " said Eustace impatiently. 
 
 "No, only missus," was the frightened reply. 
 
 " Oh ! she has come back, then ! Ask if I can see 
 her." 
 
 The little maid retreated., and P after some talking vp- 
 stairs and delay, reappeared. 
 
 " If you please, missus isn't well, and she's gone to bed ; 
 she'll be happy to see you in the morning." 
 
 "That won't do for me," said Eustace decidedly, 
 walking into the house and resolutely seating himself; 
 "go back and tell your mistress that my business is of 
 importance, and that I hope she will be able to see 
 me to-night. If not, I will write a note for her to 
 answer." 
 
 A good deal of moving about overhead, which con- 
 vinced him that Mrs. Feltham had not gone to bed at all s 
 and then she appeared, dressed and wrapped up in a large 
 shawl, looking both injured and indignant at being sum- 
 moned against her will. 
 
 "lam sorry to disturb you, Mrs, Teltham, but it was 
 quite necessary that I should see yoi; to obtain news of 
 my sister." 
 
 "Of Miss Morley, Sir?" 
 
 " Yes, of Miss M orley ; where is she ? " said Eustace, 
 walking towards Mrs. Feltham, and looking at her 
 sternly. 
 
 But Mrs. Feltham was not a woman to quail before any 
 interrogation of the kind. 
 
 " I really cannot say," she replied, in an offended 
 tone. 
 
 " Perhaps not, but you know," said Eustace, losing 
 patience, " for / know that she travelled with you to-day 
 as far as Rugby." 
 
 11 Yes," she replied, perfectly unmoved. " Miss 
 Morley went with me as far as Rugby. She told 
 me that she was going to pay her uncle a visit in 
 London." 
 
1 62 Off the Line. 
 
 " Then she left you at Rugby, and you know nothing 
 more of her?" 
 
 " Nothing, Sir." 
 
 a Did your son return with you ? " 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Feltham hesitated, then remem- 
 bering that the truth must be known eventually, said 
 boldly,— 
 
 " No, he went on to London." 
 
 "With my sister?" asked Eustace, hesitating in his 
 turn, and pale with emotion. 
 
 " I suppose they went by the same train, but I was too 
 ill to know." 
 
 "When is he coming back ?" 
 
 " I have been expecting him all the evening, but I 
 think the last train must have been in before this." 
 
 " Yes, I came back by it," said Eustace, coldly. " If 
 your son comes back in the morning, will you let 
 me know ? I am sorry to have disturbed you — good- 
 night." 
 
 " Good night, Sir," said Mrs. Feltham, as she closed 
 the door. "Let you know, indeed! you may come 
 and see for yourself, with your fine stuck-up ways ! 
 If I hadn't taken up this for Hervey's sake, I 
 would do it now just to take you down a peg, my fine 
 young gentleman ! The girl has something of this 
 pride, but she's not like her brother, and that I am 
 thankful for." 
 
 Very much puzzled, Eustace walked quickly home ; 
 but before he could ring, the door was opened by 
 Hardy. 
 
 " I've been looking out for you, Mr. Eustace. My 
 mistress is asleep, and I would not have her disturbed 
 unless you've brought good news, and I don't seem to 
 think you have." 
 
 "I've brought none-, Hartly," said Eustace, wearily. 
 u I went to Rugby, as Miss Power will have told you. I 
 could learn nothing there, but it seems that Sybil must 
 have gone to London — I suppose to my uncle. So I 
 telegraphed to Hertford Street, and said the answer must 
 
On .the Track of the Runaway. 163 
 
 be sent here ; but none has come, and I really don't 
 know what to do." 
 
 " She is sure to have gone to him — I thought of that," 
 said Hartly, confidently. " Only I am so puzzled to 
 know whatever she can do without clothes, and no lady 
 in the house either. She told me she was to pay her 
 uncle a visit, but it's so strange to go off alone like this, 
 and not say a word to anyone." 
 
 " That's not all, Hartly, for this man went to London 
 by the same train — I've seen Mrs. Feltham." 
 
 " But I thought she was gone away — I can't understand 
 anything about it. I don't suppose Miss Sybil went with 
 the Felthams." 
 
 " That was just what she did ; and at Rugby Mrs. 
 Feltham was ill, and then, I suppose, Sybil went on to 
 London ; but if the man went with her, or why he went, I 
 don't know." 
 
 rt But I want to know what set her off to go like that. 
 There was a look in her face yesterday at church, a 
 * don't-care ' look, she's had at times all her life. Oh ! 
 Mr. Eustace, have you been saying hard things to her ? " 
 
 " I said nothing that was not absolutely necessary. I 
 forbid her ever seeing this man again, of course," said 
 Eustace. 
 
 "Ah! but there's two ways of saying things; and if 
 anything like a threat was held out, she would never 
 bear it." 
 
 " She said she should do as she choose," said Eustace, 
 hotly ; " and I said if she did, she should not stay in the 
 place — if you call that a threat, Hartly ? " 
 
 "Ah, that's it! — that's it! She would go from the 
 place herself, but she'd never wait to be sent. You 
 would never understand her — you were as different as 
 different could be always. But all you say, Mr. Eustace, 
 makes me feel sure she is gone to Mr. Morley's. .1 wish 
 I could go after her, poor darling ! but I can never leave 
 my mistress now. Maybe you'll hear from her in the 
 morning; and you will write kindly to her, Sir, won't 
 you?" 
 
164 
 
 Off the Line, 
 
 " If she is with my uncle, I think she had better stay 
 there," said Eustace, rather provoked by Hartly's cham 
 pionship. " I cannot say I ever wish to have the trouble 
 of her, as long as we stay here, again." 
 
 " Poor child ! " said Hartly, as she went disconsolately 
 up-stairs \ " to be sure, some are born to trouble as tne 
 sparks ily upwards ; and I do think my poor dear Miss 
 Sybil is one ! " 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE RUNAWAY IS FOUND. 
 
 1 There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
 
 In fatal penitence : and in the blight 
 Of our own souls, turn all our blood to tears, 
 
 And colour things to come with hues of night." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 jERVEY returned to Richmond long before Sybil 
 expected, but he brought her no news. He 
 had left her note with the old woman in Hert- 
 ford Street, as she had told him that she was 
 expecting Mr. Morley's servant to come up that day, who 
 would take the letters back with him. He would know 
 how soon his master intended to return, and she had 
 promised to let Hervey know, if possible, that evening. 
 
 "And is that all?" said Sybil, looking very much 
 perplexed. 
 
 " What more could I do ? There was no one else to 
 see, and you will hear this evening." 
 
 " But I can't stay here ! " said Sybil in dismay. 
 
 " Why not ? Where can you go ? When Mr. Morley 
 gets your note, he will be sure to come back, and then 
 you can go to-morrow morning." 
 
 There was partial truth in what Hervey said ; he had 
 left Sybil's note in Hertford Street, but the old woman 
 was deaf, and did not the least understand what he wanted, 
 and he took no pains to enlighten her. 
 
 "Then I suppose I must wait till to-morrow," said 
 Sybil doubtfully. 
 
 " Of course, unless you mean to miss him altogether," 
 said Hervey positively. " Everything has been done that 
 
1 66 Oft the Line. 
 
 is possible to do. Now, I want you to see the place- 
 will you come on the river ? " 
 
 " I should like that," said Sybil, her childish and im- 
 pulsive nature catching at every straw by which she could 
 put away the evil of the moment. " Oh ! yes, do let us 
 go on the river. I should like to see the place as I am 
 here." 
 
 They remained some time on the water. Sybil was 
 enchanted by the gaiety of the scene, the numberless 
 boats of all sizes, the gay little steamers with bands play- 
 ing and flags flying ; it seemed to Sybil as if all the whole 
 world were holiday-making, it was such a contrast to her 
 bleak and lonely sea-side home. Her spirits rose as she 
 gave herself up to the excitement of the moment, and 
 few boats passed in which the occupants did not turn 
 again to catch another glimpse of her lovely animated 
 face. 
 
 " Oh, how delightful ! " she exclaimed, as they landed. 
 " How I should like to live here always ! " 
 
 Hervey treasured up the saying, though he did not 
 reply to it. 
 
 Instead of returning to the inn, they took a long 
 ramble in the park. But the walk was not as pleasant to 
 Sybil as the row on the water had been. Hervey seemed 
 touchy and exigecuit ; Sybil did not understand him, and 
 it was with flagging spirits that she re-entered the house. 
 It was impossible for any girl, even for one as thoughtless 
 as Sybil, not to feel considerable anxiety as to her present 
 position. She determined, whether she heard from her 
 uncle or not, to go to Hertford Street in the morning, and 
 persuade the old woman to let her remain there till he 
 came back, as she was persuaded he would return at 
 once upon the receipt of her letter. But she resolved not 
 to mention her intention to Hervey till the morning, as. 
 she felt intuitively that he would try to dissuade her from 
 it ; she was becoming afraid of the lowering looks and 
 the impatient words that anything like contradiction 
 always elicited from him. 
 
 Early the next morning he came, and asked her to go 
 
The Runaway is Found. 167 
 
 out with him on the river ; but she declined positively, 
 saying that she must go at once to Hertford Street. 
 
 "Why, what have you heard?" asked Hervey, 
 quickly. 
 
 " Nothing, and that is why I must go. I think I must 
 persuade the old woman to let me stay there to-day. 
 Uncle Harold is sure to come back as soon as he gets my 
 letter." 
 
 " But you can come out with me on the river first, can't 
 you?" 
 
 " Oh ! no, I want to go directly ; you will go with me 
 — won't you, Hervey ? " 
 
 " It's so confoundedly absurd to go to London, when 
 you don't expect to see anybody when you get there — 
 and it would be delightful on the water ! " 
 
 There was a want of respect, and a bullying tone in 
 Hervey's manner, that Sybil felt keenly, and secretly re- 
 sented ; but she was becoming afraid of doing anything 
 to irritate him. 
 
 " I must go," she said, gently — M will you tell me when 
 the next train starts for London ? " 
 
 He went out of the room, and returned with a time- 
 table. 
 
 "In less than five minutes — at 9.30. Shall you be 
 ready ? " 
 
 " Scarcely, for I want to see your aunt, and to thank 
 her for her kindness, and that would not give me time." 
 
 " So, then, you really do not intend to come back ? " he 
 exclaimed, angrily. " It would have been better to say 
 so, than to make a fool of me like this." 
 
 " A fool of you ! — what can you mean ? " she asked, in 
 amazement. 
 
 " I know very well what I mean," said Hervey, biting 
 his lip with vexation ; " and I know, too, that I'm not 
 going to be used for what you want one day, and thrown 
 off like an old glove the- next. I'm content to wait, but 
 I'll be paid at last!" 
 
 Hervey was so angry, and his manner so violent, that 
 Sybil trembled and turned pale. She was really afraid of 
 
1 68 Off the Line, 
 
 this man, in whose power she had so rashly placed herself 
 He saw his advantage, and followed it up. 
 
 " I'm ready to do your bidding — you know I am," he 
 said, coming up to her, and laying his hand on her arm, 
 " only you need never think of giving me the slip at 
 last." 
 
 Sybil turned away, her heart full of bitter feeling, 
 which she did not dare analyse. 
 
 "I shalLbe ready in half-an-hour," she said, and 
 went to find Mrs. Ramsden. 
 
 The kind old lady could not conceal her amazement 
 when Sybil said she had sought her to take leave of her. 
 
 " But why, my dear ? — why do you go ? My sister will 
 be so surprised. Surely there's nothing turned up wrong 
 between you and Hervey ; you'll make it out in some 
 way after all, won't you ? For my part, you are welcome, 
 to what I can do to make you comfortable, though I've 
 doubted if I could do that according to what you are 
 used to. It would have been better if Sophia had come 
 too, for I don't understand it at all." 
 
 Sybil did not comprehend much of this rambling 
 speech, and, thanking her again, went in search of 
 Hervey, who was standing at the door with a scowl on 
 his brow, that did not augur a pleasant journey to Sybil. 
 
 They arrived at the station only just in time, and got 
 into the first carriage that appeared empty. But there 
 was one gentleman in the carriage, seated in the furthest 
 corner, busily engaged in reading the newspaper, which, 
 as it was unfolded, entirely concealed his face. Sybil, 
 with a sad heart, sat on the opposite side, looking 
 through the open window, for some minutes, till the rust- 
 ling of the paper caused her to look round. The 
 gentlemen was folding up the paper, and glanced for the 
 first time at his fellow-travellers ; he started, as Sybil had 
 done the previous moment, but their impulses were very 
 different. Sybil's was to turn away ; Hugh Dormer's — for 
 he was the other occupant of the carriage — to dart across 
 and seat himself by her side. 
 
 " Good God ! Miss Morley, is it possible you are 
 
The Runaway is Found. 169 
 
 alone ? " and he glanced at Hervey, apparently doubting 
 whether he had accompanied her or not. " Where is 
 your brother ? Is he with you ? " 
 
 " No," said Sybil, blushing deeply ; " I am with my 
 uncle — that is, I am going to him." 
 
 " To your uncle, Mr. Morley ? " said Hugh, looking at 
 her in amazement ; " he is at Ormsdale Castle — I left him 
 there this morning — I came up by the first train. 
 Perhaps you mean some one else ? " 
 
 " No I don't," said Sybil, turning pale ; " I was going 
 to Hertford Street, in hopes of finding him." 
 
 " But you cannot be coming from the North ? Is it 
 possible that you came up without knowing whether Mr. 
 Morley was at home or not ? " 
 
 " I did not know," answered Sybil, evidently wishing 
 to put a stop to the conversation. 
 
 Hugh Dormer was silent for a few minutes, apparently 
 much perplexed ; then he remembered how quickly the 
 time was passing, and that he must get some more in- 
 formation before they parted. Again he looked at 
 Sybil's anxious face, and at the sullen and defiant ex- 
 pression on Hervey's countenance, and turning to Sybil, 
 he said in a low voice, — 
 
 "For God's sake, Miss Morley, tell me where you 
 are staying ? — what is the meaning of meeting you in this 
 way?" 
 
 "lam not staying anywhere," said Sybil, evading his 
 question. " I came up to stay with my uncle." 
 
 Hugh Dormer became more puzzled every moment, 
 for he had discovered by this time that the handsome 
 young man who had come into the carriage with Sybil 
 was really her companion. " Can she have married that 
 ill-tempered, ill-conditioned fellow? " he soliloquised ; 
 "impossible — besides, she said she was going to her 
 uncle." It never occurred to Hugh to doubt her word 
 — whatever Sybil said always bore the impress of truth. 
 She looked tired too, and ill, and he felt sure that there 
 was something wrong and mysterious in this journey, though 
 he could not fathom it. He determined at once that nothing 
 
170 Off the Line. 
 
 should induce him to lose sight of her till he felt satisfied 
 that she was under proper protection, and resolved to 
 wait and see what course she and her strange companion 
 intended to pursue. He did not say any more to her 
 then ; he saw her in eager conversation with Hervey 
 when they alighted at Waterloo Bridge ; they appeared to 
 be waiting for something — probably for his departure ; 
 but he kept them both in sight, and did not stir, to the 
 astonishment of his servant, who came up to him and 
 asked if he should call a cab. 
 
 " Yes, and take my portmanteau to Portman Square, 
 to my mother's house, and tell her that I may be detained 
 for some time on business. Then return, and see if I 
 am still here, and bring any letters that may be waiting. 
 Stay, you must go to the telegraph office, and send off 
 this message at once : — 
 
 " Waterloo Bridge Station. 
 
 " Hugh Dormer to Eustace Morley. — Your sister is here. 
 Can you come up at once ? " 
 
 " It must be the safest thing to do," he thought; "and 
 now I have only to watch their proceedings." 
 
 As he stood by the door, Sybil came up to him. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Dormer, are you still here ? — will you 
 give me Uncle Harold's address?" 
 
 He took out a card, wrote it down, and gave it to her. 
 
 " Now, Miss Morley, you must give me the privilege of 
 an old friend, and tell me where you are going." 
 
 " I don't know — I am not sure — I shall write to my 
 uncle from here." 
 
 " I am not going to leave you till I do know," he said 
 decidedly j " and as you do not seem to have any 
 settled plan, will you let me take you to Portman Square ? 
 — my mother is in town, and though you do not know 
 her, I can answer for it that she will be del mined to see 
 you. She has often heard of you," he added. 
 
The Runaway is Found. 171 
 
 "Oh! no — quite impossible, thank you — I must go. 
 I shall wait for my uncle — it does not signify." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, it. does signify very much; I must 
 see you in safer hands than you appear to be at present," 
 said Hugh gravely. 
 
 Perplexed, tired, and nervous, Sybil burst into tears. 
 Hugh called to a cabman who stood near. 
 
 " Now come at once with me to my mother's," he 
 said. " She will arrange everything for you." 
 
 " Pray, pray don't," said Sybil, as Hugh ottered to put 
 her into the cab. u I shall go to my uncle's house pro- 
 bably, and wait for him." 
 
 " Very well," said Hugh coolly; " then I shall go with 
 you." 
 
 Sybil turned away as she saw Hervey approaching. 
 
 " Are you going to get rid of that chap ? " he said 
 angrily. " Who is he, and what the devil is he waiting 
 for?" 
 
 " He is a friend of my brother's, and has asked me to 
 wait at her mother's house till my uncle returns." 
 
 " He does by he does ! He had better not 
 
 meddle, I can tell him," retorted Hervey fiercely; " if he 
 does it will be the worse for him ! " 
 
 " Then what do you want me to do ? " 
 
 " Come back to Richmond, of course," he said, pacified 
 by her apparent concession. 
 
 "And write to my uncle from there? I have got his 
 address." 
 
 " Yes, to be sure, and it will be all right to-morrow," 
 he said, recovering his temper ; " but you are so change- 
 able, one never knows what you are going to be at. 
 There's a train we can go back by in five minutes. I'll 
 go and get the tickets." 
 
 Afraid of making him more angry if she refused, she 
 made no opposition. But she was very unwilling that 
 Hugh Dormer should know of her intention, and walked 
 away to avoid observation. 
 
 It may appear strange and improbable that a nature so 
 rebellious as Sybil's should tamely submit to threats and 
 
172 Off the Line. 
 
 intimidations from a man whom she might almost expect 
 to be her slave. But anyone at all conversant with the 
 study of human nature must have observed that among 
 young people it is precisely those who are the most im- 
 patient of control, and the most inclined to rebel when 
 treated with kindness and consideration, that are in 
 reality the least self-reliant, and that can in their turn be 
 most easily cowed by any cruelty or harshness. No 
 matter how harsh or cruel their own conduct may have 
 been — they inflicted the wrong, they did not suffer it. 
 The atmosphere in which they have lived is probably one 
 of tenderness, and they have no moral strength to sup- 
 port them against severity or injustice when it falls to 
 their share. Cruel people are always selfish, and there- 
 fore keenly alive to the smallest wrong done to themselves, 
 and an ungenerous nature tramples where it can. 
 
 Sybil's nature was not ungenerous, but she was incon- 
 siderate and selfish ; no one had ever spoken a sharp word 
 to her in her life, till Eustace had taken her to task about 
 Hervey Feltham ; so that anything like harshness made 
 her feel utterly depressed, and as if she had been trans- 
 ported into another region. She could brave circum- 
 stances, but not unkindness, and had become really 
 afraid of Hervey's fierce and headstrong temper. 
 
 This made her resolve to go back to Richmond for one 
 day, knowing that, having her uncle's address, she could 
 communicate with him at once ; and there was something 
 so desperate in Hervey when roused, that she felt instinc- 
 tively it was best to conciliate him while she was in his 
 power. 
 
 Hugh never lost sight of Hervey ; he saw him take two 
 tickets to Richmond, and as soon as he was gone he 
 took one for himself, and was able, by mingling with the 
 crowd, to get into the train, unobserved by either Sybil 
 or Hervey. His great wish was to discover where Sybil 
 was living, so as to let Eustace know when he arrived, 
 as he felt sure that his telegram would 1 bring him to 
 London at once. 
 
 Then a doubt as to the wisdom of his own proceed- 
 
The Runaway is Found. 173 
 
 ing in the matter crossed his mind, if, after all, this 
 journey of Sybil's had been taken with the knowledge 
 and consent of her family. He wished that he had tele- 
 graphed to Mary Power in the first instance; at all 
 events, he could not now retrace his steps. 
 
 He watched them alight at Richmond, and followed 
 them to a small inn, hardly better than a public-house. 
 
 " No one would allow her to go there," he thought ; 
 " there must be something strangely wrong in this." And 
 he at once determined to stay at Richmond that day, in 
 the same house if possible ; and if, as he imagined, Sybil 
 was staying there, he would meet Eustace at Waterloo 
 Bridge by the last train, and bring him down at once. He 
 took the precaution, however, to send another message 
 to him at his mother's house, as if, by any chance they 
 missed each other, he felt sure Eustace would go there 
 to inquire for him. 
 
 Having done this, he proceeded at once to the inn, 
 without taking any especial pains to conceal himself. In- 
 deed, if he could have informed Sybil of his presence 
 without the knowledge of her companion, he would have 
 done so. He thought it just possible that he might see 
 her alone, and with this hope he walked into the house, 
 and desired to be shown a sitting-room. 
 
 " Sitting-room, Sir ? Yes, Sir — room to yourself, Sir ? * 
 
 " Yes, and some luncheon — can I have some ? This 
 room will do," said Hugh, walking into a small dingy 
 parlour on one side of the front door, and which looked 
 into the street, so that no one could leave the house 
 without his knowing it. " This will do ; I will stay 
 here," he said decidedly. u Now get me some 
 luncheon." 
 
 11 Luncheon, Sir ? Yes, Sir — what sort ? Bread and 
 cheese, Sir?" 
 
 It was evident that luncheon was not usually in request 
 at the Bull Inn at Richmond. 
 
 " No, mutton-chops, or beefsteaks and potatoes — I can 
 have some, I suppose ? " 
 ' " Oh ! yes, Sir," answered the little maid, whose bright 
 
174 Off the Line. 
 
 face, clean cap, and red ribands disposed Hugh to take a 
 more favourable view of the hostelry than he had 
 previously done. 
 
 The girl retired, and Hugh felt quite disappointed 
 when the door opened, and a portly, elderly dame entered 
 the room. She looked at him attentively, but seemed 
 good-natured and respectable, and assured him that she 
 could give him anything that was possible in this world ; 
 but he, being somewhat impressed by her appearance, 
 was modest in his demands, and declared that he should 
 be more than satisfied with a mutton-chop. 
 
 " Certainly not a commercial traveller, but a real 
 gentleman," thought Mrs. Ramsden, who felt as if 
 prosperity had fallen upon her house. 
 
 "A respectable woman," thought Hugh; "but I cannot 
 question her. I wish the little maid would come back." 
 
 His wish was soon gratified, and while she was bring- 
 ing in a tray, and laying a table-cloth, which was 
 none of the whitest, Hugh began a conversation with 
 her. 
 
 Nothing loth to be noticed by the handsome gentle- 
 man, she was ready with her replies about the town, 
 shops, boats, and river — in all of which Hugh appeared 
 to be interested in the highest degree. 
 
 " You must have a great deal to do," he said at last, in 
 a tone of compassion. 
 
 ''Sometimes, Sir, but not just now, though." 
 
 " Oh ! then people don't come here so early, perhaps. 
 But now I should think such a pleasant house as this 
 must be generally full. You are full now, I daresay ? " 
 
 " Oh ! no, Sir, not now." 
 
 " But you don't mean the house is empty," he replied 
 with well-feigned astonishment. 
 
 " No, Sir, not exactly empty — we've a young lady and 
 gentleman her ; but he's not exactly a visitor, being 
 Mrs. Ramsden's nephew." 
 
 " Indeed," said Hugh, now really concerned and sur- 
 prised, as he comprehended at once the strange chance 
 that had brought Sybil to Richmond > and then, to cover 
 
The Rimaway is Found. 175 
 
 his sudden interest, he said somewhat irrelevantly, "that 
 must be very pleasant." 
 
 " Yes, Sir, I suppose so," said the girl, wondering more 
 and more at the affable young gentleman, who took so 
 deep an interest in the concerns of the Bull Inn at 
 Richmond. 
 
 Hugh, who saw some wonder depicted on her counten- 
 ance, thought it would be wiser to give her something to 
 divert her attention. 
 
 " I may as well pay for my luncheon at once," he said, 
 tossing a half-sovereign on the table ; " there will be 
 plenty of change out of this, so will you keep it, and buy 
 some more of those becoming red ribands?" 
 
 The little maid's cheeks were redder now than her 
 ribands with surprise and delight, and Hugh was marked 
 in her memory as the most delightful gentleman that ever 
 was seen. 
 
 The long spring day seemed interminable to Hugh, as 
 he sat in Mrs. Ramsden's dingy parlour, or paced the 
 street restlessly between the inn and the railway. He 
 saw nothing of Sybil, though Hervey seemed to be wait- 
 ing for some one, as he lounged about between the street 
 door and the dull square enclosure dignified by the name 
 of a garden. 
 
 As evening drew on, Hugh thought it would be his best 
 plan to meet Eustace at Waterloo Bridge, and bring him 
 down to Richmond at once. As he found, on arriving 
 there, that he would have an hour to wait before the last 
 train came in, he went to Portman Square to see his 
 mother. There he found a letter from Mary Power, telling 
 him of Sybil's disappearance, and of the grief and per- 
 plexity into which it had plunged her family. 
 
 The train came in just as he got back to the 
 station. 
 
 " Is she here?" asked Eustace, jumping out of the 
 carriage as soon as he caught sight of Hugh on the plat- 
 form. 
 
 11 No — she is at Richmond. Shall we go there at 
 once ? " 
 
176 Off the Line. 
 
 " At once, if possible," and they hurried off, and were 
 soon on their way. 
 
 Then Hugh explained to Eustace all that he knew, 
 and what had alarmed him when he met his sister in the 
 morning. 
 
 " I was almost afraid you would think me officious," 
 he added; "but when your sister seemed to be in such 
 fearful peril, it was best to be on the safe side." 
 
 " I cannot thank you enough," said Eustace — " God 
 grant we may not be too late to save her ! " 
 
 "You will probably wish to remove her from Richmond 
 at once. I find the landlady of the inn is aunt to that 
 man, which explains his taking her there." 
 
 " Scoundrel ! " muttered Eustace. 
 
 " I hope you will make any use you like of my mother's 
 house," continued Hugh, not heeding the interruption; 
 " and she wishes it also. I hope you will." 
 
 " How can I ?" exclaimed Eustace — " how can I take 
 her into your mother's house, and to your sisters ? " 
 
 " Why not ?" said Hugh, earnestly. " You forget that 
 her intention was to go to your uncle : he was away, and 
 she has fallen into some trap that these people have laid 
 for her. She looks ill and tired." 
 
 " She had better be ill, or dead, than have done this," 
 said Eustace, sternly. 
 
 " My dear fellow, you see it wrong — indeed you do," 
 said Hugh, anxiously. "As to the scoundrel who is with 
 her, he richly deserves a horsewhipping, and I only wish 
 it fell to my lot to give it him ; but, of course, in your 
 sister, it has been only ignorance, or thoughtlessness. 
 Besides, we do not know the facts of the case yet." 
 
 " We know that she is found at a public-house with a 
 disreputable fellow like Hervey Feltham ; you don't 
 expect me to bear such a disgrace quietly, I suppose?" 
 
 Eustace spoke with such deep and bitter resentment 
 that Hugh at once resolved to go with him to the inn, 
 and not to leave him at the station, as lie originally in- 
 tended. He might soften him towards Sybil — at all 
 events, he would wait and see the turn that events took. 
 
The Runaway is Found. 177 
 
 Sybil ftad spent the remainder of the day in her own 
 room, deaf to Hervey's entreaties to go with him upon 
 the river, as well as to Mrs. Ramsden's advice about the 
 bad effects of " moping," as she called it ; but Sybil 
 pleaded headache, and remained alone. 
 
 The expression of Hugh Dormer's face had startled 
 her more than his words — then, and never till then, had 
 the full rashness of her conduct dawned upon her. She 
 saw it the more plainly, as not only had the first excite- 
 ment, which caused her to leave Sandling, passed away, 
 but she had been considerably disenchanted with Hervey 
 upon closer acquaintance. She knew now that she often 
 shrunk from this man, whom so lately she fancied 
 that she loved. She resented his familiar manner, and his 
 fierce vindictive temper made her physically afraid. She 
 looked round helplessly — her one hope the " to-morrow," 
 which was to see her safely harboured with her uncle. 
 
 Mrs. Ramsden had been more mystified by their return 
 than she had been by their departure, and vainly ques- 
 tioned Hervey, who, enveloped in the blackest gloom at 
 Sybil's seclusion, gave her the surliest answers possible. 
 She felt really disconsolate at the state of things around 
 her, and, as she complained to Sybil, "could not bear not 
 having a cheerful home," and looked so disappointed 
 when she saw the untasted tea in Sybil's room, that out 
 of compassion for the kind-hearted old lady's dilemma, 
 Sybil agreed to come down later, and have " a comfort- 
 able cup of tea " in her room. 
 
 "So you've condescended to come down at last," said 
 Hervey roughly, as he followed her into his aunt's room. 
 
 " It had nothing to do with condescension — I had a 
 headache," she said coldly. " Why are you always so 
 cross, Hervey?" 
 
 " Come now — come now," said the old lady, just as if 
 she was coaxing little children, or calling chickens, 
 " what are you two young things sparring about ? Sit 
 down, Hervey, and have some tea; and you might take a 
 turn after," she added, turning to Sybil; "it's a sweet 
 evening ; it will do your head good." 
 
:y8 Off the Line. 
 
 " It is fine," said Sybil absently, as suddenly a vision 
 of Cheveleigh rose up before her. It might have been 
 the smell of the sweet-briar that came in through the 
 open window, that made her think how the same scent 
 was creeping into her room at home, and how the rooks 
 were cawing as they flew home to their nest in the limes 
 just beyond the churchyard wall, and drowned the song 
 of the young thrushes, strong and lustily as they had sung 
 through the long spring day. Oh ! if she had been 
 there, how different her life would have been ! If she 
 could go there now — see it even for a day ! — and a wild 
 longing seized her to look again upon those well-known 
 scenes. She was suddenly awakened from her day-dream 
 to very different sights and sounds. 
 
 A fly driving up rapidly to the door, voices, and 
 scuffling feet, and one voice which blanched her cheek, 
 and sent the blood curdling back to her heart. Then 
 the door was flung open, and Eustace and Hugh Dormer 
 stood before her ! 
 
 With a cry she sprang forward, but her brother did not 
 appear to see her. In an instant he seized Hervey by 
 the collar, and dragged him out of the room. Utterly 
 taken by surprise, he was mastered at once. Eustace's 
 anger had given him unnatural strength. 
 
 "" Confound you ! " exclaimed Hervey, as soon as he 
 could struggle to his feet. " What do you want ? You 
 shall answer for this ! " 
 
 "You had better answer for yourself," returned 
 Eustace; "you need not think that your rascally conduct 
 is going unpunished. Perhaps you do not know the 
 penalty of the law for carrying off a minor ; but you will 
 hear of it, you may depend." 
 
 " It's a lie — a d d false lie ! " exclaimed Hervey, 
 
 choking with passion. " I never carried her off — she 
 came of her own free will." 
 
 " And by your persuasions ; — but I am not going to 
 waste words upon a scoundrel like you ! You may think 
 yourself lucky if you escape without a good horsewhipping; 
 and if you don't wish to get one on the spot, I advise 
 
The Runaway is Found. 179 
 
 you to take yourself out of my sight, for as sure as I am 
 a living man you shall suffer for this deed." 
 
 " Indeed ! " sneered Hervey. " You may wish me out 
 of your sight now, but I can tell you that a day may 
 come when you will think a sight of me the best thing 
 you can have." 
 
 " Scoundrel ! " exclaimed Eustace ; "what do you dare 
 to insinuate ? " 
 
 " You'll know in time, I've no doubt ; and then you 
 may beg my pardon for kicking up this row ! " 
 
 " Never ! " said Eustace. " Get out of my sight I tell 
 you, or it will be the worse for you now ! " 
 
 Apparently Hervey thought so too, for he retreated 
 towards the door, muttering imprecations as he turned 
 away. 
 
 "Good Lord, Sir, what does it mean?" said poor Mrs. 
 Ramsden sobbing, and almost clinging to Hugh in her 
 terror and dismay. " To be sure you are the gentleman 
 who came here to. day ! Whatever is the meaning of 
 such strange things happening in this house ! I am sure 
 I have done nothing to make the gentleman so angry." 
 
 " No, indeed," said Hugh, trying to pacify her ; " the 
 fault is your nephew's, and I advise you to get rid of him 
 as soon as you can. This lady is going away now; it 
 would be better to have her things ready." 
 
 Sybil was leaning against the wall, pale as death, and 
 motionless as a statue. 
 
 " I have no things," she said, turning to Hugh, " and 
 my bonnet and shawl are here. Have you brought this 
 upon me ? — and why does not Eustace speak to me ?" 
 
 " He is very much grieved, of course, and angry too, 
 naturally," answered Hugh, gently ; " you forget all that 
 he has suffered." 
 
 " And he forgets all he has made me suffer. If Eustace 
 wants me to go with him, let him ask me — I shall not stir 
 without." 
 
 " For God's sake, Morley, do not irritate your sister — 
 get her out of this place. Speak to her, and ask her to 
 go with you." 
 
i8o 
 
 Off the Line, 
 
 "Are you ready?" said Eustace, giving Sybil his 
 arm. 
 
 She would have turned round to speak to Mrs. 
 Ramsden, but he held her forcibly back, and put her 
 at once into the fly. Hugh made a sign to Eustace that 
 he would walk to the station, and the brother and sister 
 were once more alone. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " On His face I look not yet, 
 But other looks have grown so dim, 
 That I feel how tenderly 
 He hath drawn a curtain deep 
 Shutting out the evening sky, 
 And darkening all before I sleep, 
 Hushing me upon His breast, 
 Ere He takes me unto rest." 
 
 Bells of Lorlochesl 
 
 " Short is the day, and near the night, 
 While Time's great current sweeps along 
 The young, and old, and weak, and strong, 
 And hides them from our straining sight." 
 
 D. P. 
 
 ARLY in the afternoon of the next day, Sybil 
 and her brother were again at Sandling. The 
 weather had become suddenly hot and summer- 
 like, the long reach of sand was glittering, and 
 the tiny blue waves were dancing in the flood of sun- 
 shine. Everything spoke of life and hope, save the house 
 to which the travellers returned ; over that the shadow of 
 death was hovering. 
 
 Unfortunately Mrs. Morley, who had been in a state 
 of restless excitability ever since she had fully grasped 
 the fact of Sybil's disappearance, was alone in the room 
 when the telegram from Hugh Dormer to Eustace arrived. 
 She had been more or less pacified by Hartly's assurance 
 that Sybil was with her uncle, and the sudden discovery 
 
1 82 Oft the Line. 
 
 that she was not there alarmed and agila'ed her to the 
 greatest degree. She could hardly be persuaded that it 
 was impossible for Eustace to go till the afternoon ; 
 assisted him herself in all his preparations, and astonished 
 everyone by suddenly displaying energy and anxiety in 
 proportion to her former dreamy apathy. 
 
 As soon as Eustace was gone she insisted on speaking 
 to Mrs. Feltham herself. In vain Hartly remonstrated 
 against a proceeding which she felt was ill-judged, and 
 that could not possibly be productive of any good. 
 Mrs. Morley was determined, and contradiction seemed 
 to irritate her so much, that at last Hartly consented. 
 
 What passed in that interview no one ever knew, till 
 Hartly 's attention was attracted by hearing Mrs. Morley 's 
 gentle voice speaking in loud and angry tones. Then a 
 faint cry, which alarmed her ; and when she rushed into 
 the room it was to find her mistress stretched upon the 
 floor, perfectly unconscious, as if struck down by a sudden 
 and deadly blow. 
 
 She was carried up-stairs at once, and laid upon the 
 bed from which she was destined never to rise. It was 
 long before she was restored to animation, and then it 
 was only to partial consciousness. She did not appear 
 to known anyone, and kept calling for Sybil to come to 
 her, and talking in a wild incoherent way, as if it were 
 her wedding-day. Then she would attempt to rise, and 
 say she would go with her to church at Woodcote — the 
 church where she had plighted her faith so many years 
 ago. Poor stricken soul ! it was as if the happy memories 
 of her youth still clung to her amidst the wreck and de- 
 solation of the present. 
 
 The doctor who had always attended her looked un- 
 usually grave, and spoke of pressure on the brain, arising 
 from some sudden shock. He evidently doubted whether 
 her mind would ever recover its tone. He was anxious 
 for further advice — only prescribed entire quiet, and was 
 apparently at a loss how to treat so unusual a case. It 
 was just after he had left, that, to Hartly's extreme relief, 
 Eustace and Sybil returned. She met them at the door, 
 
tl She shall Never Marry You* 1 183 
 
 to prepare them for their mother's illness, and to beg 
 Eustace to send for further advice. At the first sight ot 
 Sybil she had clasped her to her heart. 
 
 " My darling," she said, turning to her, " it will be all 
 right now you are come. It's you that she keeps calling 
 for." 
 
 These were the first loving words Sybil had heard for 
 long, and she clung to her old nurse, sobbing pitifully. 
 
 "Tell me about my mother, Hartly," said Eustace, 
 
 impatiently ; "if we have to send for Dr. , it must 
 
 be done at once, without delay." 
 
 Sybil darted past him with resentment in her heart. 
 She thought he grudged her even Hartly's kind greeting. 
 She ran into her own room, and locked the door. 
 Eustace's coldness had turned her grief and sorrow into 
 pride and stubbornness ; she wiped away all traces of 
 tears, and relapsed into her former hard, passionless 
 manner. Hartly looked at Eustace reproachfully as 
 Sybil passed them. 
 
 " I wanted to take her to her mamma — maybe the 
 sight of her is the one thing to do her good." 
 
 " Hardly, I should think," said Eustace, contemptu- 
 ously ; " when it's her evil-doing that has brought my 
 mother to this. Let me go and see her now." 
 
 Though Eustace had been considerably alarmed by 
 Hartly's account, he was utterly unprepared for the sigh*: 
 which met his eye as he stood by his mother's bedside. 
 She was deadly pale, her eyes were closed, and except 
 for the incessant moving of her head from side to side, 
 Eustace might have fancied that life had already ebbed 
 away. Presently she began to talk indistinctly. Eustace 
 stooped over her and spoke to her. She opened her 
 eyes with a sort of unconscious stare, but did not seem 
 as if she ever saw him. All her rambling talk seemed 
 connected with Sybil. There was something so piteous, 
 so death-like in her face, that Eustace could not bear it, 
 and left the room. 
 
 " I will send for Dr. at once ; but, oh ! Hartly, I 
 
 have no hope ! " 
 
1 84 Off the Line. 
 
 " Well, she's not as low as she was last night after the 
 fit she had. I do wonder if she would know Miss 
 Sybil." 
 
 Hartly went to Sybil's room, but the door was locked. 
 
 u Who wants me ? " she asked. 
 
 " I want you — you will let me in ? " 
 
 Hartly's tone was too pleasing to be resisted. 
 
 " My dear, I want you to come and see your poor 
 mamma — she is always calling for you. I do think it 
 would be the best thing that could happen if we could 
 make her see and know you." 
 
 " I should think I had better stay here. No one is 
 likely to wish to see me." 
 
 " My darling, when it's for a sight of you she's pining. 
 Maybe the sound of your voice might make her open her 
 poor eyes. But you look white and weary, too — 
 wait till I smooth your hair a bit, and get you a cup of 
 tea." 
 
 Sybil was very passive in Hartly's hands. She was 
 over-wrought and tired — she followed her into her 
 mother's room, and knelt down beside the bed. 
 
 " Speak to her, dear," whispered Hartly, "just as if you 
 had been here all day." 
 
 "Are you better now, mamma?" she said, leaning 
 forward and kissing her. 
 
 Mrs. Morley opened her eyes, but there was no re- 
 cognition in them, and the unmeaning stare turned Sybil 
 to stone. 
 
 " Mamma," she said again, " I am going to sit with you 
 now — I am Sybil, you know." 
 
 " No, Sybil's married — she's not come home," she said, 
 in a harsh, unnatural voice ; " she's going to be married 
 to-day at Woodcote — it must be to-day, for there are 
 wicked people who speak against her. Only don't let 
 that woman be there ! — that dreadful woman ! Oh ! 
 don't let her go !" she cried out, shuddering. 
 
 "What does she mean ?" asked Sybil, pale with^orror 
 and dismay. 
 
 " Mrs. Feltham was with her when she was taken. I 
 
" She shall Never Marry Yon." 185 
 
 think it was all from something she said. I suppose she's 
 thinking of her." 
 
 " Oh ! no — it has been all my doing — all my fault ! " 
 said Sybil, as she hid her face in the bed-clothes, and 
 sobbed as if her heart were breaking. 
 
 " Who is crying there ? " asked the sick woman again, 
 m the same hard, monotonous tone — "who is crying? 
 It's Sybil's wedding-day. No one must cry any more 
 She's married now ; they can't say any more harm of her. 
 Why don't the bells ring ? Ah f they do now ; they ring 
 because she is married — safely married ! " 
 
 Every word stabbed Sybil to the heart. 
 
 11 1 can't bear it ! — oh ! I can't bear it, Hartly ! — let 
 me go ! " 
 
 " Well, then, do go and rest a bit, dear, and I'll call 
 you presently," said Hartly, soothingly; but she shook 
 her head as Sybil left the room, as if she thought this 
 was but the beginning of all the trouble that was coming 
 thick and fast upon the heads of her " children." 
 
 There was little or no intercourse between Eustace 
 and Sybil ; there seemed to be a sort of tacit understand- 
 ing between them to meet as little as possible. The 
 very sound of her brother's footstep on the stair would 
 make Sybil dart away from her mother's bedside, and as 
 Eustace constantly dined at the Rectory, they scarcely 
 met at all. 
 
 Things were in some degree changed when Geoffrey 
 came. Sybil had only kindly feelings towards him, and 
 there was both compassion and tenderness in his manner 
 to her which seemed continually to arouse Eustace's 
 indignation. He was sterner than ever, and seemed 
 daily to harden his heart against her. 
 
 It was a painful time for all, but it did not last long, 
 for Mrs. Morley grew visibly weaker every day, and all 
 knew that it was only a question of time. For one day 
 only did she seem to recognise her children, and even 
 then her consciousness was too doubtful, and her mind 
 too confused for Sybil to take any comfort from the few 
 words that she said to her. The strange form that her 
 
1 86 OJ- the Line, 
 
 mother's delirium seem always to take had both shocked 
 and startled her. Mrs. Morley seemed constantly de- 
 fending Sybil, and remonstrating with some one who was 
 speaking against her, sometimes in anger, sometimes in 
 bitter grief. 
 
 " How dare you say such things of Sybil ? " she would 
 say to Hardy, evidently taking her for some one else — 
 " it is a shameful, wicked lie. She never did anything 
 wrong. Edward's child would never lose her good name. 
 She is good and pure, and she is married now. It is you 
 who are wicked — wicked and shameless to speak against 
 her ! " 
 
 " Hartly, what does mamma mean ? — why does she talk 
 in this strange way? — who has been speaking agains me?" 
 
 " I can't tell. Mrs. Feltham was with her when she 
 was taken ill, and I shall always think that it was some- 
 thing that woman did or said that brought on her illness ; 
 but I don't know anything about it." 
 
 "But what could she say?" persisted Sybil. "Tell 
 me, Hartly ; I had better know." 
 
 " Well, people know better than to talk to me," said 
 Hartly, at a loss what to answer, and evading the 
 question. 
 
 "You won't answer me, I see," said Sybil, quietly. 
 " It would be kinder to tell me." 
 
 But Hartly had no idea of telling Sybil any suspicion 
 she might have about it, and only repeated " that it was 
 no good to take notice of what people might say." Sybil 
 never left the house, and had no opportunity of testing 
 what opinion might have been formed of her. She was 
 surprised not to see more of the Powers, but in her 
 present mood it was a relief, and, as Eustace was con- 
 tinually at the Rectory, she supposed that Mary Power 
 found his presence all-sufficient. 
 
 So the long summer days wore slowly on, the only 
 variety being the changes that took place in the sick room, 
 till the last great change came suddenly at last, and 
 Mabel's weary spirit was released to join the husband she 
 had so long and so truly mourned. 
 
" She shall Never Marry You." 187 
 
 Her death made but little outward difference to the 
 small household at the Farm, it was so long since she had 
 taken any active part in the life around her. Only to 
 Sybil the world seemed still more lonely and dreary, and 
 she had many bitter hours of self-reproach. 
 
 Mrs. Morley was buried at Cheveleigh ; Eustace 
 remained there for some days, in hopes of arranging his 
 auairs so that he could remain there permanently. He 
 could not bear the thought of returning to the Farm. 
 Geoffrey did not like to leave Sybil j the last year had 
 wonderfully matured him, and done much to change him 
 from a boy into a man. Ke felt very unwilling to leave 
 her till he had brought about a better understanding 
 between her and Eustace. He said something to this 
 effect to her one day, but it elicited such a burst of 
 resentment, and such bitter indignation, that he began to 
 despair of it as a hopeless if not a thankless task. 
 
 During the fortnight that had elapsed between Sybil's 
 return and Mrs. Morley's death, she had had no com- 
 munication with either Hervey Feltham or his mother. 
 She was quite aware that all she had seen of him during 
 the journey to Richmond had considerably altered her 
 feelings ; still her former impressions had only been 
 partially removed, and she continued to invest him with 
 qualities to which he had not the smallest claim. There 
 were times of loneliness and depression, in which the 
 sound of his voice would have been welcome to her. 
 Whatever his faults might be, all his words of tender and 
 passionate love bore the impress of truth, and she never 
 for a moment doubted them. 
 
 One fine evening, as she sat at the window idly watching 
 Geoffrey as he paced up and down with a cigar, and 
 thinking how deserted the house seemed to have become, 
 she saw a little ragged boy stop at the garden-gate and 
 look wistfully at Hannibal, who was lying at full length in 
 the sun, as if he was afraid to pass him. She called tc 
 him and asked if he wanted to come in. In reply he 
 held up a letter, but he did not speak. 
 
 " Who. is that letter for ? The dog will not hurt you. 
 
1 88 Off the Line, 
 
 Come in and give it to me." And she called Hannibal, 
 who walked in rather reluctantly, and laid his head upon 
 her knee. 
 
 " Now you can come in. What do you want ? " 
 
 " To give a letter to the lady," said the boy in a half- 
 whisper, as if he had been enjoined to keep his errand a 
 secret. 
 
 " Well, I am. the lady," she said. " Give it to me." 
 
 She blushed deeply as she looked at the address, and 
 saw Geoffrey at that moment coming up to the house. 
 
 " But I mun bring an answer," persisted the boy, still 
 keeping fast hold of the letter, as if he expected to 
 receive something in exchange. 
 
 " Never mind," said Sybil, taking it from him and 
 slipping it into her pocket. " Here is sixpence for you. 
 Now, run away." 
 
 "Well, little lad, and what do you want?" asked 
 Geoffrey, laying a detaining hand upon his shoulder, just 
 as he was preparing to obey her orders and set off at full 
 speed. 
 
 "I brought a letter to the lady, and mun bring an 
 answer." 
 
 The boy's mind seemed fully possessed with this idea, 
 and unable to take in any other. 
 
 "Well, then, wait a little, and perhaps you will get 
 one." 
 
 " No, indeed, Geoffrey," said Sybil, evidently annoyed; 
 " there is no answer — let the boy go." 
 
 " Perhaps there may be," he said carelessly. " Run 
 round to the kitchen, my lad, and say I sent you for some 
 supper, and I'll call you presently." 
 
 That, at all events, he seemed to comprehend ; and 
 lost no time in doing as he was told. 
 
 " Who is your despatch from, Sybil ? " said Geoffrey, as 
 he sat down by her side. 
 
 " It is nothing that matters — nothing at all, in fact," 
 she replied with a heightened colour. " I wonder why 
 you kept that boy ? " 
 
 "Because I do not believe that your letter is nothing 
 
H She shall Never Marry You? 189 
 
 at all. It is not so very long, Sybil, since there were no 
 secrets between you and me. I think those days were 
 much happier. I wish you would trust me now." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean." 
 
 " Yes, you do," he said, drawing her nearer to him. 
 " The last time I was at home, I told you that you were 
 changed. Since then much has happened — things that if 
 I could have foreseen, I would never have left you. The 
 journey you took in such strange company, the bad terms 
 on which I find you and Eustace; my mother's illness, 
 evidently brought on by some sudden shock ; the painful 
 things she used to say in her delirium — surely these are 
 very sufficient reasons to make me seek for some ex- 
 planation from yourself of all that seems to me now so 
 inexplicable and mysterious." 
 
 Geoffrey paused. Sybil was crying bitterly, but she 
 made no reply. 
 
 " I have heard Eustace's version," he continued, " and 
 I hoped that before this I should have heard a different 
 one from you. I would not ask you— I hoped that you 
 would trust me, as you used to do in old times ; but you 
 never give me your confidence now." 
 
 " What do you want me to tell you ? " asked Sybil, 
 through her tears. 
 
 " Only this," he replied, the quivering of his lip 
 showing how strongly he felt upon the subject — " I want 
 you to deny the intimacy that I hear exists between you 
 and Hervey Feltham. The more I think of it, the less I 
 can believe it. How can I believe that such a low-born, 
 unprincipled man would dare to make love to my sister ; 
 or that if he did, she would for a moment allow it? 
 Sybil, I know you are true — whatever you tell me I shall 
 believe." 
 
 Sybil was silent. 
 
 " You do not deny it ! " he exclaimed, in great agitation. 
 " Good God ! you cannot mean that it is true ? You 
 have brought bitter sorrow already upon us — it cannot be 
 that you will bring disgrace ! " 
 
 "Do not be hard upon me, Geoffrey." said Sybil, 
 
190 Off the Line. 
 
 still crying bitterly. " It was Eustace's harshness thai 
 drove me to act as I did. He was cruel to me — threatened 
 me. I would not stay with him — I never will. I don't 
 know what you mean about disgrace, but I will tell you 
 the truth. Hervey Feltham has said that he loves 
 me " 
 
 " And you," interrupted her brother, breathlessly, 
 " what did you say ? " 
 
 " I said I could not marry a poor man now, and one 
 without any profession, but I did not say that I never 
 would. When Eustace spoke to me as he did, I went and 
 asked Mrs. Feltham to take me to Uncle Harold. She 
 went with me as far as Rugby, and then she was taken ill, 
 so he went on with me to London. Then Uncle Harold 
 was away. I never intended to travel alone with him. 
 Oh ! Geoffrey, I never should have gone to their house at 
 all if my life had not been so desolate ! I was always 
 alone — it was so dreary. I never had any companion but 
 Hannibal; and at first it was only that I was glad of any- 
 one to speak to, then, by degrees, I went there more and 
 more. They seemed really to care for me, and no one 
 did here. Sometimes I tried to give it all up, and then 
 he seemed so unhappy ; and he is not low-born, Geoffrey 
 — his father was a physician." 
 
 " Poor child ! " said Geoffrey, in some degree relieved 
 by this account. " I see that perhaps the fault has not 
 been yours altogether. But now that you know the misery 
 that you have brought upon us all, and the utter unfitness 
 of associating with people of that kind, I want you to 
 authorise me to put a stop to it for you. I say this now 
 because I believe that the letter you just received was 
 sent either by Mrs. Feltham or her son, and the risks you 
 have already run are far too great to allow of your com- 
 promising your character by any further communication 
 with them," 
 
 Very decidedly, almost sternly, the young soldier 
 spoke ; and yet throughout there had been such an evident 
 affection for her, and tenderness of manner, that it aroused 
 no feeling of rebellion on Sybil's part. 
 
" She shall Never Marry You." 191 
 
 " Won't you read your letter now, Sybil ? " he asked. 
 
 She took it out of her pocket, and began to read. It 
 contained only a few words from Hervey, saying that 
 hitherto he had not attempted to see her, but that now 
 he could bear it no longer, and he implored her to 
 let him know if she would see him at his mother's house, 
 or if she would meet him beyond the point, by the sand 
 rock. The letter was written in an injured tone, but with- 
 out any vehement protestation of affection. Sybil won- 
 dered if it would be better to show it to Geoffrey, or to 
 tell him its contents. 
 
 " Well," said Geoffrey at length, as she folded up the 
 letter and put it by, without making any comments, " what 
 shall I tell your small messenger ? " 
 
 " Nothing, I suppose — unless you will tell him to say 
 that I will send an answer. He only wants me to see 
 him." 
 
 " And that, Sybil, you cannot do." 
 
 " Then I had better write and say so." 
 
 " You had much better not. Leave it to me, I will 
 settle it at once." 
 
 " No, indeed," said Sybil, roused into opposition. 
 " Whatever he has to hear, he has a right to hear from 
 me." 
 
 " Right ! what can possibly give him any right ? He 
 can have no claim upon you." 
 
 " Perhaps not exactly a claim. But it would be better 
 — I can't explain what I mean, but I know I am right. I 
 must either see him or write to him." 
 
 " Then let him come to the house openly and 
 avowedly ; and then, Sybil, I must depend upon you to tell 
 him that it is for the last time. Will you do this ? I 
 know that I can trust your word." 
 
 " I must think, Geoffrey — tell the boy to come again, I 
 cannot decide at once." 
 
 Geoffrey went out, and Sybil was alone ; alone with the 
 tumultuous thoughts that chased each other rapidly 
 through her brain — alone with feelings of anger and 
 sorrow surging wildly up, and utterly incapacitating her 
 
 13 
 
192 Off the Line. 
 
 for anything like sober reflection. Besides, she really did 
 not know her own mind fully. Occasionally the thought 
 of freedom came to her as a relief; then came the 
 question of whether she had any real affection for this 
 man, or how much she was influenced by feelings of 
 honour and gratitude. 
 
 Weary and heart-sick, she lay awake half the night, 
 and, in the stillness and darkness, tried to reflect calmly 
 upon the present, past, and future. 
 
 She could not but agree with her brother in the main. 
 She had strong clear sense and good judgment on matters 
 that did not affect herself ; then it was generally marred 
 by selfishness and wilfulness. She decided that it 
 would be better for her to see Hervey once more— and 
 then what future was in store for her? She resolved 
 never again to live with Eustace ; she supposed that her 
 own fortune would be sufficient for her to live upon some- 
 where — anywhere, away from all the painful associations 
 that must for ever be connected with that dreary sandy 
 sea-shore. It was a decided relief even to think of 
 leaving the place ; 1,he very idea seemed to make her 
 decision easier. 
 
 The next morning she wrote a few lines in reply to 
 Hervey, and begged Geffrey to send it. 
 
 "You will tell me the contents of this, won't you? " 
 
 " I have said that I will see him here, Geoffrey, to- 
 morrow — as you thought best." 
 
 He put the letter in his pocket and began to talk of 
 other things, but Sybil's pale and weary face did not 
 escape his observation. 
 
 " I am sure you are not well," he said kindly. " I 
 wish you would go out. It would do you so much 
 good." 
 
 11 After to-morrow," she replied with a sad smile, that 
 went to her brother's heart. 
 
 He stooped down and kissed her forehead. 
 
 " Some day, when I am an old broken-down soldier, 
 we will live together, Sybil, so you must take care of your- 
 self for my sake." 
 
11 She shall Never Marry You? 193 
 
 " I wish we were both old now," she said ; " but I never 
 expect anything so good to happen to me." 
 
 " As growing old ! Well, I think that is not a very un- 
 reasonable expectation," said Geoffrey, laughing as he left 
 the room. 
 
 He did not tell Sybil that he had himself determined 
 to be the bearer of her letter to Hervey. A conversation 
 he had with Hartly tended mainly to this decision, as he 
 had long felt strongly that whatever reports had been 
 circulated about his sister should be thoroughly investi- 
 gated and contradicted. Hartly had told him that there 
 was a rumour of a private marriage having taken place 
 between Sybil and Hervey, and that she thought if Mrs. 
 Feltham did not originate the report, she certainly en- 
 couraged it ; that during Mrs. Morley's illness she had 
 heard very little that had been said in the place, but from 
 what she had now been told she was considering whether 
 it would not be better for her to go to Mrs. Feltham and 
 insist upon a contradiction of the report, but that hitherto 
 she had been deterred from taking any steps in the 
 matter, from the fear of bringing any further annoyance 
 upon the family, or lest anything should be done or said 
 that might make Eustace still more angry ; " for indeed," 
 she said, " it makes me half wild when -I think how the 
 poor dear child has got herself talked about. Those 
 people got round her in some way, and persuaded her to 
 do as she did, and how should she know anything of 
 harm or wrong doing ? Then Mr. Eustace is so different 
 — he can't understand Miss Sybil a bit. I'm sure coming 
 to this place has been the worst day's work we ever 
 did." 
 
 "So they say there has been a private marriage," 
 said Geoffrey, thoughtfully; "that can be easily dis- 
 proved." 
 
 " They say that, and other things besides that they 
 have no business to say, and should be put a stop to at 
 once?' said Hartly, gravely. 
 
 " I shall go to these people myself, I think. Leave it 
 all to me, Hartly — I will see to it." 
 
194 Off the Line. 
 
 " God bless him ! " said Hardy, looking after Geoffrey 
 as he left her — " no one ever thought so much of him as 
 they did of the other two, and yet I think he is going to 
 be the prop and stay of the house. I didn't tell him that 
 Mr. Power has forbidden the young ladies to come here, 
 in spite of Mr. Eustace being sweet upon Miss Mary. 
 Well, perhaps things will take a turn, and it isn't any good 
 to vex them ; but there has not been a soul near 
 the place — not even to enquire ! I wonder they don't 
 notice it." 
 
 But Sybil had noticed it, and wondered at Mary 
 Power's desertion after all her profession of friendship. 
 She thought that perhaps Eustace had forbidden her 
 coming ; and besides that, an instinct of the real state of 
 the case had been slowly dawning upon her, and she 
 shrank from making any advances that might possibly be 
 rejected. 
 
 Geoffrey put his sister's letter into his pocket when he 
 went out, and Mrs. Feltham watched his approach, as he 
 turned up the lane towards her house, with considerable 
 consternation. But she felt that to carry off all that she 
 had done with a high hand, was the only move that was 
 left her in the game she had been playing, and which she 
 now feared was a losing one. 
 
 " Mrs. Feltham," said Geoffrey stiffly, " is your son 
 at home ? I have a letter for him," and he laid it on the 
 table. 
 
 Mrs. Feltham took it up, and scanned it curiously, re- 
 cognising Sybil's writing with unmixed surprise. 
 
 " He is close by — I will give it to him, Sir." 
 
 " Very well ; and then I should like to say a few words 
 to you. It might be as well for him to be present." 
 
 " Here, Hervey," said his mother, opening the door 
 into another room, and carefully closing it behind her. 
 
 " Here's young Morley here, come to kick up a precious 
 row, I'll be bound ; and he's brought a letter from the 
 young lady to you, so come and see him at once." • 
 
 "The young one come himself!" said Hervey in 
 unfeigned surprise ; " what can that mean, I wonder ? " 
 
"She shall Never Marry You'' 195 
 
 "Never mind," she replied impatiently, "here's the 
 letter — come at once." 
 
 She returned to the room where she had left Geoffrey, 
 followed by her son. 
 
 " You will be at no loss to know my errand here, Mrs. 
 Feltham," said Geoffrey sternly. u I have heard reports 
 about my sister and your son that must have full and 
 immediate contradiction. I am going to require you 
 to do this." 
 
 "I daresay people talk — they always do if there's a 
 chance of a wedding," she replied insolently. 
 
 " Which you know there is not, and never can be," he 
 replied coolly ; for he saw their game, and was deter- 
 mined not to play into their hands. 
 
 " That's not as I understand it — is it, Hervey ? " 
 
 M Certainly not — I've Miss Morley's promise, and that 
 I'll claim, in spite of you or any of her fine friends," re- 
 torted Hervey. 
 
 " If you mean to say that my sister ever promised to 
 marry you," said Geoffrey, trying to keep down his rising 
 indignation at Hervey's words and bullying manner, " it 
 is false, and you know it ! " 
 
 , M Well, then, for her own sake she'd better promise it 
 as soon as may be," sneered Mrs*. Feltham. 
 
 " Woman ! " exclaimed Geoffrey, losing patience, 
 " what do you dare to insinuate ? What you say is as 
 false as hell, and you know it." 
 
 "Why, what can anyone say or think?" said Mrs. 
 Feltham, a little subdued by Geoffrey's anger. " Here 
 she goes off with Hervey, and lives alone with him at 
 Richmond, till she is fetched back again. I asked no 
 questions," she said, shrugging her shoulders. 
 
 " That's nothing to do with it, mother," interrupted 
 Hervey. " But I've got her promise, and I'll never give 
 it up. And I think it would be wiser for you not to 
 swagger like this, for now there's been so much said, she 
 may as well marry me as not." 
 
 " She shall never marry you," said Geoffrey, his words 
 coming very distinctly and slowly through his set teeth — • 
 
196 Ojf the Line, 
 
 " never ! The best thing for you is to hope that your 
 rascally conduct may not be exposed ! " 
 
 Hervey muttered something inarticulate, and Geoffre) 
 continued — 
 
 " The whole thing has been an infamous plot, which, 
 thank God, has been frustrated. My sister asked your 
 mother to take her to London, and, by some means or 
 other, you contrive to substitute yourself in her place on 
 the journey, and carry her off to your own friends, she. 
 being perfectly unconscious of your schemes, and believ- 
 ing that she was going to my uncle's house." 
 
 11 She was willing enough to come," said Hervey, with 
 a Sneer. 
 
 " I know exactly all that passed, and understand the 
 infamous conduct practised both by yourself and your 
 mother ; but I have now yielded to my sister's wish, or 
 rather to her feeling, that it would be advisable to see you 
 once again. She will see you at her own home to-morrow. 
 In the meantime, if these reports are not fully and at 
 once contradicted, I shall take legal measures against 
 those who have caused them to be spread. Your son, 
 Mrs. Feltham, has already incurred the penalty of the 
 law — I advise you not to risk it also for defamation of 
 character. 1 do not wish to hear any more at present," 
 he added, as Mrs. Feltham was about to remonstrate. 
 " Your son may come to see my sister to-morrow in her 
 own home. At twelve o'clock she will be disengaged." 
 
 "Very well, Sir," replied Hervey sulkily, very angry at 
 Geoffrey's authoritative manner. 
 
 " In the meantime, Mrs. Feltham, you had better reflect 
 upon what I have said." 
 
 And without waiting for a reply, he quickly left the 
 cottage. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 SEPARATION. 
 
 " The bands that were silken once are apt to become iron fetters 
 when we desue to shake them off." 
 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
 
 EOFFREY went at once to seek his sister. He 
 was anxious to obtain from her a distinct denial 
 of her ever having given Hervey Feltham any 
 promise of marriage. He was still boiling with 
 indignation at the insolence of manner displayed both 
 by Mrs. Feltham and her son, and very much perplexed 
 to know what would be the best course for him to pursue. 
 There was no one with whom he could bear to discuss so 
 painful a subject, and he did not wish to exasperate 
 Eustace still more by consulting him. 
 
 Full of these thoughts, his usually bright countenance 
 appeared so careworn that Sybil looked up in surprise, 
 and asked him anxiously what was the matter. 
 
 " I took your letter myself, Sybil," was his reply. 
 
 "Oh ! never!" 
 
 " Yes, I did indeed, and I told ,that man you w T ould 
 see him to-morrow." 
 
 " Don't speak of him in that way," said Sybil, " there 
 is nothing I should dread more than a quarrel between 
 you and him. My heart is heavy enough as it is, without 
 any additional anxiety." 
 
 Geoffrey was silenced by her evident dread of any 
 collision between himself and Hervey Feltham. 
 
 Sybil looked up after a moment's pause. 
 
 " Well, what happened ? — tell me, Geoffrey." 
 
198 Off the Line, 
 
 " Sybil, did you know that a report had been spread 
 that you and he are privately married ? " 
 
 " I don't believe it ! " she exclaimed, her face crimson 
 with shame and indignation, " no one dared to say so." 
 
 " It is said, however, and other things which affect your 
 character still more. I firmly believe that these people 
 originated and spread the report, to suit their own 
 purposes." 
 
 " But they know nothing can be more false," murmured 
 Sybil. 
 
 "They both declare that you have given a promise that 
 you will marry him." 
 
 " Never ! " said Sybil angrily ; " they cannot say so ! On 
 the contrary, I said it was impossible. That I could not 
 marry a poor man, and one who had no profession. I 
 told you this before, Geoffrey," she added in a tone of 
 wounded feeling. 
 
 " I know you did — I am not doubting your word ; but 
 how to deal with unprincipled and designing people like 
 these, who are determined to carry out their own schemes, 
 and to put a pressure upon you that they think you will not 
 be able to resist. From what I have seen to-day, I be- 
 lieve that they would not hesitate to do or say anything 
 to compel you to consent to their schemes, or to extort 
 money." 
 
 " Money ! " said Sybil. " You cannot think that ! " 
 
 " I do ; and I believe that it will be necessary to have 
 recourse to the law before they will give up their pretended 
 claim upon you." 
 
 Sybil looked horror-struck at his words, and utterly 
 bewildered. 
 
 11 Oh ! Sybil, it was an evil day when you put yourself 
 in the power of such people as these ! " 
 
 " I am not in their power at all," she said indignantly. 
 " I gave no kind of promise. I am certain that there is 
 some mistake. I shall understand it all to-morrow." 
 
 She was right in this last conjecture, but the result was 
 very different to what she anticipated. 
 
 When she once more found herself face to face with 
 
Separation. 199 
 
 Hervey Feltham, it seemed to her as if years had passed 
 since she saw him last — as if the waves of sorrow that 
 had swept over her had penetrated to the very depths of 
 her being, had effaced the love she fancied she had felt 
 for this man. It seemed a part of something long ago, 
 and to have little connection with what was now. This 
 strange feeling enabled her to receive him very calmly, 
 and to be quite uninfluenced by his evident agitation. 
 
 " Why did you send for me here ? " he said reproach- 
 fully. " I would rather have seen you anywhere else." 
 
 " Because I could not go anywhere else, and I wanted 
 to speak to you." 
 
 " Does Geoffrey, then, keep you as tight as the other 
 one?" 
 
 44 Geoffrey ! " Sybil's cheeks burnt with angry shame. 
 44 He has nothing to do with it. If you wished to see 
 me, it was right that you should come here," she said 
 haughtily. 
 
 <4 Oh ! that's it, is it ? Pray, when am I to see you 
 whenever I choose, as I ought to be able to see you? If 
 you forget all that has passed between us, I don't." 
 
 44 No, I don't forget," said Sybil sadly ; " and I now 
 ask your pardon for any false hopes that I may have 
 thoughtlessly raised. I had no intention of doing so. 
 Goaded by my sense of loneliness at home, I sought the 
 society of yourself and your mother. I was miserable — 
 rash — mad, I believe ! " 
 
 44 Do you mean to tell me that I am to be thrown over 
 like this ? " said Hervey, pale with anger. " No, indeed, 
 young lady, you are greatly mistaken if you think so. I 
 told you before I'd be paid at last, and you gave me your 
 promise." 
 
 44 It's false ! " exclaimed Sybil, roused to indignation 
 by his audacity — " utterly false ! I never gave you any 
 promise in my life ! I was wrong and thoughtless — very 
 wrong in doing as I did, but circumstai^ca urged me on, 
 and I did not see my conduct then as I do now." 
 
 44 It's your brother, then, that's made you so devilish 
 clear-sighted ! " he said, furiously. " But I can tell you 
 
200 Off the Line, 
 
 that you may as well put up with me, for it's not many as 
 will take another man's leavings, and there's been plenty 
 sa^l about you now." 
 
 Sybil turned very pale. She was shocked at his words 
 and the grossness of his insults. 
 
 Hervey hastily pushed a chair towards her, for he 
 thought she was going to fall. 
 
 " 1 don't want to vex you, but when a man's treated so 
 confoundedly ill, it's enough to provoke him. I wish you 
 would come and talk to my mother a bit." 
 
 <k Never ! " said Sybil, with white lips and trembling 
 voice. "I will never see either you or your mother 
 again. I consented to see you against my brother's wish, 
 as I felt it to be a duty, however painful, to undeceive you 
 myself. But you make it quite impossible for me to 
 have any communication with you. If there is anything 
 more that you wish to say, it must come through my 
 brother." 
 
 Sybil rose from her seat, and without even looking at 
 him, left the room. Hervey looked after her in blank 
 surprise, as it flashed across his mind that she was gone 
 from him for ever. Fool that he had been to give way 
 to his savage temper ! Surely she would Come back — he 
 would never give her up ! She should marry him, in 
 spite of herself — in spite of everyone ! The thought of 
 never seeing her again would drive him mad, for notwith- 
 standing his cruel insolence he loved her, in his way, as 
 much as ever. How beautiful she looked in her black 
 dress ! He would not leave the house — she should come 
 back to him ! While he was wavering between anger and 
 remorse, the door opened. He looked up eagerly, but it 
 was Geoffrey and not Sybil who entered the room. He 
 walked slowly and deliberately up to the table at which 
 Hervey was standing, and said in a firm, resolute 
 voice, — 
 
 •f You have seen my sister, Hervey Feltham, and I 
 have no doubt heard from herself her determination that 
 this should be your last interview ; and I wish with all 
 my heart that this matter could be allowed to end here, 
 
Separation. 201 
 
 but it is impossible. Reports injurious to her character 
 have been circulated in this place, and, as her brother, it 
 is my duty to see that they are contradicted. This dufy 
 I am determined to fulfil at all costs. I have now a 
 paper in my hand to which I must require you to 
 affix your signature, and it will be better for you to 
 hear me read it before you attempt to make any 
 reply." 
 
 Geoffrey said this because he saw that Hervey Feltham 
 was on the point of making some answer, and he was 
 anxious that the young man should not commit him- 
 self to any particular line of action before he was 
 made fully acquainted with what was demanded of 
 him. 
 
 " You had better sit down while I read it to you," 
 added Geoffrey ; and opening the paper he read it 
 aloud, slowly and distinctly, but Hervey still continued 
 standing. 
 
 " In order to contradict certain false statements, which 
 have been circulated in the neighbourhood of Sandling, 
 affecting the character of Miss Morley, I certify, in the 
 presence of Mr. Geoffrey Morley, that Miss Morley -never 
 contracted a private marriage with me — neither has she 
 given me any promise of marriage — and that the journey 
 which she took to London was with the sole intention of 
 going under my mother's care to her uncle, Mr. Harold 
 Morley, and that she was quite unaware of my travelling 
 in the same train until she arrived at Rugby, when my 
 mother's illness prevented her going further, and I 
 offered to accompany Miss Morley to Mr. Morley's 
 house." 
 
 " I'll be if I sign that ! Miss Morley did promise 
 
 to marry me ! " 
 
 " Stop — it is useless to persist in a lie. You know it 
 to be false." 
 
 " Well, she as good as promised. Is it because I am 
 •poor that I am to be made a fool of? Why did she 
 encourage me ? Why was she always coming to our 
 house ? If she only meant to make a fool of me, let her 
 
202 Off the Line. 
 
 suffer for it — she deserves if, And I, for one, will never 
 help her to make other people suffer, and go scot free 
 herself." 
 
 "Take care what you do, Hervey Feltham ; as sure as 
 I am alive you shall repent this ! I have already told 
 you that both you and your mother have laid yourselves 
 open to the charge of conspiracy against my sister. I 
 have good reason to believe that your mother's illness at 
 Rugby was feigned, and that your going there was part of 
 the plot that had been arranged by you both. I have 
 now in my possession the letter which your mother wrote, 
 and which you yourself gave to your aunt at Richmond, 
 and nothing shall prevent r.iy taking the necessary steps, 
 cost what they may, to effect the denial of the scandalous 
 reports you have circulated." 
 
 " I have spread no reports. I have not told any lies 
 — let Miss Morley look to herself ! 1 repeat, that if she 
 meant nothing, she deserves all she has got, and more 
 too." 
 
 " Wait, Hervey Feltham, not so fast — I know more 
 than you think I do. I know what your boasting in this 
 place has been ; I have witnesses ready to prove how 
 grossly you have slandered my sister ! You have done 
 your best to asperse her character, in the hope that, from 
 very dread of what you might say, she would become a 
 pliant tool in your hands. But you do not know her. 
 She would sooner die than link her fate with one so 
 utterly unworthy of her ! You profess to have loved her, 
 and yet did not scruple to blacken her fair name ! Shame 
 on you, Hervey Feltham ! You are unworthy of the 
 name of a man ! " 
 
 Hervey was staggered by this burst of indignation, and 
 made no reply. Geoffrey saw that his last words had 
 been successful, and followed them up by representing so 
 strongly that it was the only reparation in his power to 
 make, and which, if he had ever loved her, he would be 
 only too glad to make, that at last he consented to sign 
 the paper. 
 
 Very few words passed between them after this. 
 
Separation. 203 
 
 Geoffrey sadl) and gravely opened the door for him, 
 and Hervey left without making any comment, and 
 passed out of the garden without once turning round to 
 look up at the house which contained her he had so 
 madly loved. 
 
 Geoffrey went at once to Sybil. She rose as he 
 came in, and he was shocked at the sight of her wan and 
 weary face, and the startled expression of her large dark 
 eyes. 
 
 "I wanted you so much, Geoffrey — I could not go 
 down again — I thought you would " 
 
 " I have been down — it is all done, and he is gone. I 
 told him plainly what I thought of both his and his 
 mother's infamous conduct, and showed him how their 
 plots had been defeated." 
 
 " I don't think there was any plot at all, Geoffrey — the 
 journey was my proposal." 
 
 " I can prove it to you in a minute. However, I ob- 
 tained all I wanted, which was his signature to this paper," 
 and he laid it before her. 
 
 " He signed this?" 
 
 " Yes ; but nothing short of the dread of exposure 
 would have made him do it. When he saw I knew all, 
 he could say nothing." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," said Sybil, dreamily, 
 with her eyes still fixed upon the paper. 
 
 " Because, as I told jou before, I did not talk to you 
 on this subject, hoping you would give me your confidence ; 
 but as you did not, and as I heard what was being said, 
 do you think I could let your character remain under a 
 cloud if it were possible to clear it ? From the first, I 
 felt certain that your going to Richmond must have been 
 the result of some scheme on the part of those people ; 
 and when I found that this man had been boasting right 
 and left that he could marry you whenever he chose, it 
 was absolutely necessary to take some steps to put a stop 
 to it. As Hugh Dormer found you at Richmond, I wrote 
 at once to him, asking him to go again to the place, and 
 try to discover all he could. The result was very satis- 
 
204 Off the Line. 
 
 factory, and I have brought you these letters to read, 
 to convince you that in going there you fell into a 
 pre-arranged plot. He encloses me the letter Mrs. Fel- 
 tham wrote to her sister ; but you had better read his 
 first." 
 
 Hugh Dormer's letter was as follows : — 
 
 " Dear Morley, 
 
 " You only do me justice in believing that I 
 would take any trouble to assist you in exposing the 
 people who have caused you all such trouble and annoy- 
 ance. I felt sure that your sister had been taken to 
 Richmond against her will, and the enclosed will show 
 you that the whole thing was a plot between the mother 
 and son. The old lady I talked to at the inn seemed 
 still in a state of mystification, and to know very little 
 about it, and was very much afraid of getting into dis- 
 grace with her sister by any revelations she might make 
 to me. But I was so eloquent as to the terrors of the 
 law to which she might possibly be exposed, 'in aiding 
 or abetting the abduction of a minor,' that in dismay she 
 gave me her sister's letter, to exonerate herself. You see, 
 it does this completely. If I can be of any further assist- 
 ance, I am sure you will let me know. 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 " H. D." 
 
 The enclosed letter was as follows : — 
 
 " Dear Sister, 
 
 " If Hervey gives you this letter, as I expect, 
 take him and the young lady in, and make her as com- 
 fortable as you can. The longer you keep them the 
 better. I'll write again when I know they are with yon. 
 You will see how it is between them, and a fine thing it 
 
Separation, 205 
 
 will be for him, for they are rich people, though, of course, 
 her friends set their face the other way. 
 
 " Your loving sister, 
 
 "Sophia Feltham." 
 
 Sybil read the two letters over twice, carefully and 
 slowly, and then returning them to Geoffrey, said, — 
 
 "You have been very good to me, Geoffrey — very 
 good and kind. If others had behaved to me in the 
 same way, none of this would have happened." 
 
 " But you are convinced now, Sybil, how utterly un- 
 worthy these people are, and how unscrupulously they 
 would have sacrificed you to gain their own ends. I had 
 never heard the report that you and he were privately 
 married, till Hartly spoke to me about ten days ago. I 
 shall tell her what I have done, and show her the paper ; 
 and then, Sybil, shall I entrust it to Eustace ? — for I may 
 be ordered abroad any day." 
 
 " Certainly not. Besides, it would be useless, for I am 
 not going to stay with Eustace after you are gone." 
 
 " Not stay with him, Sybil ! " said Geoffrey, startled by 
 her words. " You cannot mean — you promised " 
 
 " To have nothing to do with the Felthams— but not 
 to live with Eustace, or to stay in this place." 
 
 " But Eustace will go back to Cheveleigh as soon as 
 he can." 
 
 " I daresay he will, but that will make no difference to 
 me. I shall go to some place where I do not know any- 
 body. I never want to see anybody again as long as I 
 live, and you may as well give me those papers, Geoffrey 
 — I shall keep them quite safely." 
 
 " Well, perhaps before I go ; but I must show them to 
 Eustace, at all events. I don't think you are the right 
 person to keep them." 
 
 " Why not ? And, Geoffrey, tell me one thing," said 
 Sybil, blushing, " have you ever thanked Mr. Dormer for 
 all the trouble he has taken ?" 
 
 u Yes, I wrote to him at once, but I shall see him in 
 
206 
 
 Off the Line. 
 
 London ; and, Sybil, it will be better for me to take 
 the papers there, and give them to Mr. Martin to 
 keep, my father's lawyer, you know ; and I will tell him 
 never to give them up to anybody, except to you or 
 to me." 
 
 Geoffrey left the room, leaving Sybil full of bitterness 
 against the whole world— the only exceptions being 
 Geoffrey and her old nurse. 
 
CHAPTER XVIIi; 
 
 mary's betrothal, 
 
 " Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true 
 And stedfast love of years. 
 The kindly, that from childhood grew, 
 The faithful to thy tears. 
 If there be one that o'er the dead 
 Hath in thy grief borne part, 
 Or watched in sickness by thy bed, 
 Call his a kindred heart." 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 H ! my dear, I beg your pardon, I didn't 
 think as you were here," said Hartly, 
 stopping short, as she was hastily entering 
 Sybil's room, where she now spent most of 
 the day. " I thought you'd be with Mr. Eustace, and I 
 don't seem to know if I'm standing on my head or on 
 my heels since the good news he's brought with him." 
 11 Is Eustace come back ? I did not even know it ! " 
 " Haven't you seen him, then ? He came back just 
 after breakfast. I suppose he's gone off to the Rectory to 
 tell them." 
 
 "To tell them what?" asked Sybil, impatiently; "what 
 is there to tell ? " 
 
 " Don't you know, then, my dear? I thought maybe 
 he'd written or sent word before. He's going to give up 
 this house at Michaelmas, and we're all going home 
 again." 
 
 "I know nothing about it," answered Sybil, with a 
 
 14 
 
208 Off the Line, 
 
 sudden pang at hearing such news as this from Hartly. 
 " Eustace has not taken the trouble to tell me of any 
 of his arrangements, and it doesn't matter, as it won't 
 affect me." 
 
 " Oh ! then I wish I'd never told you, but let Mr. 
 Eustace speak for himself." 
 
 "But that would not have made any difference. I 
 never meant to go back to Cheveleigh, or to live with 
 Eustace. I have been thinking about it ever since Geof- 
 frey left." 
 
 " But, Miss Sybil, there is no place else you can be. 
 Mr. Geoffrey gone to foreign parts, and your uncle abroad 
 too, even if you could stay with him, which I doubt, 
 there's no place but Cheveleigh you can be, my dear." 
 
 " I'm sorry for that, for I shall never be there — to live, 
 I mean." 
 
 " Eh ! dear ! " sighed Hartly, " life's all one trouble, it 
 seems to me. I was looking round me and thinking of 
 putting things together a bit, and hoping that the old times 
 would be coming back at last." 
 
 "Never for me," said Sybil sadly ; "but don't look so 
 grave, Hartly. I won't be more of a plague to you than 
 I can help. After all, I daresay you won't like to give 
 up Eustace and Cheveleigh for me. I shall do very well, 
 I daresay." 
 
 " Mr. Eustace has no call for an old woman like me, 
 my dear," said Hartly, with eyes full of tears ; " and you 
 know that as long as you would have me, I'd never live 
 with another." 
 
 " Dear old nurse, I did not mean to vex you," said 
 Sybil, kissing her : " for there's nothing left me now but 
 you and Geoffrey, and sometimes I feel as if I should lose 
 you too." 
 
 " Mr. Geoffrey came to me the morning he left, and he 
 said, ' Hartly,' says he, ' I'm going now, and if any mis- 
 chance befalls me, you'll take care of Sybil, won't you?' 
 He was that thoughtful for you, he might have been 
 twenty years older." 
 
 " Dear Geoffrey !" said Sybil " We are to live 
 
Mary's Betrothal. 209 
 
 together some day, and then you shall be our house- 
 keeper." 
 
 " I shall be dead and buried long before that day ; 
 and how you are going to make it out between, I can't 
 think." 
 
 " I have not thought about it yet, Hartly, nor talked to 
 Eustace, but I shall soon ; and we must think of some 
 place." 
 
 Hartly's news had taken Sybil quite by surprise. Geof- 
 frey had been suddenly ordered abroad, and she had not 
 seen much of Eustace, who had spent most of his time at 
 Cheveleigh. When he had been at home he had tried to 
 break through the estrangement that had grown up 
 between them, but she repelled all the advances he made 
 to restore their former good understanding with cold 
 indifference. Geoffrey had told him that all intercourse 
 between her and Hervey Feltham was at an end, but 
 Eustace had not ventured to mention the subject again 
 to her. He felt great compassion for her lonely isolated 
 life, and often reflected upon his harsh words to her with 
 real regret. He looked forward to returning to Cheve- 
 leigh as the only means of restoring peace between them. 
 He had worked very hard to accomplish this end, both 
 for his own sake and hers ; and having unexpectedly 
 found a tenant for the house at Sandling, he returned 
 home in high spirits at his success. 
 
 His first object was to see Mary Power, now that he 
 could offer her a home. He had no doubt of either her 
 affection or her father's consent, but he was impatient to 
 receive the assurance of it from herself. And this was 
 the cause of his acting so impetuously as to go off to the 
 Rectory before he had seen his sister. 
 
 It was late when he returned, radiant with happiness. 
 He greeted Sybil warmly, but her cold manner chilled 
 him. He had looked to her for sympathy and assistance, 
 but she showed so little interest, and her morbid, half- 
 offended manner — for she felt really angry at his having 
 gone to the Rectory before he had seen her — was so" 
 painful, that after he had told her of his return to Cheve- 
 
210 Off the Line. 
 
 leigh, he could not make up his mind to speak of what 
 affected him still more nearly to so un sympathising a 
 listener. 
 
 " I thought you would have cared more about going 
 home again, Sybil," he said in a tone of disappointment. 
 
 " I am glad of it for you," she replied, " but it cannot 
 make any difference to me." 
 
 " I don't think you understand. I have let this place 
 
 to the Woodyers, and they want to come in at Michaelmas." 
 
 "And this is the end of June. I suppose you will 
 
 have a great deal to do at Cheveleigh before you can live 
 
 there." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, or why you speak as if 
 it did not concern you. I don't suppose you are going to 
 remain alone in this place." 
 
 "Certainly not, but I am not going home again, 
 Eustace." 
 
 " Not going home ! " he said with a look of dismay, 
 that showed at once the dread that had sprung up in his 
 mind. 
 
 " I am not going to stay here," she said, answering his 
 thoughts rather than his words j " I shall go somewhere 
 with Hartly — to some place where I shall not know 
 anyone, and where I shall not be in the way." 
 
 " I don't the least understand you, Sybil. Why should 
 you be in anyone's way? And as to the scheme you 
 propose, it is simply absurd. Of course Hartly is no fit 
 companion for you." 
 
 " She loves me, and is true to me," answered Sybil 
 warmly, " and I know of no one else who would have 
 these recommendations. And, Eustace, I cannot believe 
 that you would want me in any case. I do not suppose 
 that you mean to live alone at Cheveleigh." 
 
 " That is exactly what I wanted to tell you, Sybil, but 
 you seemed to care so little for all that concerned me that 
 I did not like to trouble you. I have seen Mr. Power 
 this very day — and Mary — he has consented to our 
 marriage as soon as I can make Cheveleigh fit to receive 
 her." 
 
Mary's Betrothal. 2 11 
 
 " I hope you will be very happy, Eustace. Of course 
 I expected this." 
 
 " Mary told me to ask you if you would see her to- 
 morrow. I am afraid she will be disappointed not to 
 tell you this herself." 
 
 " Of course I can see Mary at any time," replied Sybil 
 scornfully ; " it is she who is changed — she has never 
 been near me all this time, and probably would not 
 propose it now if she were not in a sort of way obliged 
 to do so." 
 
 " That was not her fault. She has been very unhappy, 
 and has spoken to me about it. But I could not advise 
 her to disobey her father." 
 
 "And then you are surprised that I will not come and 
 live with those who think it a disgrace even to call upon 
 me. Thank you, Eustace — thank you again and again 
 for letting me know the real state of the case. I might 
 have had misgivings about my decision. Now, I never 
 can." 
 
 Eustace saw that his sister was wounded to the quick, 
 and used every argument in his power to dissuade her 
 from what he called her absurd scheme ; but she was 
 quite impracticable, and he resolved to lose no time in 
 consulting with Hartly, and asking her assistance in 
 carrying out her plans. 
 
 Sybil always did everything on the spur of the moment, 
 and could not make up her mind to go to bed till she had 
 summoned Hartly to the proposed conference. At first 
 her old nurse was in dismay when she found that Sybil i 
 was really determined not to return to Cheveleigh, but 
 Hartly's own high spirit, and shrewd common sense, 
 soon enabled her to understand and sympathise with the 
 motives which actuated her. This, and a latent feeling of 
 jealousy at the thought of a stranger being mistress of 
 Cheveleigh, led her, when she had remonstrated enough 
 to satisfy her conscience, to turn her thoughts vigorously 
 towards helping her in her proposed scheme. 
 
 " I don't care where I live, Hartly. London would 
 not do — nor Brighton, because there would be sure to be 
 
212 Off the Line. 
 
 people that one knew; but any place in the country 
 where there would be only you for ever and ever — in a 
 farmhouse, perhaps." 
 
 " Pretty company I should be for ever and ever, unless 
 we were all in heaven," grumbled Hartly ; "and how 
 could we live in a farmhouse, stuck down nobody knows 
 where, and the butcher living six miles off, perhaps, 
 and no servants to send for anything. That's no living 
 at all, according to my notion. It's all nonsense, my 
 dear ; you are used to servants, and a carriage, and all 
 that sort of thing, and you can't do without it." 
 
 "Can't I ? What are servants to me? I sha'n't want 
 anything that you can't do ; and as to the butcher, I'll 
 hire a pony and ride to market myself. I shall like 
 that, Hartly." 
 
 " It's all very well to make a joke of it," said Hartly, 
 quite crossly; " but I see no joke in it." 
 
 "Nor I ; but I am quite determined to live with you 
 somewhere, so now be a dear good old woman and help 
 me. I am going to be very business-like and practical, and 
 talk to Eustace about my money ; and then you shall 
 keep it, and see what we can afford to pay for a house, 
 and all that sort of thing." 
 
 " I don't see that you can live in a house, and I cannot 
 think anything about it till I have spoken to Mr. Eustace, 
 Miss Sybil, dear!" 
 
 " You may do as you like, but I can't imagine what 
 Eustace has to do with it, or rather with me. Some day 
 Geoffrey and I are going to live together, and till then I 
 am going to live with you. Dear Hartly, I know this is 
 best," said Sybil, earnestly. " It is not a fancy— I have 
 thought a great deal about it. I have told Eustace my- 
 self what I intend to do, so if you speak to him, tell 
 him that it is quite settled, and of no use to try to dissuade 
 me." 
 
 Sybil spoke so seriously that Hartly felt further dis- 
 cussion would be useless. She had no faith in the con- 
 tinuance of the proposed plan, though she saw how much 
 the last few weeks had done to mature and sober Sybil's 
 
Mary's Betrothal. 2T3 
 
 restless nature. Her dislike to Sandling made her glad 
 to leave it, and Sybil saw by her manner that she was 
 gradually falling into her views, and submitted patiently 
 to be scolded for sitting up late, and to be undressed as 
 if she were still a child ; for, notwithstanding her re- 
 bellious nature, to be petted, and treated like a baby 
 was what she liked best, and she entirely trusted 
 Hartly, and clung to her with the tenacity of early 
 affection. 
 
 The next day brought Mary Power, whose affectionate 
 greeting was scarcely responded to, Sybil's manner being 
 cold and indifferent. Mary drew back, blushing, and 
 disappointed. 
 
 11 1 have been looking forward so much to seeing you, 
 Sybil ! " 
 
 "Really!" 
 
 Sybil's tone was scornful and incredulous. 
 
 " Of course I have, dear Sybil. I only want to know 
 that you are glad, to make me perfectly happy." 
 
 " I did congatulate Eustace, and should have written 
 to you if he had not told me you were coming here to- 
 day." 
 
 " I did not want congratulation, but only to know that 
 you will try to love me as a sister," said Mary, in a tone 
 of wounded feeling. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, as much as I could look upon any one as 
 a sister ; for as I never had one, I hardly know what 
 sort of an article it is." 
 
 " But you will help me, Sybil ? Help me at Cheve- 
 leigh, and help me to make Eustace happy?" 
 
 " You are certain to do that, Mary ; but I should be 
 the worst person in the world to help you in anything, 
 if even I were going to live at Cheveleigh, which I am 
 not." 
 
 " Not live at Cheveleigh ! " said Mary, in dismay. 
 
 " Did not Eustace tell you? I told him," said Sybi 
 carelessly. 
 
 " No," answered Mary, as her eyes filled with tears. 
 " He would not tell me anything that must give me so 
 
214 Off the Line. 
 
 much pain as to know that I was driving you from your 
 home. Oh ? Sybil, this cannot be ! " 
 
 " What nonsense, Mary," said Sybil, impatiently. " You 
 don't drive me away. I shall never live with Eustace, 
 under any circumstances. If I did, I would rather live 
 with you then anyone else." 
 
 " Thank you," said Mary, sadly. " I must try and find 
 comfort in that. But, dear Sybil, I had looked forward 
 so much to our being together." 
 
 " ' L'homme propose mais Dieu dispose ' ! " said Sybil, 
 gaily. " And it is best as it is ! " 
 
 " I can't understand what you mean, Sybil, or what 
 you propose to do. Where can you live ? " she added, 
 after a moment's silence, as the possibility of Sybil's re- 
 maining at Sandling crossed her mind. 
 
 " I have no very settled plans yet," said Sybil, coldly. 
 " I shall do very well, I have no doubt." 
 
 Mary looked wistfully into her face, but shrank from 
 asking her any questions. Both were silent for some 
 minutes, then Sybil said, 
 
 " You must not think me unkind, Mary ; I am very 
 glad, both for you and Eustace, and I would rather 
 picture you in the dear old home than any one I ever 
 saw. But I have seen clearly what you felt about me, 
 and you could not expect me to fasten myself upon you, 
 when you hesitated even to call upon me." 
 
 " Oh ! Sybil, that is not fair. What could I do ? I 
 told Eustace how unhappy it made me." 
 
 " You did perfectly right — only, as I have learnt what 
 people feel about me, I have also learnt to keep out of 
 their way." 
 
 " I should be much happier if I knew what you meant, 
 Sybil, and exactly what you intend to do; but I suppose 
 you will not tell me ? " 
 
 " I have no objection to tell the whole world. I mean 
 to live somewhere with Hartly till Geoffrey comes back, 
 and then some day we shall live together." 
 
 " Where is Geoffrey ? " asked Mary. " I should like 
 to write to him, and beg him to dissuade you from this 
 
Mary's Betrothal. 215 
 
 wild scheme. If you would only come to us at first and 
 try it ! " 
 
 " It is quite useless, Mary . my mind is entirely made 
 up. We had better say no more about it. I am very 
 much obliged to you for this visit, but pray do not 
 repeat it. I shall quite understand that you are not able 
 to come." 
 
 " I shall certainly come, Sybil, unless you forbid 
 it," said Mary, indignantly. " No one can have any 
 right now to prevent my coming to see Eustace's 
 sister." 
 
 Sybil smiled haughtily, and though they parted with 
 every appearance of cordiality and affection, both felt 
 that the visit had not been a satisfactory one. 
 
 With the general perverseness of human nature, and of 
 Sybil's in particular, as soon as she perceived that Mary 
 and Eustace had grasped the fact that she did not intend 
 to live at Cheveleigh, and more or less acquiesced in it, 
 an intense longing to see the place again took possession 
 of her, and she felt as if she could not begin her new life 
 unless she could carry into it some associations from her 
 home. 
 
 "I shall probably pay them a visit some day," she 
 argued with herself, vexed at her own inconsistency; 
 "but I don't know when it will be. It may not* be for 
 so very long. Why should not Eustace go and live there 
 at once, instead of so perpetually going backwards and 
 forwards ? Then I could stay with him, and help him 
 to get the house ready for Mary. It would be no worse 
 than living with him here, and 1 should see the dear old 
 place as it is. Besides, it must take some little time to 
 rind out where I can live. I must talk to Hartly again 
 about it." 
 
 A wish to see her old home had remained dormant in 
 Sybil's mind since the memorable day she had spent at 
 Richmond, when the scent of the sweet briar had so 
 forcibly brought it before her. As the summer wore on, 
 the longing for its shady woods and green glades daily in- 
 creased. She was utterly weary of the glaring sea and 
 
216 Ojf the Line, 
 
 barren sandy shore, and her one desire seemed to be to 
 get away from a place which she detested, and which 
 now was full of painful associations. 
 
 "• Hartly, I want to know if you have been thinking of 
 all I told you the other day ? " said Sybil, when her old 
 nurse came into the room the next morning before she 
 was up. 
 
 " Thought ! — yes, to be sure. I've thought enough, 
 but I don't see that thinking ever helps things much." 
 
 " Not without doing, I grant," said Sybil, laughing j 
 "but you must think, and I will act. Now listen to me. 
 I am going to ask Eustace to-day if he wouldn't like to 
 give up this place at once, and settle at Cheveleigh, in- 
 stead of continually going backwards and forwards. If 
 he would, I could go and stay there with him till he has 
 settled everything, and got the house ready. Then we 
 shall not be wanted any longer, and you and I can go 
 and set up a home of our own." 
 
 " A pretty sort of home that will be, too," grumbled 
 Hartly. " Still, it's the wisest thing I've heard you say 
 for many a day, Miss Sybil, dear ; for when you once get 
 to Cheveleigh, I don't think you'll be much for leaving it 
 again." 
 
 " Don't think that, Hartly," said Sybil, earnestly, " or 
 you will be disappointed. Nothing can ever make me 
 consent to live at Cheveleigh ; but I want to see the place 
 again, and this would give us time to settle where we 
 should live.* You must think for me, dear old nurse. I 
 have no one else." 
 
 Hartly was touched by the sad tone in which these last 
 few words were spoken, and at length owned that she had 
 considered the matter very deeply, the result being " that 
 she had a sister who kept a lodging-house at Clifton, and 
 that it was a beautiful place, and very healthy ; and that 
 as her sister knew more than some what would be re- 
 quired, she inclined to think that the best place would be 
 to go there for a little while." 
 
 " Oh ! yes," exclaimed Sybil, delighted at this solution 
 of her difficulties ; " and not only for a little while. It's 
 
Mary's Betrothal. 2 1 7 
 
 exactly the right thing — I was sure you would hit upon it, 
 Hartly — no trouble about getting a house, and butchers 
 and bakers to your heart's content! Nothing could be 
 so perfect. Have you written about it ? " 
 
 " Dear me, no ; why, I only thought of it as I lay 
 awake in the night — for what with one trouble and 
 another, I don't sleep at all as I used. Besides, Miss 
 Sybil, I had not heard your wishes," she added, in the 
 most deferential tone possible. 
 
 " My wishes are that you should write as soon as I have 
 spoken to Eustace, like a dear, good old woman as you 
 are. I will talk to him to-day." 
 
 " Miss Power has been to see you. I thought, maybe, 
 she'd have persuaded you different." 
 
 " No one can do that. She was very kind ; but nothing 
 can alter this." 
 
 u Well, she's a lucky young lady ; though, for my part, 
 I'd as soon be Mr. Geoffrey's wife." 
 
 " Much sooner, I should think. But Geoffrey 
 must never think of a wife — we must keep him all 
 ourselves." 
 
 " Oh ! you'll be married long first, I've no doubt," said 
 Hartly ; " but I must have time enough to write to my 
 sister. I can't do things all in a minute, as you do, Miss 
 Sybil." 
 
 There was a certain sense of relief in Eustace's mind 
 when he found that he was not to have the responsibility 
 of Sybil's happiness thrust upon him, or such a restless 
 element in his home. She was so entirely unsuited to 
 him, and her- impulsive ways so eminently distasteful to 
 his quiet and somewhat dreamy nature, that he gladly 
 received her proposal of remaining with him at Cheve- 
 leigh till he married, as a sort of compromise. The sud- 
 den disappearance of Mrs. Feltham and her son had 
 taken a great weight off his mind. Hervey was supposed 
 to have gone to America soon after his last interview with 
 Sybil ; and his mother, not being able to endure her 
 lonely life, had gone to live with her sister at Richmond. 
 She had no intention of letting her energies lie dormant, 
 
2l8 
 
 Off the Line. 
 
 but to manoeuvre for herself as she had formerly done 
 for her son, and to spare no pains to procure a second 
 husband and a comfortable home. She was a naturally 
 clever woman, with considerable remains of beauty, so 
 that her speculation did not seem at all an improbable 
 one. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 SYBIL'S LIFE AT CLIFTON. 
 
 V Ah ! me, ah me ! Then erst I lay 
 In that child's nest so gravely wrought, 
 I laughed unto myself and thought 
 * The time will pass away.' 
 
 " And still I laughed, and did not fear 
 But that, whene'er was past away 
 The childish time, some happier play 
 My womanhood would cheer." 
 
 E. B. Browning. 
 
 |YBIL left Sandling without a regret. The few 
 ensuing weeks were so full of interest, that they 
 passed all too quickly j and the bright autumn 
 tints brought with them a sad feeling that be- 
 fore they had faded she should have turned her back upon 
 her young life, and gone out into a world which, little as 
 she had known of it, she had found to be cold and hard. 
 But, still, these few weeks had done much in bringing 
 her and Eustace together, and restoring their old affection. 
 Mary's entreaties that she would be present at their mar- 
 riage, and be one of the bridesmaids, were repeated and 
 pressing, but were always steadily refused. Sybil had 
 felt much too keenly the way in which Mr. Power had 
 looked upon her, to put herself in the way of further 
 mortification. 
 
 She remained at Cheveleigh, after Eustace had left it, 
 to put the last finishing touches to the rooms, to wander 
 alone in her old haunts, and to shed bitter tears on her 
 
220 Ojf the Line, 
 
 father's grave. Then she felt as if her connection with 
 her old home had been entirely snapped, and she quietly 
 got into the fly which was to take her to the station. 
 
 Hartly had been to Clifton, to see what arrangements 
 she could make suitable for her young lady, and, though 
 1 far from being satisfied herself, hoped that the gaiety of 
 the place, and the extreme beauty of the situation, would 
 please Sybil. It was dark when they arrived ; and the 
 journey had proved so long and tedious, that even Sybil 
 was disinclined for anything but rest. But the next morn- 
 ing the view from the window burst upon her like a scene 
 of enchantment. It was many years ago, before the 
 beauty of the downs had been spoiled by the endless 
 villas that now cover them in every direction — long 
 before it was so completely a part of Bristol, and be- 
 fore the suspension-bridge had joined the two sides of 
 the river. 
 
 Mrs. Allen's house was situated on Sion Hill; the 
 upper windows commanded that magnificent reach of the 
 river with the steep red rocks on each side, covered by 
 high woods, which cannot be surpassed, if equalled, by 
 any scenery in England. It was high water, and some 
 large vessels were being towed into the harbour. The 
 trees were tinged with red and gold in the full glory of 
 the late autumn tints. It was an entirely new scene to 
 Sybil, and she stood silent with surprise and delight. 
 
 "Well, my dearie, it's a pretty place, isn't it? When 
 will you have your breakfast?" said Hartly, whom a 
 good night's rest had restored to her usual cheerfulness. 
 
 " Oh, Hartly, what a beautiful view ! I never saw 
 anything so exquisite as the colour of those rocks — and 
 how picturesque the river is ! — I never expected anything 
 like this ! " 
 
 " There's a good deal to see here, one way or another, 
 and that made me think this place would do for awhile. 
 You'll have your breakfast, and go out after, maybe, for I 
 must go to several shops. The only thing against the 
 place is, that my sister seems to think you cannot go out 
 alone." 
 
Sybits Life at Clifton. 221 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I can ; but I would rather go with you till 
 I know my way about. I think the place charming— and 
 what a nice clean house this is ! " 
 
 Sybil's exclamations of delight were incessant during 
 her first walk, as Hartly took her down to the Lower 
 Crescent, and then over Brandon Hill into Bristol, where 
 she intended to* shop. It seemed as if she could never 
 be weary of looking at the panorama that lay bene.uh 
 her feet, with Bristol Cathedral, St. Mary Redcliffe, and 
 the beautiful tower of St. Stephen's Church all lighted up 
 by the bright autumn sun. 
 
 Anyone acquainted with Clifton will appreciate the sort 
 of double interest which surrounds it, from the extreme 
 beauty of its scenery, and from the historical associations 
 which hang round the old narrow streets of Bristol, with 
 their picturesque buildings, and the unexpected glimpses 
 of the river and shipping. To Sybil the ceaseless stir and 
 busy life of a large mercantile city was altogether new, 
 and afforded her continual interest, it was a fine dry 
 autumn, and she spent almost all her time in long out-of- 
 door rambles, often taking a grown-up daughter of Mrs. 
 Allen's, who was sufficiently old and plain to act as a 
 duenna — as a substitute for Hartly, whose walking powers 
 were occasionally severely taxed. 
 
 The only point upon which Hartly ventured to expos- 
 tulate with her young mistress was upon her love of soli- 
 tary walks, and these she set her face against at once, and 
 decidedly ; and as her going out alone really seemed to 
 worry and agitate the old woman, Sybil did not persist in it. 
 She was the less reluctant to obey her, as in spite of 
 having hired a pianoforte, and devouring books at the 
 nearest library at a rate which positively dismayed its 
 owner, she had many long silent solitary hours, and was 
 induced to think that a dull companion in her walks was 
 better than none. 
 
 The evident sensation that Sybil had produced the first 
 Sunday at church had made Hartly feel that some kind of 
 chaperon was necessary for her, especially when she found 
 that her sister had many inquiries as to her new lodger ; 
 
222 Off the JJne. 
 
 and she fancied that gentlemen were often lingering m 
 front of the house, in order to meet her as she went out. 
 Hartly desired her sister to say that her new lodger was a 
 young lady from the north of England, waiting for the 
 return of her brother from abroad. She could give no 
 information as to her connections or fortune, so the pass- 
 ing curiosity about her soon died away, and before 
 Christmas u the beautiful Miss Morley " only elicited 
 passing glances of admiration — all speculation about her 
 had ceased. 
 
 At first Hartly continually congratulated herself on the 
 success of her plan. Slowly and by degrees a few doubts 
 found their way into her mind. In the early winter days 
 a succession of the heavy fogs that prevail at Clifton 
 came on. Then for the first time Sybil's spirits began to 
 flag, and she longed, though she would not acknowledge 
 it to herself, for a suitable companion. Eustace and 
 Mary had returned from their wedding-tour, and she had 
 long happy letters from the latter ; but these only added 
 the feeling of exile to loneliness. 
 
 Nothing was ever said as to her returning to Cheveleigh 
 as a home, but Eustace had sent a message hoping that 
 she would spend her Christmas with them. Something 
 in the wording of the message, coupled with its being 
 sent through Mary, touched her readily awakened pride, 
 and she refused the invitation, adding that she could- not 
 make up her mind to leave a place where she felt better 
 and happier than she had done for some time. 
 
 But this prosperous state of things was not destined to 
 last. A cold caught one foggy evening made her for a 
 few days really ill. The severity of the attack soon 
 passed, but its effects seemed to hang about her in an 
 uncomfortable way. She continued listless and languid, 
 and though her heavy eyes and pale cheeks told of sleep- 
 less nights, she would not acknowledge herself to be ill, 
 and only kept declaring that all she wanted was air and 
 exercise, and yet, in the rare event of a fine day, she 
 evidently shrank from both. 
 
 Hartly watched her anxiously. It was a case evidently 
 
Sybil's Life at Clifton. 223 
 
 beyond her experience in doctoring, and as day after day 
 passed, and she could detect no improvement, she grew 
 crabbed and irritable with all the world, and occasionally 
 even with Sybil herself. . 
 
 " It's no good to go on in this way any longer," said 
 Hartly one morning, as she found Sybil sitting listlessly 
 over the fire, having in vain tried to persuade her to take 
 a turn in the sunshine j " it's quite out of the question, 
 so I'm going to put on my bonnet and go to Dr. Carter's 
 — he's quite a famous physician, my sister tells me — and 
 see if he can't put some life into you again." 
 
 H What for ? I don't want a doctor — my cold is quite 
 well. I did not go out because I felt tired." 
 
 * I wonder what you have done to be tired to-day — 
 that's not being quite well — if you are quite well, let the 
 doctor say so." 
 
 " I do wish you would leave me alone, Hartly," said 
 Sybil wearily. 
 
 "That's just what I am going to do," grumbled the 
 old woman as she left the room ; " and if things don't 
 mend soon I shall write to Mr. Eustace, and say that he 
 must fetch us home again. It's not likely as she'll be 
 able to stop on here, without a creature to speak to or a 
 lady to visit her. If I had not been an old fool I should 
 never have thought that she could." 
 
 The walk to Dr. Carter's house in Bristol, and half-an- 
 hour in his waiting-room, tended somewhat to soothe her, 
 and Dr. Carter's kind and quiet manner did more. 
 
 " I am afraid you have been waiting. I was detained 
 out longer than usual this morning j but you don't look 
 very ill," he said with a smile, as Hartly did not seem so 
 eager to communicate her maladies as his patients 
 generally were. 
 
 " I'm well enough, Sir, thank you for asking. I 'called 
 to ask you to visit my young lady, though I'm not clear 
 that she's exactly ill either." 
 
 " If you will give me the address I will call this after- 
 noon. Has she been ailing long ? " 
 
 " Miss Morley, at Mrs. Allen's, Sion Hill." 
 
 15 
 
224 Off the Line. 
 
 " I fancy I have seen her — tall and handsome ? I 
 remember being struck with her appearance, and asking 
 who she was." 
 
 " Everybody does that," said Hartly triumphantly ; " I 
 don't believe there's a prettier face in England than hers, 
 bless her ! and always was from a child." 
 
 u Well, I will come and see what is the matter, and we 
 will have a consultation after as to the remedy. You are 
 her maid, I suppose ? " 
 
 " She's never had either maid or nurse but me since 
 she was born, so I'm more likely to see than any one else 
 when things are not all right with her." 
 
 " Has she no parents or relations ? " 
 
 " She's an orphan now, Sir ; and when Mr. Eustace 
 married, and Mr. Geoffrey went soldiering to foreign 
 parts, she took it into her head to live somewhere with 
 me till he came back to make a home for her. Mrs. 
 Allen is my sister, so altogether I thought that this would 
 be a good place to come to, but I don't know that it has 
 been." 
 
 1 ' You could not have chosen a healthier place," said 
 Dr. Carter, kindly, gradually becoming interested in the 
 old woman. " I do not gather that there is much the 
 matter from your account, but I will come and see." 
 
 " Thank you, Sir," said Hartly, curtseying as she left 
 the room. " I am sure it will be better for her to see that 
 kind old man than no one ; but I'll take care not to say 
 he is coming j maybe she'll take it into her head to go 
 out, just to avoid him." 
 
 Sybil was standing by the window the same afternoon, 
 when Dr. Carter's carriage drove up ; but she did not 
 connect it in any way with herself, and when the door 
 opened and he was ushered into the room, turned round 
 to explain that it must be a mistake. But to her surprise 
 he came up to her, and addressing her by name, said that 
 he had called to see her, hearing that she was not well. 
 
 " I am not ill," she replied. Hartly's proposed visit 
 suddenly recurring to her, though at the time she had 
 not believed that she would really put her threat into 
 
Sybil's Life at Clifton. 225 
 
 execution. " Did Hartly send for you ? I have only had 
 a cold, and that is almost well." 
 
 " Well, then, we must make it quite well. How long 
 have you had it ? " 
 
 And he proceeded to feel her pulse, and to question 
 her in a way that a year ago would have made her irate 
 in the extreme. However, she answered him with 
 tolerable civility, marvelling greatly that she had not been 
 warned of the doctor's visit ; then suddenly, after glancing 
 round the dull lodging-house parlour, with its convex 
 mirror, horse-hair sofa, and chairs that did duty as easy- 
 chairs, but had no claim to the title, he said, 
 
 " You are not living here alone, surely ? " 
 
 "Yes, I am — except an old servant who came with 
 me," said Sybil, coldly. She did not see what right Dr. 
 Carter had to be curious about her. 
 
 " You do not seem to be quite strong yet," he said ; 
 " we must give you a little strengthening medicine, and 
 you must go out whenever it is fine." 
 
 " Going out only tires me," said Sybil, wearily. 
 
 " It will not as soon as you are stronger. But it is not 
 good for you to be alone. A little society would be good 
 for you." 
 
 " That I am sure it would not," said Sybil shortly — " I 
 mean I don't want to see anybody. I came here to be 
 quiet." 
 
 " That is rather an unnatural wish for a young lady, is 
 it not ? " he said, smiling. M Besides, I am not recom- 
 mending any extraordinary gaiety; but I have had a good 
 deal of experience with young people, and have daughters 
 of my own, and I think solitude the worst possible thing. 
 You are now in a depressed state of body and mind, and 
 we must cure both. I should like to see your maid ; she 
 called upon me this morning, and told me that you had 
 not been well. But you really must not be always staying 
 at home ; 1 think I must call for you some day to take a 
 drive with me." 
 
 Sybil was silent from surprise — Dr. Carter's words 
 and ways were so utterly unlike her experience of 
 
226 Off the Line. 
 
 medical men ; but she did as he desired, and sent for 
 Hartly. 
 
 "Good-bye, my dear," he said, shaking hands with 
 Sybil kindly: " Here is your maid ; but I think we must 
 have a private conversation. You need not be alarmed, 
 though, for there is nothing the matter that cannot easily 
 be set to rights, and in a few days you will be as well as 
 ever. I should not think that you have had much ill-health 
 in your life." 
 
 " None at all, Sir," said Hartly, following him out of 
 the room, and leaving Sybil half amused and half angry 
 at being so summarily taken in hand without her consent; 
 "that is just why I don't know what to make of her 
 now." 
 
 " Well, you must bring me a pen and ink here to write 
 a prescription, and I will tell you what I think you ought 
 to do for her. It seems to me that she wants amusement 
 more than physic. She has evidently high animal spirits, 
 and is now unnaturally depressed. Is there any special 
 reason for this ? — or do you suppose that it arises from 
 merely physical causes ? " 
 
 " I don't know," replied Hartly, with some hesitation ; 
 " there's been plenty of trouble in the family, one way 
 and another." 
 
 u She should not be so much alone. A life of simple 
 dulness is sufficient to lay the seeds of permanent bad 
 health in any young person. Mind and body act and 
 re-act upon each other in a way few persons understand." 
 
 "Indeed, Sir," answered Hartly. "I was afraid the 
 poor child was getting moped, but what could I do ? " 
 
 " I must send Mrs. Carter and my girls to call upon 
 her, I think. But she seems to shrink from society, and 
 yet does not appear shy." 
 
 " Not very, Sir," said Hartly, drily, without any intention 
 of gratifying the good doctor's evident curiosity as to her 
 young mistress's antecedents. " When we came here it 
 was fine dry weather, and Miss Sybil used to like to be 
 out all day, and did not seem dull at all. But this cold 
 weather seems to have made things different" 
 
Sybil's Life at Clifton, 227 
 
 " There is no hereditary disease in the family ? No 
 consumption, for instance ? " 
 
 " Mr. Morley's chest was delicate, but he died of heart 
 
 disease/' said Hartly, gravely. " You don't think " 
 
 " I see no sign of disease about her now ; but it is as 
 well to know all one can about a patient. Sometimes it 
 is a love affair that preys upon a young lady's spirits, and 
 undermines her health entirely. But I suppose this is 
 not the case here ? " he added, fixing his eyes firmly upon 
 Hartly, as he paused in his writing to wait for her reply. 
 
 " I know nothing the matter with Miss Sybil, except 
 this co'd," replied Hartly, doggedly. 
 
 " Well, if that is really all, I have not much fear of not 
 being able to set that to rights. This is Monday — I will 
 call here on Thursday. Good-day. If you want me 
 before, you know where I am to be found. No, thank 
 you — good-day," he said, again, refusing the fee which 
 Hartly was pertinaciously endeavouring to thrust upon 
 him. 
 
 ** What a beautiful girl ! " he thought, as he stepped 
 into his carriage. " And how strange that she should be 
 living alone with that old woman. She must have a 
 history. I should like to know it before I send my girls 
 there. But the old woman seems the very type of a 
 respectable nurse ; and the girl, though she seems so 
 high-spirited, has as frank and good a countenance as I 
 ever saw in my life, and it would be very odd if I were 
 not some judge of countenance by this time ! I must 
 talk to my wife about it, and hear what she says. If 
 there's a kind action to be done, she'll be sure to want to 
 do it." 
 
 Hartly felt rather afraid to approach Sybil after the 
 independent line she had taken in sending for the doctor, 
 and when she brought her the medicine that had been 
 ordered, was prepared to be on the defensive, so that 
 finding Sybil unusually cheerful and good-humoured was 
 a great relief. Even the doctor's visit had given a new 
 direction to Sybil's thoughts, and his promise of coming 
 again something to look forward to. 
 
228 Off the Line. 
 
 " Here is the medicine, Miss Sybil, the doctor ordered 
 for you — it's to be taken three times a day." 
 
 " You really imagine I am going to drink that horrible 
 stuff three times a day, Hartly ! I've a great mind to 
 throw the bottle out of the window, to punish you for 
 being so deceitful as to go off for a doctor without telling 
 me ! " 
 
 " Oh j dear Miss Sybil, you would not ! Pray don't ! " 
 exclaimed Hartly, in dismay, thinking that she was about 
 to execute her threat. " Indeed I did tell you — there 
 was nothing of deceit about it." 
 
 " But I never believed that you really meant to do any- 
 thing so foolish ; and you see he says there is nothing the 
 matter with me." 
 
 " I am very glad he came," replied Hartly, evading a 
 direct answer. " He is a good kind gentleman, and 
 he is going to ask his lady to call upon you, Miss 
 Sybil." 
 
 " He may save himself the trouble," said S bil, 
 scornfully. "You need not try to make me see 
 people, Hartly, for I am quite determined that I never 
 will. You know that is one reason why I came to live 
 here." 
 
 Hartly looked somewhat crestfallen at the idea of the 
 11 doctor's lady " being refused admittance ; besides, she 
 considered her visit a part of Dr. Carter's prescription. 
 However, as she knew from experience the utter hope- 
 lessness of arguing with Sybil when she was seized with a 
 fit of perversity, she departed in silence, only trusting that 
 the chapter of accidents would produce a more fortunate 
 result. 
 
 As soon as her old nurse had left the room, Sybil begun 
 to reproach herself. " Poor Hartly ! no one cares for me 
 as she does ! I wonder why it is that I always say cruel 
 things to those that love me best ! I wonder, too, what 
 sort of woman this Mrs. Carter is ! If she is really very 
 kind, and very ladylike, and the sort of person I could 
 talk to, it might be pleasant to know her ; only, if she is 
 kind at first, she will give me up if ever she knows — it's 
 
Sybil's Life at Clifton. 229 
 
 better for me not to see anyone, and then they cannot 
 treat me as the Powers did." 
 
 In spite of Sybil's morbid feelings on the subject of 
 society, she found herself speculating upon the proposed 
 visit sufficiently often to have set Hartly's mind quite at 
 rest, had she known of it, as to the fear of Mrs. Carter 
 not being admitted. 
 
 This shrinking from society had been an increasing 
 feeling with Sybil ever since her last interview with Hervey 
 Feltham. His language and manner had shocked her 
 greatly, and for the first time she was fully awakened to 
 the impropriety of her conduct. She had been deeply 
 mortified by the neglect with which she had been treated, 
 and by the unkindness, as she then considered it, of the 
 Powers during the few months she had remained at Sand- 
 ling after Mrs. Morley's death. Since then a secluded 
 life and ample time for reflection had deepened all her 
 morbid feelings ; and in her lonely walks and solitary 
 twilight musings, her thoughts constantly recurred to the 
 past, and travelled over every incident of the last year, 
 till she acquired an exaggerated view of her own delin- 
 quencies, as well as of the way in which they must always 
 be looked upon by "the rest of the world. The thought 
 of Hugh Dormer never came into her mind without her 
 being conscious that her cheeks were tingling with shame. 
 Perhaps Hugh Dormer's good opinion was one of the 
 very few she really cared for, and it was with real mortifi- 
 cation that she felt she had lost it irrevocably. She 
 brooded so continually over the subject, that there was a 
 danger of its becoming in time a monomania ; and the 
 hopelessness it infused into her views of the future was 
 eminently depressing. 
 
 " Man never is, but always to be, blest," 
 
 is true of all, but especially of the young, to whom look- 
 ing forward is a necessity in their existence. 
 
 This phase of Sybil's life might have been a very profit- 
 able one, and tended greatly to sober and mature her, if 
 
230 Off the Line. 
 
 still greater danger were not likely to arise in conse 
 quence. 
 
 Hartly, with the extreme shrewdness that belong 
 so exclusively to clever and uneducated people, wa 
 perfectly aware of her state of mind, and hence her grea 
 desire to procure for her some distraction and amusemenl 
 In spite of Sybil's perverseness, she was sanguine as I 
 the doctor's visit producing some permanently good re 
 suit, and felt disappointed when Tuesday and Wednes 
 day passed without bringing the promised visit from hi 
 wife. 
 
 On Thursday, Dr. Carter had promised to come again 
 and Hartly was delighted to find Sybil herself object t 
 going out, for fear of missing him. 
 
 Dr. Carter's house was one of the large old-fashione 
 houses in Bristol. There was a beautiful garden at th 
 back of the house, which was well kept at considerabl 
 expense. This garden was one of the doctor's especu 
 hobbies, and he had several, which he rode very hare 
 The house was well, and even luxuriously, fitted up. H 
 had some fine pictures and beautiful china ; but h 
 prided himself most on his library, which contained man 
 rare and valuable books. He was one of the most sciei 
 tific men of his day, as well as thoroughly artistic in h: 
 tastes ; and neither pains nor money had been spared i 
 the education of his children. 
 
 His family consisted of three daughters and two son 
 Grace and Susan were both grown up ; the boys wei 
 some years younger. Frank was at Oxford, and Robe: 
 still at school ; while little Minnie, who was only twelv 
 •ai.d the universal pet, was educated at home. She woul 
 have been spoilt, if indulgence could spoil a nature s 
 bright and unselfish that it seemed to carry sunshir 
 wherever it went. Over-indulgence to a child is usual 
 very much deprecated ; but want of sympathy and a co: 
 genial atmosphere has effects that are much more las 
 ingly injurious. 
 
 A brighter or a happier home than that of the goc 
 doctor's could not be easily found ; and his retui 
 
Sybil's Life at Clifton, 231 
 
 every evening was looked forward to by his wife and 
 children as the point and pleasure of the day. Mrs. 
 Carter had been a very pretty woman, but ill-health had 
 destroyed every vestige of beauty except the kind blue 
 eyes, and the winning smile that invariably won its way 
 to every heart. 
 
 One evening the doctor did not return at his usual 
 hour. It was the day that he had called upon Sybil. 
 In vain little Minnie darted behind the curtains every 
 time she heard the sound of approaching wheels — the 
 rumbling always died away at a distance, and she 
 returned with a face of grave disappointment to her 
 seat. 
 
 " Do be quiet, Minnie," said Grace, impatiently ; " you 
 worry one to death by fidgeting as you do, and it won't 
 bring papa one minute sooner." 
 
 " Poor little puss," said her mother, stroking her hair ; 
 " she has not learnt the one great lesson of life yet — have 
 you, Minnie?" 
 
 " To wait patiently, mamma — is that what you think 
 the great lesson of life ? " asked Susan. u I wonder if 
 life ever teaches it effectually ? " 
 
 " I shall never learn it," protested Grace, " if I live to 
 be as old as Methuselah." 
 
 " At all events, you may learn endurance, and to learn 
 to repress so many outward signs of impatience, Grace," 
 said her mother. " Perhaps the inward fret is never quite 
 overcome, and that depends so much on temperament, 
 that I think we should make allowance both for ourselves 
 and others." 
 
 " But I am not impatient, Grace," said Minnie, rather 
 aggrieved ; " I only want papa to come so very much. 
 1 want him to tell me all about the old coin Mr. Reynolds 
 gave me — and I want dinner to be over, so that I can 
 talk to him — and I want to know when he is going to 
 take us to Chepstow, as he promised. Oh ! I can do 
 nothing till he comes ! " 
 
 11 That all sounds rather like impatience, Minnie," said 
 Susan, " and you do no good by jumping up every 
 
232 Off the Line. 
 
 minute and spoiling Grace's drawing by shaking the 
 table." 
 
 " I know, and I will sit still now, but — listen, there he 
 is ! " and forgetting all previous reprimands, she darted 
 out of the room, leaving the door wide open, to meet her 
 father at the foot of the stairs, hugging and kissing him in 
 an ecstacy of delight. 
 
 " Oh ! papa, how naughty of you to be so late ! It's 
 long past dinner-time, and then bed-time will come, and 
 I shall have no evening at all ! " 
 
 " We will petition for an extension of leave for once, 
 little one," said her father, pinching her cheek, " and I 
 must get forgiveness for my own unpunctuality. Run 
 away now, and tell mamma to order dinner. I shall be 
 ready in two minutes." 
 
 Minnie ran off joyfully on her errand, and her father 
 soon followed her. 
 
 " You really must not wait dinner for me, Susy," he 
 said to his wife ; "it is especially bad for you, and I 
 am less and less able to arrange my time as I should 
 like." 
 
 " Our dinner would not agree with any of us with- 
 out you," answered his wife, smiling. " We should 
 all have indigestions, and you would have to spend 
 the evening in curing us. But you are very late to- 
 day!" 
 
 " I had to go to Bath for a consultation, and could not 
 return by the five o'clock train as I intended. But now 
 I am going to tell you about a visit I paid to a patient 
 to-day, and in which I think you will prove a better 
 doctor than I shall." 
 
 "Something about the infirmary, ^apa? Some one 
 that wants warm clothes ? " 
 
 " No — something much more suited to you, Grace — 
 something interesting and romantic. A beautiful young 
 lady of unknown antecedents, apparently deserted by her 
 friends and relations except one faithful retainer — in com- 
 mon parlance, she is living with an old woman who was 
 her nurse." 
 
Sybil's Life at Clifton, 233 
 
 " Where ? — What is her name ? " 
 
 " Is she ill ? How can we help her ? " 
 
 " May I go to see her too, papa ? " were the simul- 
 taneous exclamations of Mrs. Carter and the girls. 
 
 " For mercy's sake, one at a time, and I will tell you 
 ajl I know, and that is little enough ! Her name is 
 Morley — Sybil Morley — that is romantic, Grace, is it not? 
 Then she lodges with Mrs. Allen at Sion Hill — then there 
 is not much the matter with her now, but there probably 
 will be unless you are very kind to her." 
 
 " It's an odd history, Robert ! How do you know 
 that she is a fit companion for the girls ? I can go and 
 see her, of course." 
 
 " Just as I expected, you cautious old woman ! Well, 
 you must know the truth, and that is that I know nothing 
 at all about her j and so, perhaps, as it is rather remark- 
 able for so pretty a girl to be living alone at Clifton, it 
 may be wiser that you should judge for yourself; only as 
 I have taken an immense fancy to her, I protest against 
 being expected to believe all the gossip about her that 
 may be afloat in this place." 
 
 " Hear ! hear ! " exclaimed Grace, laughing ; " I de- 
 clare papa, who detests the genus ' young lady,' has lost 
 his heart to this unknown damsel. Mamma, I must go 
 and see her as a curiosity. She can do us no possible 
 harm. Let us walk there to-morrow." 
 
 Mrs. Carter shook her head. 
 
 " Can't you tell us any more about her, Robert ? " 
 
 " Perhaps you may remember her. We use to see her, 
 a beautiful girl in deep mourning, sometimes in the cathe- 
 dral. I recollect your noticing her." 
 
 " I remember her perfectly," said Susan ; " she had 
 beautiful eyes, and a very brilliant complexion." 
 
 "Exactly. At one time she went to the cathedral 
 constantly, but I have not seen her for some time till to- 
 day. However, I agree with your mother, girls, that it 
 would be better for her to call first. Let me see, I pro- 
 mised to see her again on Thursday. I will take your 
 mother with me, and I shall be quite surprised if she 
 
234 
 
 Off the Line, 
 
 does not come back to you bewitched both with mistress 
 and maid." 
 
 " Not very likely," said his wife, smiling ; " remember, 
 I am not as young and impulsive as you are ! " (Mrs. 
 Carter was ten years younger than her husband.) " But 
 I shall be very glad to be of any service to the poor girl, 
 iilcan," 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 BREAKING THE ICE. 
 
 •' Alone she sate — alone ! that worn-out word, 
 So idly spoken, and so coldly heard ; 
 Yet all that poets sing, and grief hath known, 
 Of hope laid waste, knells in that word — alone ! " 
 
 "The New Timon." 
 
 HE doctor's description of Sybil had awakened 
 such a lively interest in the minds of her 
 daughters, that when Thursday came they did 
 not fail to remind their mother to pay the pro- 
 posed visit, and begged her to invite Miss Morley to the 
 house. 
 
 " My dears, I suppose she will return my visit, and it 
 will be better to do so then, if we all like her." 
 
 " I don't think you will succeed," said the doctor ; " it 
 will require great tact and judgment. She has foresworn 
 all intercourse with her kind, and I suspect my being 
 called in was a piece of diplomacy on the part of the old 
 nurse." 
 
 * Now tell me, Robert," said his wife, as they drove to- 
 Sion Hill, " what is there strange about this girl ; for I 
 see that you are not quite satisfied about her in your own 
 mind, though you will not say so." 
 
 " Wise woman that you are, to see so far into a mile- 
 stone ! What you say is only partially true — my judg- 
 ment is satisfied, and my reason is not, if you can under- 
 stand so subtle a distinction." 
 
 " I think it more probable that your feelings are 
 enlisted in behalf of a young and pretty girl than your 
 
236 Off the Line. 
 
 judgment," said his wife, smiling. "You say she is 
 not ill." 
 
 " No, she has only a bad cold, which has depressed 
 her physically and mentally." 
 
 " You don't think that her mind is affected ? " said his 
 wife, in a tone of alarm. 
 
 " I have not much fear on that score," he said, laugh- 
 ing ; " wait till you see her." 
 
 " But who is she ? And why does she lead such a 
 solitary life ? " 
 
 " That ' deponent sayeth not,' and I leave it to one 
 better skilled in the whims of girlhood than I am to dis- 
 cern. I have no doubt that she has a history — it is 
 written in her face, and in the old nurse's extreme caution. 
 At the same time, the girl has as frank a countenance as 
 I ever saw, and it is not easy to mislead me about that." 
 
 "Unless her beauty influences you," suggested his 
 wife. 
 
 " Suspicious and incredulous ! Well, wait and see 
 for yourself — which you may do at once, for here we 
 are!" 
 
 Though Sybil had refused to go out on account of the 
 doctor's visit, he came so much earlier than she had ex- 
 pected, that his arrival took her by surprise. Apparently 
 his prescriptions had had a decidedly good effect, for she 
 was evidently less languid, and began to take pleasure in 
 some of her usual pursuits. This day she had been prac- 
 tising vigorously for the last hour, much to Hartly's satis- 
 faction. 
 
 " Dr. and Mrs. Carter, Miss Sybil, dear," said Hartly, 
 laying her hand on Sybil's shoulder ; for she was sitting 
 with her back to the door, and had not seen them enter 
 the room. 
 
 Sybil started up in dismay. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she said, blushing — n I did not 
 hear you come in." 
 
 " How are you now ? " said the doctor, shaking hands 
 with her. "I have brought my wife to pay you a 
 visit." 
 
Breaking the Ice. 237 
 
 " Thank you — it is very good of you to come," she 
 said, with a bright, half-shy smile, that at once won Mrs. 
 Carter's heart. 
 
 The doctor saw with some triumph the impression 
 Sybil had made, and turned away to speak to Hartly in 
 his gravest and most professional manner. After a few 
 minutes' conversation with her, he returned. 
 
 " Your maid gives a good account of you, I am glad to 
 find. I hope you do not dislike the medicine I ordered, 
 for I think it will be best for you to continue it at pre- 
 sent." 
 
 " It's very nasty, though I don't much mind that. But 
 I am quite well now, and have been out." 
 
 " Not quite strong yet," he said, feeling her pulse, and 
 looking into space in an important manner, as doctors 
 invariably do, as if they were listening to some history. 
 
 " You are very fond of music, I see," said Mrs. Carter, 
 who had made the most of her husband's short absence 
 to begin an acquaintance with Sybil ; " you sing as well 
 as play, I suppose?" she added, turning over some new 
 songs that were on the table. 
 
 " I did," said Sybil, sadly. 
 
 "You are too young, my dear, for anything to be in 
 the past tense with you," said Mrs. Carter, kindly. " My 
 daughters are very fond of music, but there are several 
 songs here that they do not know." 
 
 " I never hear any music now, so I am obliged to get 
 music to try. I seldom keep it ; it is dreary to play only 
 for one's own amusement." 
 
 " I hope some day you will sing and play for ours. It 
 would be a great pleasure to my girls to have some one 
 to play and sing with." 
 
 The doctor rubbed his hands somewhat triumphantly, 
 as he overheard this proposal. 
 
 " Thank you," said Sybil, hesitating, " but I play and 
 sing so very little now, and I never go out, and '' 
 
 " And what ?" said Dr. Carter, brusquely rising to go. 
 " Won't you come and see my daughters ? They are 
 very good girls in their way, I assure you." 
 
238 Off the Line. 
 
 " Of course — I know — I only mean " said Sybil, 
 
 blushing and distressed, fancying she had given offence 
 to her visitors. 
 
 " Never mind, my dear ; you shall not be teased to do 
 anything you dislike," said Mrs. Carter, gently. 
 
 " Have you been out to-day ? " asked the doctor ; " you 
 must not let fine days slip by at this time of year. I can- 
 not impress that too strongly upon you." 
 
 " Not to-day," replied Sybil ; " but I am going out 
 presently." 
 
 " Perhaps Miss Morley will take a little walk with me, 
 Robert ; you may leave me here, if you like — unless I 
 shall be in your way ? " she said, turning to Sybil. 
 
 " Oh ! no. I should like it so very much ! " and her 
 eyes spoke more eloquently than her words. 
 
 " Then you are not coming home with me ? " 
 
 The doctor was rather disappointed not to hear his 
 wife's impression of his new friend. 
 
 " No, don't think about me. I shall come home pre- 
 sently." 
 
 " Very well. Good-bye, Miss Morley. I leave you in 
 good hands." 
 
 " I hope Dr. Carter will take no more trouble about 
 me," said Sybil. " I am really quite well now. Hartly 
 is so fidgety, that she will go on coddling me for 
 ever." 
 
 u He is very fond of young people, so it is no trouble 
 to him. But we must obey orders, and go out while 
 the sun shines. I hope you do not object to a com- 
 panion ? " 
 
 " I will put on my cloak at once. I shall not be a 
 minute." 
 
 Sybil felt as if she should like Mrs. Carter very much. 
 
 " This is your brother, I suppose ; he is like you." 
 
 Mrs. Carter had been looking at a water-colour sketch 
 of Geoffrey, which hung upon the wall, while Sybil was 
 up-stairs. 
 
 " Dear old Jeff ! he sent it from Gibraltar. It is not 
 half as handsome as he is." 
 
Breaking the Ice, 239 
 
 " Is he your only brother ? " 
 
 It was merely a passing question ; but it had the effect of 
 putting Sybil at once upon the defensive, and Mrs. Carter 
 perceived her mistake by the change in her manner, as 
 she replied — 
 
 " Geoffrey is my youngest brother. My eldest brother 
 is married, and lives at home." 
 
 "Where is that?" would have been only a natural 
 rejoinder, if Mrs. Carter's ready tact had not told her that 
 she was treading on dangerous ground, so she returned to 
 a safer topic. . . 
 
 " Have you been to any of the concerts that are given 
 here during the winter, sometimes ? They are really very 
 good." 
 
 " No. How could I, alone ! " 
 
 Sybil's voice sounded sad and reproachful. Mrs. 
 Carter was sorry for her speech. What could she say to 
 this girl that would not annoy her ! 
 
 " The best concert generally takes place in January. 
 Would you like to accompany us ? We usually go to it." 
 
 Sybil could not make up her mind either to accept or 
 refuse this proposal on the spur of the moment, and 
 answered rather irrelevantly— 
 
 " I don't know at all where you live." 
 
 " You must come and see. I think it would be too 
 long a walk for you to-day ; but if you will come some 
 morning to luncheon you will have a rest, and the girls 
 shall walk home with you afterwards." 
 
 How could she reject one kind overture after another! 
 She had said " Thank you, I shall like it very much," 
 before she knew to what she had committed herself. 
 
 "By this time they were on the downs, walking in the 
 most sheltered place, for, though the sun shone, the wind 
 was keen and piercing. Mrs. Carter watched her young 
 companion attentively. But she could not detect either 
 cough or breathlessness ; on the contrary, she seemed to 
 delight in the cold keen air — her step was buoyant and 
 elastic, and she showed no signs of fatigue. 
 
 " I am very sorry we are at home again," said Sybil 
 
 16 
 
240 Of the Line. 
 
 " It was so kind of you to go out with me, when you 
 have to walk all the way home. May I go part of the 
 way with you ? " 
 
 " I think not. I must give up my charge safe and 
 sound into your maid's hands. I want to make her 
 acquaintance. My husband was charmed with her." 
 
 "Dear old Hartly!" said Sybil, warmly, "she is a 
 part of my life. I cannot tell you how much I have 
 enjoyed my walk to-day." 
 
 " Walking alone is a very tiresome thing, and not half 
 so wholesome as walking in pleasant company. My 
 daughters walk every day, and will be very glad to accom- 
 pany you sometimes." 
 
 " Are they grown up ? " said Sybil. 
 She had a vision of shy children, and a stiff governess, 
 that did not present itself invitingly before her. 
 
 " My two eldest girls are grown up. The youngest is 
 quite a child. We all take charge of her in turns. Both 
 my sons are away." 
 
 " Good-bye," said Sybil, as they stood on the steps of 
 the door. 
 
 " Am I not to see your old friend, then ? " said Mrs; 
 Carter, rather surprised. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, if you will come in. Here is Hartly." 
 " How do you do, Mrs. Hartly," said Mrs. Carter, in 
 her especially gracious manner. " I hope Miss Morley 
 is better for her walk, and I want you to remind her that 
 we expect her at one o'clock on Saturday at luncheon* 
 I think you know our house ? " 
 
 With many smiles and curtseys Hartly answered in the 
 affirmative. 
 
 " I must go now, my dear. Good-bye." 
 " Thank you for your kindness," said Sybil, warmly. 
 " Thank you for being satisfied with an old woman for 
 your companion," was Mrs. Carter's rejoinder, and they 
 parted with mutual satisfaction. 
 
 From that day Sybil's acquaintance with the Carters 
 steadily progressed. There was considerable individuality 
 both in Grace and Susan, and their conversation was full 
 
Breaking the Ice. 24 t 
 
 of interest for Sybil; but Mrs. Carter held the first place 
 in her affection. There seemed to be a sort of tacit 
 understanding between them, and Sybil clung to her as 
 in old days she had done to her father. 
 
 "We are going to a concert after Christmas," said 
 Grace, in the course of one of their winter morning walks. 
 " Mamma thought you would like to go with us. But 
 you will probably be away then ? " 
 
 Grace was very curious about Sybil's real home, as she 
 called it, and put the suggestion in the form of a question, 
 hoping it would elicit some information in reply. 
 
 "I have no intention of going away," said Sybil, 
 looking surprised. 
 
 " Everybody goes home at Christmas, so we thought 
 that you would. If you are here, I hope you will go with 
 us." 
 
 " I have refused to go home this year," said Sybil, in 
 a tone of annoyance, and with a cloud upon her counte- 
 nance that the recollection of home invariably brought. 
 " But I do not think I can go to a concert." 
 
 Her shrinking from society still remained, though in a 
 less degree. 
 
 " Why not ? " asked Susan. " I feel sure you would 
 like it." 
 
 "I have no dress fit for a concert, for one thing," said 
 Sybil. 
 
 " We can tell you of plenty of dressmakers — Madame 
 Lavaud and Mrs. Somers are both very good." 
 
 " It would be of no use, I should not know what to 
 order. Oh ! no, thank you. Tell Mrs. Carter how very 
 much obliged to her I am, but I cannot go." 
 
 " For ' cannot,' read ' will not,' " said Grace. " Well, 
 mamma must talk to you about it herself." 
 
 " Never mind, Grace," said her sister, carelessly, and 
 the subject dropped. 
 
 Sybil was naturally cleverer than her new friends ; but 
 they, on the other hand, were both well-read and accom- 
 plished, and intercourse of this kind was becoming daily 
 more agreeable to her. They constantly met ; there were 
 
242 Off the Line, 
 
 new books to be discussed, duets and trios to be practised. 
 " Papa's pet patient," as the girls called her, was always 
 welcome at Dr. Carter's home. 
 
 " Madame Cavalyar," said Hartly, laying great stress 
 upon the third syllable, one morning when Sybil was at 
 breakfast, and throwing a card down upon the table before 
 her. 
 
 "Madame Cavalier, Modiste, 39 Park Street," read 
 Sybil, in astonishment, as she took up the card and 
 turned round to look at the fat. bustling Frenchwoman for 
 whom Hartly was finding a seat, and to whom she was 
 paying all possible attention. 
 
 "Who is she, Hartly, and what does she want?" she 
 asked in a low voice. 
 
 " It's for your new dress, Miss Sybil — the new dress 
 you must have for the concert. You have nothing fit 
 even to drive out in, so I begged Madame Cavalyar to 
 call quite early to take your measure," said Hartly 
 defiantly, already feeling tolerably sure that Sybil would 
 not rebel before a stranger. 
 
 "Mademoiselle desire une robe," said the French 
 woman, thinking that she was losing her precious time 
 during the discussion ; " I have brought some patterns— < 
 what is of the most new. Mais Mademoiselle est encore 
 en deuil ? " she said interrogatively to Hartly. 
 
 "Will you talk to her, Miss Sybil, if yon please — it's 
 not likely as I can make out that jabber. A new evening- 
 dress for the concert, Madame ! " shouted Hartly, as if 
 she thought the woman was deaf, because she could not 
 understand her. 
 
 " Eh bien, je comprends ; quel que chose light — 
 elegant — gentille, in fact. Would Mademoiselle prefer 
 demi-deuil ? — black dress and white flowers, or white, 
 with black lace, perhaps ? — that I would recommend, c'est 
 moins triste." 
 
 "Oh! no," said Sybil; "not white — I can't wear 
 white!" 
 
 "Black crape, then — a black tulle bouillone'e, with 
 white or silver flowers — that would be most effective, 
 
Breaking the Ice. 243 
 
 most new. Will Mademoiselle decide on that?" she 
 said, approaching Sybil with a [huge pair of scissors, a 
 long tape, and a mouth full of pins. 
 
 Quite overwhelmed by Madame Cavalier's volubility, 
 Sybil remained a passive victim in her hands. Indeed, 
 her appearance had taken her so entirely by surprise, that 
 she seemed to have lost all power of resistance. 
 
 " Demain done je puis l'essayer — I may come and try 
 it ? " she said, turning to Hartly, as Sybil did not reply ; 
 " at what hour? Merci ; a sept heures in the evening, I 
 will come. Mademoiselle shall have a robe ravissante, 
 quite to please her — I engage that, moi," and emptying 
 her mouth and collecting her goods, Madame Cavalier 
 bustled away. 
 
 " I think this very odd, Hartly," said Sybil, in a tone 
 of displeasure. " Of course I could not send that horrid 
 old woman away when you had ordered her to come. 
 It's very possible that I may not go to the concert after 
 all, and I am sure I have no money to throw away on 
 French milliners." 
 
 "Well, then, Miss Sybil, I'll tell you just how it 
 happened," said Hartly in an injured tone. " I was at 
 Dr. Carter's yesterday to tea ; for the servants are very 
 friendly to me there, and the housekeeper has pressed me 
 to come sometimes. So the young ladies'-maid, she sat 
 so busy working, says : 
 
 11 ' These are the new dressses for the concert,' says 
 she, and sweetly pretty these were. * I hear your young 
 lady is going too. Has she got a new dress, for it's to 
 be a grand affair, they say ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh ! yes, hers will be ready time enough,' I said, 
 for I was not going to tell her you had not got one : and 
 I left early on purpose to inquire who was the best dress- 
 maker; and two of the best shops recommended this 
 woman as the most stylish, so I called on her and begged 
 her to come to-day. As to telling you first, I only ask 
 you if it would be any good, and if you would not be 
 sure to say no ? So when it's a thing as must be, what is 
 the good of asking ? " 
 
244 Off the Line, 
 
 Sybil could not help laughing at Hartly's defence, as 
 she felt the accusation to be true ; but in spite of this 
 she insisted, with more decision than she had ever shown 
 towards Hartly, that the next time she took any extra- 
 ordinary fancy into her head, she was to be told. 
 • " I shall not consent to anything that I am not told of 
 first, Hartly, remember." 
 
 "Very well," said Hartly, still aggrieved. "It was 
 sending for Dr. Carter, I suppose you mean ? And I 
 wonder if he and his family have not been the only bit of 
 comfort we've had here ! I think it's very hard, Miss 
 Sybil, you speak like that. I don't think it kind," and 
 Hartly turned away, her eyes full of tears. 
 
 Sybil was instantly appeased and penitent, in spite of 
 her annoyance at her old nurse's way of ruling her. 
 
 " Nonsense, Hartly, don't be vexed. I know you only 
 do what you think is for my good, but still it's tiresome ; 
 and, after all, we don't know what this gown will cost." 
 
 " I asked yesterday, Miss Sybil, so I'm not so thought- 
 less as you'd make out. They won't make any gown fit 
 to be seen under ten guineas. There will be money 
 enough for that, and plenty." 
 
 "I have not got any ticket for this concert, Hartly ; 
 why have you settled that I shall go ? " 
 
 " The servants at Dr. Carter's spoke of it as if it was 
 settled, so I made sure you knew all about it. It would 
 be a thousand pities not to go with those nice young 
 ladies, and you so fond of music." 
 
 " Well, I will tell them about it, if you will never do 
 anything again without telling me." 
 
 Hartly promised, well satisfied to have gained her 
 point this time, and leaving the future to the chapter of 
 accidents. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE CARTERS' PARTY. 
 
 " Very fair was Barbara Fleming in the glory of her youth ; 
 Golden-haired and perfect-featured, sunshine beaming from her 
 
 face, 
 On her lips a strength of purpose, in her eyes a depth of truth. 
 Nothing mean and nothing selfish in her noble heart had place. 
 Womanhood in her was grandeur, her simplicity was grace." 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 "As the hart panteth for the water-brooks, or as the captive for 
 the free air of Heaven, so does the ardent spirit for the mingling of 
 thought with thought, for the full and deep communion of kindred 
 natures. . . Is it not like the swift breaking in of sunshine 
 through the glades of great forests, sending gladness to their very 
 depths?" 
 
 Life of Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 IYBIL had entirely recovered her indisposition, 
 and, with renewed health, her old love for an 
 out-door life returned in full force. But though 
 the Carters were accustomed to her visits at all 
 hours, she made her appearance so early on the morning 
 of her annoyance about her gown, that all looked up in 
 surprise as she entered. 
 
 The fact was, she was anxious to ascertain if Mrs. 
 Carter had a concert ticket for her, and with Sybil to wish 
 a thing was to do it if it was feasible. She was struck 
 with the silence and occupation of the inhabitants of the 
 library as she came in. Grace was drawing at one end of 
 the room, Susan engaged in teaching Minnie ; Mrs. 
 Carter, seated at a desk which was covered with papers 
 and dull looking account books, appearing absorbed and 
 perplexed. 
 
 " Oh ! I wish I had not come so early," she said in a 
 penitent tone ; " I am disturbing you all." 
 
246 Off the Line, 
 
 " Indeed you are not," said Mrs. Carter, kissing her, 
 " and you might be of great use to me if you would take 
 off your bonnet, and wait a little while, till the girls are 
 disengaged. Morning is such a very busy time with 
 us." 
 
 Sybil took off her bonnet and cloak, and hastily threw 
 them on the floor, and bringing a low stool seated herself 
 by Mrs. Carter. 
 
 " Now, give me something to do." 
 
 " Will you add up these columns, and then look over 
 the names in this book, and cross out any that are written 
 twice over ? So many names are put down twice, that 
 these accounts are anything but correct." 
 
 "Very well," said Sybil ; " but what is it? " 
 
 " One of the charities in this place, that has been so 
 mismanaged that my husband wishes me to undertake it 
 for a time. At present it seems in hopeless confusion." 
 
 Sybil worked silently and steadily till her task was 
 completed, and then showed it to Mrs. Carter. 
 
 " Thank you, my dear child. Now, if you are not 
 tired, will you take my place, and copy your corrected list 
 into my book ? Then I shall understand better what is 
 to be done. I will teach Minnie while you do it, and 
 relieve Susan." 
 
 " Thank you, mamma," said Susan ; " then I will go 
 and practise up-stairs. I wish Sybil and Grace would try 
 some trios before we go out." 
 
 The girls agreed, and then work went on steadily for 
 another half-hour. 
 
 "Now, run away, Minnie, and clear those foggy little 
 brains of yours. I must release this poor child now," 
 said Mrs. Carter, laying her hand on Sybil's shoulder ; 
 " you have been victimised by us all, I think. Tell me if 
 you came early for any especial reason. You have been 
 a model of patience if you did." 
 
 " Hartly has been plaguing me about a gown," answered 
 Sybil blushing, " so I wanted to ask if you were really 
 going to take me to the concert." 
 
 " Yes, certainly. I am sure you will like it. All the 
 
The Carters' Party. 247 
 
 best singers are engaged, and we got your ticket with 
 ours. I forgot to give it you. We must dine rather 
 early, so if you can come to dinner, we can both take 
 you and send you home." 
 
 " Thank you — but are you sure it will be convenient ? " 
 
 " Yes, perfectly ; and on Thursday we are to have a 
 little music here. I hope you will dine with us that day, 
 and help my girls." 
 
 ** If I can ; but you don't mean in singing ? To sing 
 before people ! " said Sybil with a face of horror. 
 
 " Don't look so shocked. There are not many people, 
 and I suppose the girls must begin. Your voice is so 
 much more effective than theirs, that it would be very 
 kind if you would sing with them. It would give them 
 confidence. But you shall not do it if you really dislike 
 it." 
 
 " I will try," said Sybil gravely. 
 
 She did not like to refuse, and could not overcome her 
 reluctance to the proposition. 
 
 When she went into the drawing-room, the girls con- 
 sulted her as to what would be the best music to sing. 
 One duet was tried after another, and she soon became 
 so interested in their success, and so anxious to be of use, 
 that she forgot her dismay at the idea, and was able to 
 enter fully into all their preparations, and to look forward 
 with pleasure to the unusual gaieties that were in store 
 for her. 
 
 Madame Cavalier's gown was perfection, and Sybil 
 was well satisfied with the result. As-to Hartly, she was 
 in a state of ecstacy, and walked round and round her 
 young mistress in unfeigned admiration ; for had it not 
 all come about from her forethought ? and even the silver 
 flowers, with which the dress was trimmed, had been her 
 own decision if not her suggestion. 
 
 After being duly inspected and approved by Mrs. Allen 
 and her daughter, she and Hartly got into the fly that 
 was to take her to Doctor Carter's. 
 
 There was but one impression as to Sybil's appearance 
 when she entered the drawing-room — one opinion as to 
 
248 OJ the Line. 
 
 her beauty. She was conscious of her friends' approval, 
 and it considerably enhanced her enjoyment. 
 
 All people, certainly all young people, are keenly alive to 
 the admiration of those they love, perfectly apart from 
 personal conceit. It is a very legitimate satisfaction, in 
 which no feelings of vanity need be enlisted. 
 
 " We shall create a sensation, I think, to-night," said 
 Dr. Carter in a low voice to his wife, as he stood by the 
 fire stirring his coffee after dinner. " How well that girl 
 looks ! " 
 
 " She is perfectly beautiful," said Mrs. Carter warmly. 
 " What an odd girl she is, Robert ! I cannot help being 
 very fond of her. She interests me more every day, and 
 yet " 
 
 "Yet what?" 
 
 " It is so strange that we know nothing about her, nor 
 more of her family or her history — for I am sure she has 
 one — than the first day we saw her. If anybody should 
 admire her — I mean take a fancy to her — we could not 
 encourage them, knowing as little of her as we do. This 
 almost made me hesitate about taking her with us to- 
 night." 
 
 " Well done ! " laughed her husband — " well done for 
 a wise, match-making chaperon. I never knew you look 
 so far ahead for Grace or Susan. Never fear, young men 
 are quite able to take care of themselves, and don't lose 
 their hearts to every pretty girl they see." 
 
 Mrs. Carter was right as to the effect Sybil would pro- 
 duce, for several heads turned round with eager looks of 
 inquiry as Dr. Carter led Sybil up the room. He was 
 greeted by so many of his friends who were strangers to 
 her, that she felt shy and lonely, and eager to reach her 
 seat so as to escape observation. But as soon as the con- 
 cert began, the whole world was lost to Sybil. She 
 sat with her eyes fixed on the singers till the last few 
 notes had died away. Then the thunder of applause re- 
 called her to herself. At this moment there was some 
 bustle behind her. A party who had come in late, and 
 who had waited for the conclusion of the duet that was 
 
The Carters' Party. 24$ 
 
 being sung when they came in, had to pass to the end of 
 the row in which Dr. Carter's party were seated, to reach 
 their places. Sybil stood up to let them pass, and as she 
 did so, seized Grace's arm with an exclamation of sur- 
 prise, that made her friend look round. Sybil's face was 
 deadly pale — her very lips were white. Grace thought 
 she must be going to faint. 
 
 " What is the matter, Sybil ? Do you find it too hot ? 
 — shall I get you a smelling-bottle ? " she whispered \ but 
 Sybil did not answer — her eyes were fixed on the gentle- 
 man who had just passed, and who was placing the ladies 
 in their seats. He had been close to her, his coat had 
 brushed her dress ! — had he seen her ? Oh ! she trusted 
 that he had not ! What could she do ? How could she 
 ask to be taken home ? If she did, what reason could 
 she give ? How little she had expected ever again to see 
 Hugh Dormer ! 
 
 A moment's reflection made her sure that as he had 
 not seen her as he passed, he probably would not now, 
 and she would avoid any chance of meeting him in future. 
 He was laughing and talking with his companions — why 
 should she give him a thought ? Very possibly he would 
 not remember her even if he did see her. That idea gave 
 her a sharper pang than even the prospect of seeing him 
 again. 
 
 " It is only the disgrace— the annoyance that I dread," 
 she said to her own heart; and her own heart told ner 
 very plainly that was but a small part of the truth. 
 
 " You are better now, are you not ? " asked Grace 
 again, seeing the colour return to Sybil's face, and as she 
 showed no disposition to move. 
 
 " Yes, thank you, I am quite well ; it was nothing. Do 
 you know who those ladies are, Grace ? " 
 
 " Where ? " she replied, looking in a completely wrong 
 direction. " Lady Corton and her daughter ; the second 
 is very pretty." 
 
 "Very," returned Sybil, indifferently. She could not 
 explain further. 
 
 To Sybil's great relief, the music prevented all further 
 
250 Off the Line. 
 
 conversation, and she gave herself up to its enjoyment 
 At first the shock had been so sudden, that she could 
 only listen without any active comprehension of what she 
 heard; but by degrees the excitement she had gone 
 through heightened her perceptions of its beauty, and it 
 gave her extreme pleasure — a very different sort of 
 pleasure from that which she had anticipated, but more 
 intense and spiritualised from the pain and sadness with 
 which it was mixed. 
 
 It was scarcely over when they rose to go, as Dr. 
 Carter wished to be at home early. There was some de- 
 lay in getting through the crowd, and while they were 
 waiting near the door, Hugh Dormer hastily passed to 
 call his servant. Sybil shrank back, but he returned just 
 as Dr. Carter was putting her into his carriage. The gas 
 lamp fell full upon her face. Hugh Dormer stood still, 
 as if transfixed to the spot. In a moment he darted 
 forwards to speak to her, but the carriage door was shut, 
 and she was gone. 
 
 He could not recover his astonishment. It could not 
 be she ! — it could not be Sybil Morley ! Why should she 
 be at Clifton? — and, still more improbable, that she 
 should be going out of a concert-room with an old gentle- 
 man ! Who was that old man ? Hugh Dormer did not 
 feel at all kindly disposed towards him. 
 
 " Whose carriage is that ? " he said sharply to a man 
 standing near. 
 
 " Dr. Carter's, Sir," answered the man, civilly. 
 
 " Is he a physician ? — does he live here ? " 
 
 " Yes, Sir ; he is the great doctor here. That big house 
 on the hill is his. 
 
 It could not be she — only some strange likeness, and 
 yet it is only the one face that is so dear to us that causes 
 the heart to bound, and every pulse to throb with mingled 
 fear and exultation, lest it should again fade away, 
 phantom-like, from before our eyes, leaving us starved 
 and desolate as before. 
 
 Sybil was so silent during the drive home that her 
 friends were disappointed; but she was longing for silence 
 
Tht Carters' Party, 251 
 
 and solitude, and could not make the effort, which would 
 only have been right at that moment. Hartly, too, was 
 vexed and dissatisfied at the short answers she received 
 to her various questions. Sybil felt as if everyone con- 
 spired to plague her. She did not like to mortify the 
 good old woman, and tried to answer her more fully : 
 but Hartly was not deceived, she knew her charge too 
 well, and saw directly that things were not all right with 
 her. 
 
 In the meantime, Hugh Dormer's mind and energies 
 were concentrated on discovering where Sybil was staying, 
 and as soon as he saw his mother in the morning, startled 
 her by asking if she knew where Dr. Carter lived, as he 
 wished to see him. 
 
 " My dear Hugh, what is the matter ? — you never told 
 me you were ill," she said, looking quite alarmed. 
 
 " No one can be better, dear mother ■ but I want to 
 see this great doctor, for all that. You said that you 
 intended, to consult him ? " 
 
 " I do, but I have not sent for him yet. If yours is a 
 very urgent case, I will do so at once," she said, 
 laughing. 
 
 " I wish you would. Can you write now ? If you will 
 give me your note, I will take it." 
 
 u I suppose it will do as well to-morrow, Hugh ? — your 
 sisters are waiting for me." 
 
 " But writing a note won't take a minute," urged Hugh ; 
 " or shall I take a verbal message ? " 
 
 " I do believe you are in earnest, Hugh," said his 
 mother, looking at him in astonishment. 
 
 " Of course I am — in very serious earnest ; so do tell 
 me if I shall take a note, or leave a message ? " 
 
 u A note is the most polite to such a great man. But 
 it is a most extraordinary fancy on your part. I wish you 
 would tell me what it means." 
 
 " Only to ask him a question, mother. Perhaps you 
 will do it for me." 
 
 " A question about your health ? " 
 
 " Certainly not, I am quite well. But I saw Dr. 
 
252 Off the Line. 
 
 Carter at the concert last night ; that is, I saw an old 
 man get into a carriage, and some one told me it was Dr. 
 Carter." 
 
 " Well," said his mother, in amazement, "am I to ask 
 if he was the old man that got into a carriage ? " 
 
 " Don't laugh at me, mother — I have not told you yet 
 — Miss Morley was with him." 
 
 " Mary's sister-in-law ? The girl that ran away with a 
 boatman ? " 
 
 " She never ran away at all," said Hugh indignantly ; 
 " she was going to see her uncle in London, and the 
 people, for some reason of their own, played her a trick 
 and carried her off to Richmond. I went there after- 
 wards, at her brother's request, to inquire, and heard all 
 about it. It certainly must have been Miss Morley that 
 I saw in Dr. Carter's carriage last night," he added 
 .doubtfully. 
 
 " And you want to know if it really was," said his 
 mother rather gravely, as the truth began to dawn upon 
 her. 
 
 "If you could find out I should be very glad." 
 
 " Very well, I can ask. But, Hugh, I do hope " 
 
 " There is nothing to hope or fear," said Hugh hastily ; 
 " I only want to know. Is your note ready? " And to 
 escape further comments, he carried it off and left the 
 house. 
 
 The concert was duly discussed the same morning at 
 Dr. Carter's breakfast-table. Sybil's unusual silence and 
 gravity had been noticed by all. Grace suggested that 
 perhaps she was ill, and told of her sudden faintness and 
 agitation. Both Dr. Carter and his wife noted the fact, 
 though they let it pass without comment. But when the 
 day went by without any tidings of Sybil, Grace declared 
 that she must be ill, and expressed great concern lest she 
 should fail them on the evening of their party. 
 
 The girls set off early the next morning to see Sybil. 
 As soon as they were gone the doctor came hastily into 
 the library. 
 . " All alone, Susie ? That's an extraordinary thing ! " 
 
The Carters' Party. 253 
 
 " Not so extraordinary as to see you at this time of 
 day." 
 
 " It is strange, and I am come on a strange errand. I 
 want you to send an invitation to some patients of mine 
 for to-morrow evening." 
 
 " If I can, but we have asked too many people already, 
 I fear. Whom else do you want to come ? " 
 
 " Did you hear what Grace said at breakfast yesterday 
 morning about Miss Morley ? " 
 
 " Her sudden faintness at the concert ? " 
 
 "Yes. I fancy I have a clue to it. I don't believe 
 it was faintness, only agitation at seeing an ac- 
 quaintance." 
 
 " I thought it was odd, but I could not account for it." 
 
 "Now, listen to me. I received a note yesterday, 
 begging me to call upon a Mrs. Dormer. Accordingly I 
 went, and after some conversation about her health, she 
 suddenly asked me if I had a young lady with me 
 the night before at the concert — a Miss Morley? I 
 felt surprised at such an abrupt question, but in a 
 moment I saw it would be a good opportunity to dis- 
 cover something of her history, so I answered in the 
 affirmative, and inquired in my turn if Mrs. Dormer knew 
 her? 
 
 " ' Not exactly,' she said ; ' I know who she is, and 
 my son knows her. She was a great friend of my niece's, 
 till " 
 
 " She stopped suddenly. I said nothing, being anxious 
 for the conclusion of her sentence. After a minute, she 
 added, 'till she left home.' I said that we had only, 
 recently become acquainted with her ; that she seemed to 
 lead a lonely life, and that we were all interested in her. 
 I then spoke of her beauty and her musical powers. 
 Mrs. Dormer seemed anxious to hear more, and asked 
 several questions about her. I told her that she was 
 coming to us to-morrow evening to sing, as we had a 
 small musical party, and that we should be very 
 happy to see her if she liked to come and meet Miss 
 Morley." 
 
2 $4 Off the Line. 
 
 " Oh ! poor Sybil ! " said Mrs. Carter ; " what an ordeal 
 for her ! " 
 
 " I should take care not to let her know that there was 
 any chance of these people coming. I imagine they 
 must be connected with her sudden illness the other 
 night ; and I should like to give her the opportunity of 
 meeting them. But as it was only the son that knew her, 
 he must have been the moving power." 
 
 " Could not we ask him alone ? " asked _ Mrs. 
 Carter. 
 
 " Impossible !— give me an invitation for the whole 
 family — mother, son, and two daughters. I daresay only 
 the son will come. But mind nothing is said to scare 
 our shy bird." 
 
 Dr. Carter hurried off with the card ; while his wife 
 sat musing upon the incomprehensible and fascinating 
 girl with whom she had been so strangely brought in 
 contact. 
 
 Grace and Susan found Sybil sitting listlessly at 
 the window, looking more indisposed for exertion than 
 she had done since she had recovered from her 
 cold. 
 
 " We were afraid you were ill, as we didn't see you 
 yesterday," said Susan, kindly. 
 
 " Oh ! Sybil, don't say you are ill," interrupted Grace. 
 ■ If you are, I shall go back and send papa at once, for 
 we can't possibly spare you to-morrow. Were you over- 
 tired with the concert ? " 
 
 " I was not tired. I am quite well ; but I did not go 
 out yesterday." 
 
 " Come out, then, now, upon the downs ; and then we 
 can carry you off home with us." 
 
 " I will come back to your house ; but I don't want to 
 walk," she said imploringly. 
 
 "But you must," persisted Grace. "Papa says you 
 must go out every fine day, and so ' it is decreed.' Let 
 me fetch your hat and cloak." 
 
 " No — oh ! no ; besides, we need not go yet. I was 
 Just going to write to tell you that my heart had failed me 
 
The Carter? Party. 255 
 
 about to-morrow. I cannot sing before a quantity of 
 strangers." 
 
 " But there are only a few people, and they are not 
 strangers. I have got a list in my pocket — I can tell you 
 all their names." ' 
 
 " Do," said Sybil, eagerly. She was anxious to know 
 if there was any chance of seeing Hugh Dormer. 
 
 Grace read over a quantity of names, but so rapidly that 
 Sybil could scarcely distinguish them. 
 
 " Let me read the list myself," she said, holding out 
 her hand for the paper. 
 
 Susan looked at her in surprise. All this was so unlike 
 Sybil. 
 
 "Thank you," she said, after reading over the list 
 attentively, with a sigh, which was a strange mixture of 
 disappointment and relief. 
 
 "Then if you have no especial objection to these good 
 people, we will adjourn and practise for them," said 
 Grace — " if you think them worth the trouble," she added 
 sarcastically. 
 
 " I will do what you like — what I can," replied Sybil 
 gently. 
 
 Susan, who was quicker than Grace to detect shades of 
 feeling, was struck with the under-current of sadness in 
 Sybil's manner, and followed her up-stairs as she went for 
 her walking things. 
 
 " May I come with you ? I want to say some- 
 thing." 
 
 " Oh ! yes," said Sybil, looking startled. 
 
 " If you really dislike singing, we will manage without 
 you. I fancied you were worried about it ; but I daresay 
 it was only my own idea." 
 
 Sybil was touched by her friend's consideration. 
 
 " I am worried ; but it has nothing to do with singing — 
 on the contrary, you have all been so kind to me, that I 
 should be only too happy to be useful." 
 
 " I am very glad that it is so, dear Sybil. I knew you 
 would tell me the exact truth, and I could not be happy 
 without asking you." 
 
 17 
 
Off the Line. 
 
 " Thank you," said Sybil, turning away. Her manner 
 was ungracious ; but Susan saw that her eyes were full 
 of tears. 
 
 Sybil would not walk. The three girls spent the after- 
 noon in trying over music, and making arrangements for 
 the next day. 
 
 " We shall dine early to-morrow, ray dear," said Mrs, 
 Carter, as she was taking leave of Sybil. " I should like 
 you to come before dinner, and then you can help us all 
 — and tell Hartly to bring your dress here. She can stay 
 here, too, to take you home at night." 
 
 Sybil agreed, and upon the whole felt glad that she 
 had been forcibly abstracted from her solitary musings. 
 She reasoned with herself upon the absurdity of remain- 
 ing at home from the fear of meeting Hugh Dormer. 
 He was probably passing through the town, or possibly 
 staying with some one in the neighbourhood, and had 
 come in for the concert. It was very unlikely that she 
 should ever see him again. " Ever ! " The word had a 
 dreary hopeless sound to Sybil, and before she was 
 aware of it her mind travelled on to a possible home with 
 Geoffrey in the far off future, in which Hugh Dormer 
 should be a frequent visitor. Then she remembered all, 
 and thought how improbable it was that he should ever 
 seek her society. It was simple folly and weakness to 
 think of him at all, and she resolutely put away every 
 day-dream in which he had a part ; and what " chateau 
 en Espagne " had Sybil's fancy of late constructed with- 
 out him ! It was over now — it was only all that the 
 sudden and unexpected sight of him recalled that had so 
 unnerved her, but it was past, buried with the old life that 
 was nothing to her now ! 
 
 When she arrived at Dr. Carter's, everyone remarked 
 that she was bright and cheerful, and that the cloud which 
 had rested upon her ever since the night of the concert 
 had passed away. 
 
 A few intimate friends dined with them, so that Sybil 
 did not feel entirely without acquaintance, as strangers 
 flocked into Dr. Carter's very popular drawing-room. 
 
The Carters' Party. 257 
 
 The first piece was a quartet, which went off well and 
 smoothly, and received considerable applause. Then the 
 duet was sung by Grace and Susan, which Sybil accom- 
 panied. While Mrs. Carter was trying to persuade a 
 gentleman to sing, the doctor came up to Sybil, and 
 insisted upon a song. He would take no refusal ; and 
 though Sybil disliked singing alone, she sat down at once, 
 from a feeling of wishing to get it over, and chose an old 
 English ballad which she remembered that he especially 
 liked. She paused for a moment before she rose from her 
 seat, expecting his approval; but it was not his voice 
 that said, " Thank you, that is a beautiful song r 
 but I wish that it had been ' The Banks of Allan 
 Water.'" 
 
 Sybil started up and changed colour as she saw Hugh 
 Dormer standing by. He eagerly shook hands with her, 
 but she was quite unable to speak. 
 
 " Let me take you to your seat," he said, offering her 
 his arm. " I am dying with curiosity to know if you have 
 dropped from the skies ! I saw you for a moment the 
 other night at the concert, and then you were gone. I 
 am so very glad to have met you again ! " -and he looked 
 eagerly into her face, as if expecting some response. He 
 saw that she tried to answer him ; but her lips quivered, 
 and he could hear no articulate sound. 
 
 Both were silent for a few moments, till at last Sybil 
 said in a shy, constrained voice, 
 "How is Mary?" 
 
 " I should ask you that ; I have been abroad for 
 months. I thought, of course, you were with them at 
 Cheveleigh. You have not been ill ? You did not come 
 here for health ? " he asked eagerly. 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said Sybil sadly ; " I only came to free 
 them from my society. Newly married people are always 
 happiest by themselves." 
 
 " I suppose so, but " he spoke gravely, and did 
 
 not finish his sentence. " I want to introduce you to my 
 mother and sisters," he said after a pause. 
 
 " Impossible 1 Pray don't i " said Sybil, shrinking back. 
 
258 Off the Line. 
 
 " Why is it impossible ? I will bring them to you if 
 you dislike crossing the room," he said gravely. 
 
 "I should not think they would wish it, Mr. Dormer; 
 and so it would be kinder to me if you would say nothing 
 about it." 
 
 " But that was the only reason for our coming here," 
 persisted Hugh. " Of course we all wish it — I wish it 
 particularly." 
 
 Sybil heard him with a thrill of gladness and unlooked- 
 for happiness, and her heart beat fast as she stood up and 
 said, " I will go directly, if you really mean it — if it is 
 true." 
 
 " What can be the reason for these strange fancies ? " 
 said Hugh, gravely. " We will go and look for them 
 presently, but I want you to tell me several things first — 
 about yourself, and Geoffrey, and, above all, why I find 
 you here." 
 
 "At Dr. Carter's? They are the only people 
 I know, and they have been so very, very kind to 
 me." 
 
 "Then you are really living here? — you cannot be 
 alone?" 
 
 " Yes, with the exception of my old nurse. She came 
 with me." 
 
 " How long is this to last ? When do you go back ? " 
 
 " To Cheveleigh ? Never ! This is home for me 
 now." 
 
 "This house?" 
 
 " No. I do not live here. I live in lodgings on the 
 downs." 
 
 "It is all perfectly inexplicable," said Hugh, after 
 a pause, in which he seemed to be taking in the 
 meaning of her words. " Do you really prefer living 
 alone?" 
 
 "Yes, much — much, to living with those who are 
 happier without me ! " 
 
 " I do not believe that anyone is— certainly not Mary. 
 I cannot think that is your reason, or, at all events, your 
 only reason. I wish you would tell me what it is. I 
 
The Carter i Party 259 
 
 hope you do not think me very impertinent, for asking 
 you?" 
 
 "I am not likely to think you impertinent, Mr. 
 Dormer." 
 
 " Then I shall look forward to your telling me at some 
 future day. Now come and see my mother and sisters." 
 
 He led her into another room, where Sybil immediately 
 recognised the two girls she met at the Rectory at 
 Sandling. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer looked clever and sensible, so sensible 
 that Sybil felt instinctively afraid of her. Many people 
 were, but none that knew her well — all who did loved 
 her devotedly, and trusted to her entirely. Sybil shrank 
 from the quiet scrutiny of Mrs. Dormer's glance, though 
 her manner was kind. Florence and Julia came up to 
 her at once, eagerly inquiring after Mary, and looking still 
 more surprised than their brother at the little information 
 she seemed able to give them. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer was much struck with Sybil's appearance, 
 and the bright and candid expression of her countenance 
 impressed her favourably; but she withheld her judgment 
 for a time, and, moreover, was disposed to be especially 
 critical of one who so much interested her son. She was 
 determined not to be influenced by these external and 
 incidental advantages. 
 
 They talked of music, of the beauty of the scenery, 
 of Dr. Carter — Sybil decidedly progressing in Mrs. 
 Dormer's good opinion, when she was carried off to take 
 her share in some music that could not be performed 
 without her. She went reluctantly, and could only sing 
 mechanically, wondering if she had lost her only chance 
 of seeing the Dormers, and remembering with pain that 
 no allusion had been made to any further intercourse. 
 She was kept employed the whole evening. Mrs. 
 Dormer and Florence, both being invalids, left early. 
 Hugh, of course, accompanied them, so that Sybil, 
 when the evening was over, was left excited and un- 
 settled, with all her heroic and self-denying resolutions 
 swept away, and nothing definite to take their place. 
 
260 Off the Line. 
 
 Dr. and Mrs. Carter had tried to give Sybil ever} 
 acility for seeing her friends, but she was too constantly 
 claimed at the pianoforte for this to be easy, and Mrs. 
 Carter lamented this to her husband when they talked 
 over the party the next day. 
 
 " Never mind, my dear ; if the young man wishes to 
 see her, he will contrive it, and I conclude your regrets 
 are only on his account. I do not yet understand the 
 state of things. Mrs. Dormer appears to me to be a 
 remarkably sensible woman, but I think she is perplexed 
 about our young friend. I tried to elicit some opinion 
 of her, but she was grave and reserved in a moment, and 
 only said, ' Miss Morley is very handsome, and has a 
 beautiful voice.' I suppose the son has been very much 
 Ipris with her, and his mother does not like it." 
 
 " But that does not explain her living away from her 
 own family," returned his wife. " I like Mr. Dormer 
 very much ; he is so pleasant and intelligent. We might 
 ask him to dinner." 
 
 Dr. Carter shook his head. 
 
 " I hardly think it would do for us to bring them to- 
 gether against the wish of his family. Has she never 
 talked to the girls of her former life ? " 
 
 " Never — nor to me, and she would say more to me 
 than to them. She always speaks as if there had been 
 no past for her, and as if she dated her life from the time 
 of her coming here. 
 
 " She may ignore it, but her past life, whatever it has 
 been, has left very considerable traces both in counten- 
 ance and character. But we had better do nothing at 
 present. I attend Mrs. Dormer, so in the course of time 
 I may understand the case better." 
 
 Hugh Dormer was nervously anxious to discover the 
 impression Sybil had made upon his mother. He 
 followed her into her bed-room when they came home 
 from Dr. Carter's, and sat down " for a talk," as he had 
 always done from a boy, if anything especially occupied 
 his mind. 
 
 " Well, mother, now tell me what you think." 
 
The Carters' Party. 261 
 
 "I enjoyed the music, Hugh. It was really very 
 good. It is wonderful what an improvement there is in 
 amateur singing since I was young." 
 
 "I did not mean the. music, mother — I wanted to 
 know your opinion of Miss Morley." 
 
 " Even if I had formed one, it would not be worth 
 much on so short an acquaintance. She is very hand- 
 some." 
 
 "Only that?" 
 
 " And sings very well, and has a beautiful voice." 
 "Yes, of course — I know all that. But I want you to 
 tell me, now you have seen her, if it is possible to believe 
 all the stories you have heard ? " 
 
 " She has a good countenance, and a candid, intelli- 
 gent expression, but " 
 
 " But what, mother ? " 
 
 " I daresay she is impulsive, and, if all Mrs. Power 
 
 wrote to us were true " 
 
 "But it was not true — it was shameful gossip and 
 scandal ! Those people were both designing and un- 
 scrupulous, and did not care what they said." 
 
 " But, my dear Hugh, how did she get into their 
 power? You would think it very strange if Florence 
 put herself into the power of a fisherman and his 
 mother." 
 
 " Then you allow nothing for circumstances ? — and 
 surely they alter things very much, mother. Miss Morley 
 had no parents — her mother was a complete invalid — no 
 society — Eustace Morley was entirely occupied with his 
 books and his farming \ Geoffrey, the younger brother, 
 was away. I daresay she was thoughtless, but as to any- 
 thing else, it is a shameful and absurd invention," and 
 Hugh walked indignantly up and down the room. 
 
 " My dear boy, do go to bed, and pray let me go —it 
 is one o'clock, and I am tired to death." 
 
 "I beg your pardon — I forgot; I only want to ask 
 you one thing. Will you call upon Miss Morley, and 
 take my sisters ? She is quite alone," he added, as his 
 mother hesitated. 
 
262 Off the Line. 
 
 "Does she not live at Dr. Carter's?" 
 , "No — she is quite alone in lodgings with her old 
 nurse. You would go, mother, if you knew what a kind- 
 ness it would be." 
 
 " I will think about it, Hugh, and tell you to-morrow,*' 
 said his mother, rather gravely. " Good night" 
 
 vmm& 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 " And wilt thou leave me thus, 
 That hath loved thee so long, 
 In wealth and woe among ? 
 And is thy heart so strong, 
 As for to leave me thus ? 
 Say nay ! say nay ! 
 
 "And wilt thou leave me thus, 
 And hr ve no more pity 
 Of hirsj that loved thee? 
 Alas ! thy cruelty ! 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 Sry nay ! say nay !" 
 
 Sir T. WyAtt. 
 
 jHOUGH Mrs. Dormer had complained of 
 fatigue, she lay awake reflecting upon her son's 
 unusual behaviour. 
 
 " Hugh is generally so reserved," she 
 thought ; " his interest or love for this girl seems to have 
 changed him entirely. I hope he is not really in love — 
 / think he is too sensible to contemplate for a moment 
 marrying a girl who has compromised herself as this Miss 
 Morley has ; but I must talk to him seriously to-morrow, 
 or perhaps it would be better to leave Clifton at once." 
 
 Mrs. Dormer fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed 
 of Hugh and Sybil in dangerous and impossible places, 
 where, as soon as she came up to them, they always 
 eluded her grasp. Hugh was more satisfied with his 
 sisters' warm admiration of Sybil's beauty; they were 
 energetic in her praise, and longing to see her again. 
 
264 Off the Line. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer did not give Hugh any decided answer 
 as to her intentions with regard to Miss Morley, and he 
 was too proud to press the subject, so some days passed 
 without their meeting. Sybil stayed at home one or two 
 days, fully expecting Mrs. Dormer to call; but when 
 they passed, and she saw none of the family, she felt 
 instinctively, and with bitter mortification, how it was, 
 and only took short early walks with Hartly in the most 
 unfrequented parts, where she was tolerably sure of not 
 meeting anyone she knew. 
 
 Mrs. Carter and her daughters had gone to Bath for a 
 week, so that Sybil's world was reduced to Hartly, and 
 her piano, from which she turned with disgust after the 
 hope and excitement which had buoyed her up ever since 
 the night of the concert. Mrs. Dormer had written to 
 Mrs. Power to inquire more particularly into Sybil's 
 history. She could not question Mary about her hus- 
 band's sister. She also determined to have some more 
 conversation with Dr. Carter before she allowed her 
 daughters to seek Sybil's society. 
 
 The next time he called she began to question him 
 closely about her. 
 
 " I can give you no information about Miss Morley," 
 he replied drily, rather annoyed at Mrs. Dormer's manner. 
 " I imagined her to be an old acquaintance of yours. I 
 know nothing of her. Nothing either of her history or 
 her family. My wife took compassion upon her loneliness, 
 and since then my girls have become intimate with her, 
 but from what you say, I fear I may have been im- 
 prudent in allowing this. I should be glad to know 
 something of Miss Morley's former life," and he 
 looked steadily into Mrs. Dormer's face, waiting for a 
 reply. 
 
 "I know nothing of her myself," she replied, with 
 some hesitation. " I asked on my daughters' account — 
 one has to be so guarded in the choice of acquaintance 
 for such young girls, and certainly all I ever heard 
 
 " My dear Madam, that is exactly the point ; if you 
 
" I can give you no Information. " 265 
 
 would be good enough to tell me what you did hear, that 
 is what I want so much to know." 
 
 " There was some entanglement, I believe, with a man 
 of low birth — a fisherman, or boatman — Mrs. Morley 
 lived by the sea-side after her husband's death, and I 
 fancy this girl was allowed to run quite wild. I heard 
 she had eloped with this man ; but my son assures me it 
 is quite a mistake, and that she was going to visit her 
 uncle, when this man and his mother persuaded, or 
 deceived her, into going somewhere else. But I never 
 understood how it was." 
 
 " It ;s a strange story," said Dr. Carter gravely. " I 
 wish I had known it before ; and yet Miss Morley's 
 manner and countenance is very unlike that of a person 
 who " 
 
 " Exactly," interrupted Mrs. Dormer ; " she has such a 
 bright intelligent face, I was very much pleased with her 
 the other night. I suppose she has never had fair play, 
 poor girl ! Her mother was such a helpless invalid, and 
 her brother is a positive bookworm. He has just 
 married my niece, therefore I feel that I ought to be 
 civil to Miss Morley, but I never felt in a greater per- 
 plexity." 
 
 " I shall talk to my wife about it as soon as she returns. 
 She is away now. She generally knows the real meaning 
 of things." 
 
 But even Mrs. Carter did not know the " real mean- 
 ing " of the history her husband told her that evening. 
 She professed herself both incredulous and puzzled. 
 
 " Well, then, ask Miss Morley herself about it. Is 
 that impossible? I feel sure she would tell you the 
 truth." 
 
 "Oh! Robert, quite impossible! It would be a 
 positive insult. She would never come near us again. 
 Besides, it would be so useless, for any harm that could 
 arise from our intimacy must have taken place long 
 ago." 
 
 " Very well, my dear, settle it as you please, only I 
 thought it was right to tell you." 
 
266 Off the Line. 
 
 " Men always think it right to place one in difficulties, 
 and there leave one," said Mrs. Carter, rather more 
 crossly than was her wont. She was really very fond 
 of Sybil, and had not taken any fancy to Mrs. Dormer. 
 
 A few days later Sybil found Mrs. Dormer's card on 
 her table when she came home. 
 
 " She probably knew I was out," she said aloud, tossing 
 the card somewhat disrespectfully into the fire. " I do 
 not see that I am bound to return the visit." 
 
 However, she thought better of it after some reflection, 
 and, having waited a few days, went out with the express 
 purpose of returning the call, but without much result, for 
 Mrs. Dormer was not at home. 
 
 " I think the young ladies must be at home, Ma'am," 
 the footman said, " shall I see ? " 
 
 Sybil hesitated. It would have been a real pleasure 
 to see them without their mother. She could have 
 learned so much she wished to know — things about 
 Cheveleigh and Eustace — that she could not ask their 
 mother or Hugh. 
 
 " No, thank you — never mind," she said with a glance 
 at the window, thinking it possible some one might see 
 her. But the blinds were all down, to keep out the sun, 
 which had been blazing full upon the house even on that 
 winter day. So, with a greater feeling of disappointment 
 than she would acknowledge even to herself, Sybil 
 walked slowly away. She had not proceeded many 
 yards before she was aware of a quick footstep behind 
 her. 
 
 " How quickly you walk ! " said Hugh Dormer as he 
 came up to her. u Where are you going ? I am afraid 
 you have been to our house, for my mother is out. I left 
 her just now in a shop in Bristol." 
 
 " Yes," said Sybil rather stiffly. " Mrs. Dormer was 
 good enough to call upon me some days ago, but I have 
 not been able to return her visit till to-day." 
 
 "I think my sisters are at home. Have you seen 
 much of them since I have been away ? I only came 
 home last night." 
 
tl I can give you no Information . " 267 
 
 So Hugh had been away, and probably knew nothing 
 of the doings of his family. Sybil's spirits immediately 
 rose. 
 
 " I never knew you had been away," she said quickly. 
 
 " Did they not tell you ? — my mother and sisters, I 
 mean ? " 
 
 " I have never seen them — I was out when Mrs. 
 Dormer called." 
 
 Hugh bit his lips, and uttered an impatient ejaculation, 
 but Sybil could not catch his muttered words as he strode 
 on by her side. 
 
 "You must have known I was away," he said at 
 last. 
 
 " How could I ? " she asked, meaning to look un- 
 concerned. 
 
 " Do you think I should have been here for ten days 
 at least without trying to see you ! I suppose it would 
 have been possible to meet you somewhere, or have you 
 determined to give up all old "friends?" he said some- 
 what bitterly. 
 
 " I wonder why you say things which you know are 
 not true, Mr. Dormer, and certainly not very kind ! " re- 
 turned Sybil. 
 
 " Do you walk on the downs every day ? " 
 
 M No, only with Hartly in strange places near the river, 
 where I never meet anybody." 
 
 " Then where are you to be found ? " said Hugh im- 
 patiently ; " only at Dr. Carter's ? " 
 
 " Certainly not ; for I only go there when they invite 
 me." 
 
 " It is perfectly useless to go on in this way any 
 longer," said -Hugh energetically ; and then, apparently 
 checked by some sudden thought, he finished his sentence 
 by asking Sybil if she thought he should find Dr. Carter 
 at home. 
 
 " He is seldom at home much in the day-time ; some- 
 times for half-an-hour, but they never know when to 
 expect him. Mrs. Carter and the girls are at home, I 
 know." 
 
a68 Off the Line. 
 
 " Then I will go there. But you will let me take you 
 home first ? " 
 
 " I don't think I am going home, and I had much 
 rather walk alone — really it is quite true," and she 
 blushed deeply from a mixture of feelings and painful 
 recollections. 
 
 Hugh seemed to read her thoughts, for he shook 
 hands with her at once, and without another word turned 
 down a side street and was gone. 
 
 He found Mrs. Carter trying to persuade her little 
 daughter that expeditions in February, especially by 
 water, were inexpedient, if not impossible. 
 
 Minnie was urging the fulfilment of her long promised 
 visit to Chepstow Castle. 
 
 " But it's only the Castle, mamma, that I want to see, 
 and papa promised to show it to me ; and the trees 
 having no leaves on doesn't matter, and I daresay there 
 won't be any wind ; and I shall be twelve years old on 
 Thursday, and papa said he would show it to me, and a 
 promise cannot be broken, can it?" 
 
 Hugh Dormer was announced during this last declara- 
 tion, and the child repeated it, looking appealingly at 
 him, as if asking him to endorse it. 
 
 " Certainly not ; neither promises nor pie-crusts. That 
 saying is a disgrace to mankind ! May I know to what 
 you especially refer now?" he said, turning to Minnie 
 with mock gravity. 
 
 She repeated her grievance, and Hugh most energeti- 
 cally took her part. 
 
 " It seems that the point of seeing Chepstow is, that 
 it should be seen on one particular day — this young 
 lady's birthday — no other day would do. Both castle and 
 scenery would have a totally different appearance, and 
 the chances of wind, rain, or even snow on that day 
 would only be an agreeable variety." 
 
 " Now you are laughing at me," said Minnie, almost 
 pettishly. " I expected you to be my friend." 
 
 " Indeed, I would not forfeit that title for the 
 world. Besides, I have never seen Chepstow, and 
 
"I can give y oil no Information." 269 
 
 was going to entreat you to let me be of the 
 party." 
 
 " I will invite you all," said the child, " for /invite all 
 the people on my birthdays. It's my party ; no one else 
 has anything to do with it. Last year we all went in the 
 train to Bath j this year we are going to Chepstow by the 
 boat. We must take luncheon with us." 
 
 "And come back directly after, I hope," said her 
 mother, "before it is dark. I must say it is a wild- 
 goose expedition, and in that way well suited to 
 Minnie." 
 
 " Mamma, you must not say that, for I am going to 
 tell papa that it is all settled, and that he must not go to 
 see one sick person all Wednesday — not one, even if they 
 are dying." 
 
 " Hush ! Minnie, don't talk nonsense. Do you think 
 it would amuse your sisters to see the Castle at Chep- 
 stow, Mr. Dormer ? If it would, I should be very glad 
 to take them. It is a beautiful spot, in spite of winter 
 and leafless trees. 
 
 " I am sure my sisters would enjoy it extremely ; but I 
 don't know whether my mother would think it prudent 
 for them. But if you will allow me, I will ask her. I 
 conclude that I may consider myself as already invited — 
 may I, Miss Minnie ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course ; but I must count all the people, 
 mustn't I, mamma, because of the luncheon, you know ? 
 Let me see, there's you and papa, and Grace, and Susan, 
 and Mr. Harris, and Emily Morton, and Miss Morley, 
 and Mr. Dormer, and— who else ? Only me — that's not 
 enough," said Minnie, disconsolately. 
 
 *' I think it's quite enough, Minnie ; but you have not 
 asked Miss Morley yet." 
 
 " No ; but she is sure to come. I will go now with 
 Grace and ask her — may I ? " 
 
 " Yes, if you like, and the sooner the better. Then we 
 shall get rid of such a chatterbox ! " 
 
 Minnie ran off, full of importance; and Hugh rose 
 to go. 
 
270 Off the Line. 
 
 u I am afraid Mrs. Dormer will think us very insane 
 people to propose an expedition of this kind new ; but it 
 is really only a short day. and if she or your sisters would 
 like to see the place, I hope they will come with us; I 
 am obliged to go, to prevent anything foolish or impru- 
 dent being done." 
 
 " I do not think my mother would go ; but if she will 
 allow my sisters to go, I am sure they would like it. 
 What day is it to be? Wednesday, the 26th — I must 
 make a memorandum of it." 
 
 " It would be an unpardonable offence in Minnie's 
 eyes to forget her birthday," said Mrs. Carter, smiling. 
 " She considers it the one day that is of importance in 
 the whole year." 
 
 " I will call and tell you my mother's decision, if you 
 will allow me," said Hugh ; " and then your daughter 
 will give me her orders." 
 
 Minnie's will, as usual, carried all before it — even her 
 father's ; and as the boat set off at ten and returned at 
 four, there did not appear to be any especial risk of cold. 
 Sybil accepted Minnie's invitation at once, and even Mrs. 
 Dormer yielded to Hugh's persuasions and the girls' 
 entreaties, and allowed them to go under Mrs. Carter's 
 care and chaperonage. 
 
 The weather was mild and sunny, and the young faces 
 that met on the morning of the twenty-sixth, by the water- 
 side, looked as bright as if they expected a midsummer 
 day. 
 
 Sybil felt very happy seated between Hugh and 
 "Florence Dormer, as the boat glided down the river, and 
 as much inclined as ever for a walk and a scramble when 
 they landed at Chepstow. Mrs. Carter went at once to 
 procure a room in which they could eat the luncheon 
 they had brought with them, it having been possible, at 
 last, to convince even Minnie that to sit on the grass at 
 that time of year might be cold and damp. Sybil thought 
 that perhaps it was her duty to remain with Mrs. Carter; 
 but was relieved by her assurance that anyone would be 
 in her way, and that she could always arrange things best 
 
'*/ can give you no Information" 271 
 
 by herself: so, having made the offer, she set off to over- 
 take the rest. 
 
 She found Hugh lingering behind the others, appa- 
 rently waiting for her. Instead of joining them at once, 
 he proposed to walk in another direction, where, he said, 
 the best view of the castle was to be seen. They walked 
 in silence for some minutes, and then Hugh said, ab- 
 ruptly,— 
 
 " Now tell me what you did not tell me the other 
 day." 
 
 " How can I ? I don't even remember what it was," 
 said Sybil, looking up in surprise. 
 
 " Why you live alone at Clifton, in that extraordinary 
 and unsociable way, and not at Cheveleigh ? " 
 
 " I told you why — because both Mary and Eustace are 
 much happier without me." 
 
 "That is all very well, and may be true for one month, 
 or even for two, but it cannot continue." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Why, because it is strange and unnatural, and every- 
 one must think so." 
 
 " Only ' everyone ' does not exist, as far as 1 am con- 
 cerned," said Sybil, sadly. 
 
 " I think it a great want of humility to be so indifferent 
 to the world's opinion," he replied, wilfully misunder- 
 standing her ; u besides being extremely inconvenient 
 to me." 
 
 " How can it possibly affect you ? " 
 
 " No one can ever see you, living as you do. By some 
 lucky chance I was included in the party to-day, other- 
 wise " 
 
 " But why ? I cannot imagine your wishing to see me, 
 Mr. Dormer." 
 
 Hugh stopped short in his walk, and turning round, 
 faced her. 
 
 "It is very unlike you to say so, for you must know 
 that it is not true. From the first day we ever met, you 
 have been present to my memory. I was going to 
 Cheveleigh expressly to meet you, as soon as I had estab- 
 
 18 
 
272 Off the Line. 
 
 lished my mother here, when I saw you so strangely and 
 unexpectedly." 
 
 " It is quite the last thing you could expect me to 
 imagine," said Sybil, in a low voice. 
 
 " I wish I could persuade you to go to Cheveleigh. I 
 am afraid you will think I have no right to ask it. Will 
 you, for my sake ? " he added, with some hesitation. 
 
 " I am not sure that I understand you, Mr. Dormer," 
 said Sybil, gravely. " If you mean n 
 
 " I mean that you are the only person in the world 
 that I care to see, and that I can only see you at Cheve- 
 leigh," he said, passionately, " Is it too presumptuous 
 to hope that you will not always be indifferent to me ? " 
 
 " I am not thinking of my own feelings, but of you, of 
 your mother, and your sisters. What would your mother 
 feel, if she knew this ? No, Mr. Dormer, believe me, I 
 am deeply grateful for your regard, but I shall never take 
 advantage of your generosity, to let you compromise your- 
 self and your family." 
 
 " But the whole thing is a morbid fancy — a phantom 
 created by your own imagination," he replied, eagerly. 
 " Of course I cannot pretend to misunderstand to what 
 you refer, but no one looks upon a simply thoughtless 
 action as you do. I do not see that you were to blame, 
 or that you were even a free agent. Geoffrey told me 
 that the man himself was nothing to you." 
 
 Hugh looked anxiously into Sybil's face, waiting for a 
 confirmation of his words ; but she was silent, over- 
 whelmed by Hugh's unexpected declaration of attach- 
 ment. She was painfully perplexed how to reply. If 
 she could only have declared, with truth, that Hervey 
 Feltham had ever been as repugnant to her as he was 
 now S But she could not, knowing that it had been the 
 thoughtless and selfish encouragement that she had given 
 him that had led him to act as he had done. 
 
 " It was true, was it not ? " asked Hugh. " Geoffrey 
 was not mistaken ? " 
 
 There was a painful intonation in his voice as he re- 
 peated the question, that touched Sybil to the heart. 
 
U I can give you no Information." 273 
 
 u I hardly know how to answer you," she said, blush- 
 ing deeply. " All that happened was my fault" 
 
 '" Impossible ! I saw that woman's letter." 
 
 " I know," said Sybil, interrupting him. " It was true 
 that I was going to Uncle Harold's house in London ; 
 but then Mrs. Feltham was not a fit person to take me, 
 and if I had not behaved wrongly and selfishly, and given 
 her son encouragement, he would not have behaved as 
 he did!" 
 
 " But now ? " persisted Hugh. 
 
 * Now," replied Sybil, quickly, " I am afraid that I am 
 equally guilty in the excess of my resentment and dislike." 
 
 * Thank God ! " said Hugh. " And thank you, Miss 
 Morley, for your unflinching truth. As I believe that it 
 is only these morbid fancies that prevent your listening 
 to me, I cannot accept what you say as a refusal. Will 
 you listen to my mother, if she pleads for me ? " he said, 
 taking Sybil's hand ; but she withheld it at once. 
 
 " It will be time enough to decide then, Mr. Dormer. 
 At present it cannot be. I shall look upon all this as 
 unsaid, and you as perfectly free." 
 
 " You wish me to give you the same liberty ? " said 
 Hugh, with a smile. "It is harder for me to be so 
 generous." 
 
 " You know I do not wish it," said Sybil, sadly ; " it 
 is very different." 
 
 * Then, at all events, I may carry away this comfort — 
 that, at least, I am not rejected for another ? " 
 
 Sybil looked up — one quick, reproachful glance, which 
 was all-sufficient to reassure him in that respect. 
 
 Hugh — Sybil — Miss Morley — Mr. Dormer, were now 
 shouted on all sides, and as the rest of the party came 
 up, they were assailed by vehement reproaches from 
 Minnie for their desertion. 
 
 " I am very sorry, Miss Minnie ; it was all my fault. I 
 carried off Miss Morley to the top of the hill to look at 
 the view. I did not think we were away long, though I 
 must say she disappointed me by the little admiration she 
 showed for the scenery," said Hugh, mischievously. 
 
*74 Off thi Lint. 
 
 «8f\A should not hare epnewkn you— h k too ike* 
 some. Mamma said that 1 was to keep everybody 
 together. Yon tiro bare tamed seemg the Castle, and 
 will want todok now, and we shell bare to watt lor you, 
 gofan, too, if going away to help mamma," 
 
 "lean run over the ruin in tore minutes," said Hngh, 
 ''so war don't wait lor me/ 
 
 "1 don't want to fee it/* raid Srbil, sprmpne forward 
 ^fo]etme*p,fkm*,hmeado( you ( Where* Mrs, 
 :arter?" 
 
 " And 1 hare done enough lor the present," «& D& 
 t liter, "so lean take you to my wut f Mm Morler, if 
 rtubke— onlr remember that we nmft all meet at the 
 mi* before two o'clock. M ot that 1 tee whr yon should 
 sit <n a small room looking at paddings and piety that 
 may not be eaten till Minnie choose*/* he added* tur n i ng 
 toS/biL 
 
 "Because k * the onlr mmg ; 1 should like to do. 
 
 ^ JC^fcd^t ^^#* wHPf*' K/ ^f^P#W W\F%wf SiVf^P' MPJiAPe MlfMW JWuW IWIM^ 
 
 &rbil waf rerr fond of Dr, Carter, 
 
 "1 msirhf to be extremdr Mattered when a wcttr mnasr 
 hdy k sained widt the eom^myot an M man hke me/' 
 hesa$d\ejany; forhewa* far too acute an observer not 
 to fee traces of recent agnation on grbifr countenance, 
 jnd umhri to tf§« bm mm If njmmji 
 
 She attacbedbe»df to Ma Carter all the reft of the 
 day, u nder the flea of btbtfnc her, and aa her friend saw 
 diat lor some reason it was grbiff real wish, she was not 
 
 ^mmnmjmfltfMB vCmi^ n^^mw^wv wVm bV^^ flLV-neeu. 4i/rfh^ ff^% BUjSeKm' $}t m-^ e- * 
 
 wrwpw^^^*^WSw wJS^^Er jSwJmmU^QjSy i|r ■fw' ^BjmPfSWP otA/f^P* P^f 99SwWww MMPw USaF 
 
 mmk orer me last few hours, orer all the happiness and 
 all me pain that bad been so st tw ttud y mixed no together, 
 ■fib* niMi conttmriJtcd me nornMnr of *4rine:*HtteJi 
 any other answer; How could she be the came of <&- 
 
 chndi she had no one who could cotmsefber > hew own 
 strength and her own judgment were aH she hadtorety 
 
 ffffflii Ifor fhsw new tWendr itntw notfusnr other oust me, 
 
 ^■^■mW/bf mv^uK 4 fw£SFY^0V ■ t «sr^fnyjVnFfsl \w0nY 4Mmn fTsMsmt^u#Mr 4Mn«4 
 
 ■CflWv^nmlW 4BMnt n^mT *ftumt£m£^^^4tfm^Sflf ■nsM' mjsmj'M myftot 4 smlMmnfl 4%Jm# f 
 
 ™*^P^F«nw*j^j rwimn* mffr s^^fs^t^^^^Hf^f^w .WfP# Tf «r» #*# TfsPw* Ow IHHImnr v T n^ ^ 
 
€** jfar ym m /ifimitm* 17$ 
 
 By degrees they all gave up trying to make her talk, 
 her maimer was so abstracted, ami her answers so irrele- 
 vant Hugh Dormer tried to obtain a seat by her, but 
 could not succeed ; there was no means of conversation, 
 only when he assisted her out of the boat he found 
 
 <— ; 
 
 toCheveleigh?* 
 Sviui onlj ihookhtrfceari En re^attdwim .; mm 
 of hci hand &q paittA 
 
 i,v... 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Hugh's illness. 
 
 ! Hope, on whose lingering help she leaned so late, 
 Struck from her clinging by the sword of fate ; 
 That wild word Never, to her shrinking gaze, 
 Seems written on the wall in fiery rays." 
 
 Mrs. Norton. 
 
 N some respects Hugh Dormer returned home 
 in a still more perplexed state of mind than 
 that into which he had plunged Sybil. The 
 difficulty he had experienced in meeting her 
 had led him to act impulsively, and to a somewhat prema- 
 ture declaration of his attachment. He felt now that he 
 had been incautious in not having spoken first to his 
 mother ; for he could not deny that her objections were 
 reasonable, and, being at present mainly dependent on 
 her, he knew that if she withheld her consent and assis- 
 tance, his marriage would be impossible, at least for many 
 years. He felt provoked with himself, and was in conse- 
 quence irritable with his sisters when they laughed at him 
 for his long walk and flirtation with Miss Morley. He 
 only gave short sharp answers, and as soon as he had 
 deposited them at home, set off in the twilight for a long 
 solitary walk, to try and get rid of his vexation, and to 
 consider what would be the best line of conduct for him 
 to pursue. 
 
 After walking some distance he began to reproach him- 
 self for not having remained at home, as his sisters' 
 account of the day's proceedings would probably prejudice 
 his mother still more against Sybil. 
 
 This thought did not tend at all to soothe him, and he 
 
Hugh's Illness. 277 
 
 strode on, till reminded by the increasing darkness that, 
 as he had left no message for his mother, she would 
 probably be alarmed at his absence, he walked rapidly 
 home ; and having tired himself into a more quiescent 
 state of mind, arrived just as the dinner was announced, 
 and everyone eagerly looking out for him. 
 
 "At last, Hugh ! " said Julia ; "we had just given you 
 up. I was just saying you must have accepted an invita- 
 tion to dinnner ; and yet it seemed unlikely, unless that 
 old nurse could act as duenna." 
 
 " I advise you to give up imagining, Julia, unless your 
 imaginings are wiser and more to the purpose than such 
 nonsense as that. Do let me pass, andj beg my mother 
 to begin dinner ; I shall be ready in five minutes." 
 
 Mrs. Dormer looked very grave as Hugh entered the 
 room, apologising for his unpunctuality. 
 
 "You must be insatiable in the matter of exercise, 
 Hugh ; walking from nine o'clock to six should at least 
 give you an appetite." 
 
 " I don't think it has, mother. Besides, I had no 
 exercise this morning, sitting in a boat and dawdling 
 about a ruin." 
 
 " This passion for walking is new, I think. In London, 
 you always want to stay at home and read, even after you 
 have been working all day at law." 
 
 "But this place is different. There are no books 
 here." 
 
 "Very different, indeed," returned his mother drily. 
 
 The girls were tired with their expedition, and went to 
 bed early, so that Hugh and his mother were soon left 
 alone. Neither spoke, and the only sounds were the 
 quick click of Mrs. Dormer's knitting-pins, and the rustle 
 of the leaves of the book Hugh was pretending to read. 
 He felt sure that their thoughts were on the same subject, 
 and hoped that his mother would be the first to break the 
 silence. But ten o'clock struck, then the half hour, with- 
 out one word having been said on either side. At last 
 Mrs. Dormer looked at her watch, and then Hugh knew 
 that he must break the silence. 
 
278 Off the Line. 
 
 "Has Dr. Carter done you good, mother?" he began, 
 not being brave enough to broach the subject so near his 
 heart at once. 
 
 " I fancy so ; Julia is certainly stronger. You know 
 that it was for her that we came here." 
 
 "Do you think that you shall remain here much 
 longer ? " 
 
 " I think not. I hear that the east wind here is very 
 trying in the spring. Perhaps we may come again in 
 the summer. Your holiday must be over, Hugh, is it 
 not?" 
 
 " No, I have another fortnight. As I didn't go to see 
 Mary, I spent the days that I was absent in London." 
 " Then you are going to Cheveleigh now ? " 
 " No, my object in going to Cheveleigh was to see Miss 
 Morley, and she is here." 
 
 A hasty lifting up of the eyebrows, and a jerk of the 
 wool she was knitting, were the only evidences that Mrs. 
 Dormer had heard her son's words, for she made no 
 reply. 
 
 " Mother," he said, " I hope you are not going to bed 
 yet, for I want to talk to you." 
 
 Mrs. Dormer laid down her work, and folded her hands 
 with a look of sad resignation that would have com- 
 pletely silenced anyone less bent on attaining his object 
 than Hugh. 
 
 " Will you try to like Miss Morley ? — for my sake ? ■ 
 " You don't mean that it has come to that ? " said his 
 mother quickly. " Your sisters told me that she kept you 
 away from all the rest to-day — so I conclude she has 
 effected her purpose." 
 
 " Mother ! " exclaimed Hugh indignantly, "it is unlike 
 you to be so unjust — quite Unlike you ! I asked Miss 
 Morlev to walk with me to see a view of the castle, and 
 then - — " 
 
 "Then what?" 
 
 " I told her that I had intended going to Cheveleigh 
 expressly to see her, and that I wished she would — she 
 would go back to live there, as I could not see her at any 
 
Hugfts Illness, 279 
 
 other place, and that I should live in hope of coming 
 there some day and asking her to be my wife." Hugh 
 spoke out bravely now. 
 
 "I need not inquire her reply," said his mother 
 satirically. 
 
 " I doubt if you know it. She said that she would not 
 listen to me — that it would displease you, and might 
 compromise my sisters." 
 
 " Really ! " said Mrs. Dormer, surprised ; " I certainly 
 did not expect such an answer." 
 
 " I then asked her if she would listen to you if you 
 pleaded for me ; but she said if such a thing ever hap- 
 pened she would tell me then. She has such an exag- 
 gerated view of her own misdoings — which after all were 
 mainly the result of thoughtlessness and ignorance of the 
 world — that she believed herself compromised for ever. 
 Nothing but some evidence from you to the contrary will 
 ever induce her to listen to me. Mother," said Hugh, in 
 a tone of deep feeling, " your life has been one long act 
 of kindness and consideration for me ; will you help me 
 now — I could not bear to think that you will not love my 
 wife." 
 
 Mrs. Dormer was silent; she could not endure the 
 thought of such a marriage, and yet to make Hugh un- 
 happy, and possibly alienate him, were equally painful 
 alternatives. 
 
 " I could not bear it either, Hugh," she said at length ; 
 " nothing must ever come between us. But I shall hope 
 this may prove a passing fancy," she added, as her eyes 
 filled with tears. 
 
 " No, mother, it never will ; pray do not delude your- 
 self, and make shipwreck of my happiness by expecting 
 it. I never loved any other woman, and none but Sybil 
 Morley shall ever be my wife. Mother," he continued 
 in great agitation, " I ask your assistance in that which 
 involves the happiness of my life ; it cannot be that you 
 will refuse it ! " 
 
 " Not if I could believe that it would," she answered 
 in a low voice. 
 
280 Off the Line, 
 
 " But I am not a child now, am I ? You often say I 
 am too old for my years, and I think I have been a 
 dutiful son to you." 
 
 " Always my one comfort in life," she replied, laying 
 her hand fondly on his head. 
 
 "Then surely you can trust me when I say this is no 
 fancy, but the settled determination of months? All 
 that happened could not alter my feelings towards her. 
 I only want you to be kind to one who is so lonely, and 
 to try to love her for my sake. I would wait long — very 
 long for your approval, mother, but I cannot give up the 
 purpose of my life." 
 
 Hugh spoke very quietly and decidedly. 
 
 " You are not in a position to marry, Hugh," she said. 
 
 " I know that, but I can work, and I would work for 
 such an end. Even a life of hardship could not be so 
 irksome to her as the life she is leading now. I cannot 
 understand how Mary can allow things to be as they 
 are ! " 
 
 " I know nothing about it, and still less what you want 
 me to do, Hugh," said his mother, rather despondingly. 
 
 " Only to behave to her in such a way as to convince 
 her that her past life has not in any way prejudiced you 
 against her. But I am wrong to keep you up, mother — 
 you will think it over, I know," he said, coming up to her 
 and kissing her. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer did think it over, and the consequence 
 was a sleepless night, and too bad a headache for her to 
 %ee her son all the next day. He had no excuse, and no 
 opportunity of seeing Sybil, and wandered about in a very 
 disconsolate state of mind. The next day Mrs. Dormer 
 was very little better — certainly not well enough for Hugh 
 to talk to her about his own affairs ; and her indisposition 
 lasted for so many days, that Hugh, after roaming about 
 in every direction in the hope of meeting Sybil, and 
 calling frequently at Dr. Carter's in the hope of an 
 invitation to dinner, was so much irritated and perplexed 
 at the state of his relations with her, that he determined 
 to go to Cheveleigh to secure his cousin's influence in 
 
Hugfts Illness. 281 
 
 his favour. His mother being anxious to return to 
 London as soon as she was able to move, made his 
 further stay useless ; so, having told her of his intentions, 
 he wrote to Sybil, saying that to be so near her, and yet 
 never to see her, was too tantalising for him to endure 
 any longer, and that he was going to Cheveleigh, where 
 he hoped to hear from her; he also told her of his 
 mother's illness, saying that it had prevented Mrs, Dormer 
 from calling on her as she had intended. 
 
 " I suppose her daughters are not ill ; and I suppose 
 also that her son must have said enough about me for 
 her to have sent a message if she had wished it," she 
 thought, as she slowly folded up Hugh's letter — rather a 
 business-like production for a love-letter. Sybil had fully 
 and entirely meant all she said to Hugh at Chepstow, and 
 had taken pains ever since to avoid meeting him ; but 
 she knew that he had not taken her at her word. She 
 had a deep and abiding trust in him — this was the result 
 of his power over her; the entire confidence she felt in 
 him gave her repose. He also told her that his mother 
 would shortly return to London, which would necessitate 
 his meeting her there ; adding, that he meant to extort a 
 promise from Mary that she would persuade Sybil to 
 meet him at Cheveleigh in the summer. 
 
 " I shall certainly not do that," said Sybil, decidedly, 
 as she sat with a pen in her hand, deliberating upon the 
 difficulty of writing to Hugh; "if I would not go to 
 Mary and Eustace before, there can be no reason that I 
 should do so now," — none but the long vista of lonely 
 weeks and years that seemed to unroll themselves before 
 her mind, and which the momentary glimpse she had 
 had of possible happiness made harder to contemplate. 
 
 Hugh had a right to expect an answer, so after many 
 failures Sybil despatched a reply : — 
 
 "Dear Mr. Dormer, 
 
 "I regret to hear of Mrs. Dormer's illness; 
 but I think you are quite right not to remain here, for I 
 could never see you, being as conscious as I am of her 
 
282 Off the Line. 
 
 disapprobation. If this had been only a fancy of mine, 
 as you wished me to believe, I think she would have sent 
 me a message, or allowed your sisters to call upon me. 
 While this is so, I cannot either see you or answer any other 
 letter. I hope you will believe this. Pray do not think 
 that I am not grateful for your generous behaviour towards 
 me ; on reflection you will see that I am right. My love 
 to Eustace and Mary ; but I do not mean to leave Clifton 
 till Geoffrey returns. 
 
 " Believe me, yours sincerely, 
 
 "Sybil Morley." 
 
 Hugh did not derive much comfort from his visit to 
 Cheveleigh. He thought Eustace cold and unsatisfactory, 
 and Mary, though anxious to please him, evidently con- 
 sidered his choice an unwise one ; and both expressed so 
 much surprise, that it could not fail to annoy him. Mary, 
 too, saw everything with her husband's eyes, so that the 
 sympathy upon which he had reckoned from her failed 
 him. 
 
 He was now only anxious to return to London and 
 work ; he meant to work harder than ever, for Hugh's 
 nature was persistent, and hindrances suggested by others 
 were more likely to act as incentives than obstacles. He 
 determined to attain what had now become the object 
 of his life, as well as to use every effort to overcome his 
 mother's prejudices. 
 
 Hugh loved Sybil, as strong undemonstrative natures 
 do love, with his entire being. Her image was interwoven 
 with every thought ; she had become the motive power 
 of every action of his life. At first her beauty had 
 captivated him ; then the loneliness of her position, and 
 the sad consequences it had entailed, though mainly 
 through her own fault, had enlisted all his sympathy and 
 chivalrous feeling. He had seen a good deal of Geoffrey 
 before he left England, and the warm affection and 
 admiration he had expressed for his sister, added to the 
 charm of her own truthful generous nature, completely 
 overcame any misgivings that occasionally crept into his 
 
Hugh's Illness, 283 
 
 mind before he had given the rein to his attachment. 
 Now he was prepared to believe Sybil a model of sense 
 and discretion. Perhaps, as a lover, Hugh did see 
 things rather en couleur de rose; but it was equally true 
 that Sybil's character had undergone a great change in 
 the last year, and that all that she had suffered had had 
 its full effect in subduing a will that had hitherto carried 
 all before it. 
 
 Some weeks passed — weeks of loneliness to Sybil, of 
 hard work to Hugh. Mary's kind heart led her to 
 mention their names in her letters to each ; but she never 
 said much more, for her conscience would not allow her 
 to foster a state of things which Eustace declared to be 
 " absurd and impossible." 
 
 It was barren food for both ; but the most so to Hugh, 
 as Sybil's trust in him was so complete that her own ideal 
 was sufficient to exist upon. She persisted, however, in her 
 resolution of not going to Cheveleigh, though Eustace 
 and Mary paid a visit to Clifton expressly to induce her 
 to return with them. Her friendship with the Carters 
 had led to her making some acquaintances, who varied 
 the monotony of her life ; and she began also to interest 
 herself in some of the many cases of poverty and distress 
 which she heard of through Mr. Carter, whose life was 
 devoted to the poor. Hartly was a ready coadjutor in 
 works of this sort, so that by degrees interests of various 
 kinds crept into Sybil's life. 
 
 But, meanwhile, things were less prosperous with 
 Hugh. In his eagerness for work he had considerably 
 over-tasked his strength, seldom allowing himself suffi- 
 cient sleep or exercise. ^ His mother often remonstrated, 
 and commented upon his thin and haggard looks ; but 
 as she had already lost a daughter and her husband in 
 the prime of life by consumption, she was always con- 
 sidered morbidly alive to every indication of illness in 
 her children. Hugh usually laughed at her fears ; but 
 now confessed to having caught a cold, which hung about 
 him, and made him feel " languid and good for nothing." 
 He supposed that it would last till warm weather came. 
 
a$4 Off the Line. 
 
 " This is the worst time of all to get rid of a cold, 
 mother," he said, "these March winds have been so 
 piercing and bitter." 
 
 Mrs. Dormer was obliged to be satisfied with the same 
 kind of reply for some time, till one morning Hugh came 
 down looking so wretchedly ill, that both his mother and 
 sisters implored him to stay at home and nurse himself. 
 
 " Impossible ! — I have too much to do — I did so little 
 last week. I have no time to spend in taking care of my- 
 self." 
 
 " But that is too foolish, Hugh, for you will only lose 
 more time, and be laid up in the end/' remonstrated his 
 mother. 
 
 " You certainly coughed all night, Hugh, for I heard 
 you whenever I woke," urged Julia. 
 
 " I shall go at once, if I am to be worried in this way 
 about a cold," he answered, with so much asperity of 
 manner, that his sisters were dismayed into silence, and 
 his mother looked at him in astonishment. " I don't 
 want any breakfast," he added, pushing away his tea-cup. 
 " I must ring for a cab — it is so bitterly cold. If I come 
 home in one, it can make no difference whether I sit in 
 my chambers or here." 
 
 " You are quite unfit to go out at all, Hugh," said his 
 mother, gravely. 
 
 "Mamma, I am afraid Hugh is really ill," said his 
 sister, after watching the cab drive away from the door. 
 " He is quite unlike himself to-day." 
 
 * He owns to a cold ; he is apt to have a cold in the 
 early spring," said Mrs. Dormer, carelessly. But, though 
 unwilling to confess her uneasiness to her daughter, she 
 despatched a note to the family physician, begging him 
 to call in Portman Square that evening without fail. 
 
 "Hugh shall not go out to-morrow, if he is not 
 better," she thought, as she folded up her note. " Dr. 
 Pritchard is sure to forbid it, and I think he will mind 
 him." 
 
 But Hugh soon came home again, owning that he was 
 quite unable to read, and that it would be better to give 
 
Hugh's Itiness. 285 
 
 himself a day's rest, and go to bed at once. Alarmed by 
 his appearance, and continual shivering fits, Mrs. Dormer 
 sent to beg the doctor to come immediately ; but unfortu- 
 nately he had gone out for the day. By the evening 
 Hugh's fever had increased so much, and his breathing 
 had become so difficult, that when Dr. Pritchard came he 
 at once pronounced him to be suffering from severe 
 inflammation of the lungs, and expressed both surprise 
 and displeasure that he had not been sent for sooner. 
 
 "I did not know he was so ill," said his mother. 
 " Even this morning he was up, and went out as usual, 
 though he soon came home again." 
 
 The fact was that his mother and sisters had seen 
 comparatively little of him since their return to London. 
 Hugh had worked early and late — had, in fact, been 
 leading a life that was sure to end in a break up of health 
 and strength. Mrs. Dormer told this to Dr. Pritchard, 
 who replied that in this case his illness might be a cause 
 of thanksgiving, as no constitution could bear such a 
 continual strain upon brain and strength. 
 
 " In short, my dear Madam, burning the candle at 
 both ends, as he has evidently been doing, must soon 
 have extinguished it altogether. Now, I hope, that with 
 great care " 
 
 " Do you really think him so ill, Dr. Pritchard — not 
 dangerously ill ? " asked his mother, nervously. 
 
 " Indeed I do. I think he will want very great care, 
 and very nice management, to bring him round, if it can be 
 done at all. He is in a state of great excitement, and 
 seems to be thoroughly unhinged, both in body and mind. 
 I have never seen him the least like this before. Can 
 you account for it ? " 
 
 His mother, now extremely alarmed, told the doctor 
 of his attachment to Sybil, and how it had led to him 
 overworking himself as he had done. 
 
 " Well, of course I cannot tell how far anything of the 
 kind may be undesirable, but I do know that to thwart 
 or worry him now may cost him his life. I shall be here 
 early in the morning, and shall leave exact directions 
 
286 Off the Line. 
 
 with the nurse I am going to send. She will let me know 
 if anything occurs to make it necessary for me to come. 
 You will have a servant ready, in case I am needed in. 
 the night." 
 
 "But indeed we do not want a nurse," said Mrs. 
 Dormer. " I am accustomed to night nursing, and no 
 one ever does nurse Hugh but myself." 
 
 " No one ever has, I daresay ; but this is a different 
 case. In fact, I will not undertake it unless I manage 
 it my own way. It's much too ticklish a business," said 
 the plain-spoken doctor. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer made no further opposition, though she 
 refused to go to bed, and stationed herself outside her 
 son's door, listening to his laboured breathing and inco- 
 herent muttering, bitterly reproaching herself for not 
 having been quicker to detect the signs of such an illness 
 as this coming on. For some days Hugh hovered 
 between life and death ; then came a slight amendment, 
 but accompanied with such entire prostration of strength, 
 that Dr. Pritchard would not encourage hopes of a 
 recovery, which he considered so uncertain. 
 
 Mary thought it right to inform Sybil of Hugh's illness, 
 but she made as light of it as possible. The first intima- 
 tion she had of the real state of the case was from Dr. 
 Carter. Mrs. Dormer had written to him, evidently 
 thinking it right that she should be informed of her son's 
 precarious state, and commissioning him to break it to 
 her. Ignorant on the subject, and unaccustomed to 
 illness, she did not easily take alarm, and it was not till 
 she received a few hurried lines from Mrs. Dormer, 
 begging her to come to Portman Square at once, where a 
 room would be ready for her, " in case Hugh should ask 
 for her," that she at all realised his state, or was able to 
 grasp the extent of the danger that could wring such a 
 concession from his mother. 
 
 " In case he asks for me ! " repeated Sybil. 
 
 These words seemed to her to have but one meaning — 
 that he might wish to see her for the last time, and that 
 his mother would not refuse his dying wish. She was 
 
Hugh's Illness, 287 
 
 conscious of no other thought as the express train carried 
 her to London. In a few hours she should be there — 
 surely she should see him. She had a terrible underlying 
 dread of being too late, that made her impatient of every 
 delay — of the confusion at Paddington— of the slow cab- 
 horse, that seemed as if it could but crawl to its destina- 
 tion. 
 
 At last the cab stopped at a house in Portman Square ; 
 the door was opened immediately, and Hartly asked the 
 question that Sybil's lips could not frame. 
 
 " Just the same — not worse." 
 
 The servant showed her into a room on the ground- 
 floor, saying in a whisper that he would let Mrs. Dormer 
 know of her arrival, and desiring Hartly to follow him. 
 
 "No, thank you," she replied, shortly. "I'm not 
 going to leave Miss Morley alone, and I should be glad 
 if you will bring a glass of wine here as soon as may be." 
 
 The man looked extremely surprised at being treated 
 so coolly by an old woman, who looked so unlike a smart 
 lady's maid ; but he obeyed, and brought a glass of wine, 
 putting it on the table without speaking. 
 
 " Can I go to my room ?" asked Sybil. " I think it 
 would be better." 
 
 But before the man could reply, Julia Dormer hastily 
 entered. She kissed Sybil affectionately, but neither 
 spoke. 
 
 "Now I'll go and see after your things, Miss Sybil," 
 said Hartly; "you'll be wanting rest after this day's 
 hurry." 
 
 " Let me take you to your room, dear Miss Morley," 
 said Julia. " We are so glad you are come— it will be 
 such a comfort to Hugh if " 
 
 " Does he know it ? " whispered Sybil. 
 
 Julia shook her head. 
 
 " When will you take me to my room ? " said Sybil, 
 wearily. " I will wait there." 
 
 " But I may come to you there, may I not? We have 
 looked forward so long to seeing you; but I never 
 expected " 
 
 19 
 
a 88 Of the Line. 
 
 She could not say more, but hid her face in her hands, 
 and cried bitterly. Sybil waited till she was calm, and 
 then said — 
 
 " I know so little about the illness — what it has been, 
 or when it began." 
 
 " Dr. Pritchard attributes it to over-work and a long- 
 neglected cold, which ended in severe inflammation of 
 the lungs. That has subsided ; the danger now is from 
 exhaustion. He is afraid of the least excitement for him, 
 so he must decide whether we may tell him of your 
 arrival." 
 
 " But I fancied— I thought he had asked for me," said 
 Sybil in a tone of surprise. 
 
 " So he has, repeatedly, and all the time he was delirious 
 his one cry was for you. But then he did not know any 
 of us. As soon as he did mamma told him that you 
 would come ; but I don't think he expects it, and he is 
 so weak and shattered — so altered, that I do not believe 
 you would know him." 
 
 Sybil felt paralysed as she followed Julia into her room, 
 and mechanically drank the tea that had been sent up to 
 her. She was conscious of headache and heartache, but 
 her eyes felt hot and dry, and she could not shed a tear. 
 She sat with the door open, listening to every sound, and 
 utterly regardless of Hartly's entreaties that she should 
 go to bed. She had a nervous dread of not being 
 allowed to see Hugh while he could say one word or give 
 her one look that she could treasure up for the remainder 
 of her life. She felt as if all the happiness or misery of 
 her future was condensed in the next few hours — his 
 possible recovery never crossed her mind — it was all too 
 late, her life, her love, and her repentance. 
 
 " Never to meet while clay follows day, 
 Never to kiss more till our lips are clay, 
 Angry hearts grieve loud awhile, 
 Broken hearts are dumb, or smile." 
 
 These words rang in her ears, and she found herself 
 repeating them mechanically over and over again. Site 
 
Hugh's Illness, 289 
 
 felt deep compassion for herself, as her loneliness weighed 
 upon her. 
 
 " She pitied her own heart 
 
 As she held it in her hand." 
 
 For the one hope of her life was passing from her, and 
 she was only now aware how tenaciously she had clung 
 to it. 
 
 At last she consented to lie down, and allow Hartly to 
 cover her up with a shawl, promising to sleep if possible. 
 " A safe promise," she thought as she turned restlessly 
 from side to side, more weary and more wakeful as 
 the hours went on. She wondered that she had not 
 yet seen Mrs. Dormer, but it was more a relief than not ; 
 she had a dread of her quiet sensible face and scruti- 
 nising eye. 
 
 Sybil could scarcely have recognised the pale broken- 
 down woman, who watched day and night by her son's 
 door j for she could not trust herself in his presence for 
 many minutes at a time, his weak voice and wasted frame 
 were agony to her. 
 
 The night seemed endless to Sybil, and, though occa- 
 sionally her eyes would close from utter weariness, she 
 awoke from that short sleep with a start and a feeling of 
 terror that effectually prevented its being any refreshment 
 to her. 
 
 She was up with the earliest dawn, awaiting a possible 
 summons, and quite ready to receive Mrs. Dormer and 
 Dr. Pritchard, who came together to her room. Sybil 
 stood up, pale and trembling. She could not ask any 
 questions. Mrs. Dormer kissed her, saying kindly, 
 
 " I hope you are rested. I would not come to you till 
 I knew if Dr. Pritchard thought we might venture to 
 tell Hugh of your arrival." 
 
 " He is not worse ? " asked Sybil in a low whisper, 
 fixing her eyes intently on Dr. Prichard's kind and in- 
 telligent face. 
 
 " Certainly not — if anything, there is a slight improve- 
 ment." 
 
290 Off the Line, 
 
 " Then you think " 
 
 " We need not think at all, my dear young lady, only 
 do the best we can. It is a very precarious case, but our 
 friend has youth in his favour, and so I do not despair 
 of bringing him round ; at the same time, I dare not en- 
 courage you with hopes that may prove fallacious. I am 
 not sure that in his present state you may not be the 
 best doctor he could have, if it were possible to guard 
 against the slightest agitation." 
 
 "I should be very quiet," said Sybil, looking im- 
 ploringly into Mrs. Dormer's face. 
 
 " It must rest with Dr. Pritchard," she said, in answer 
 to Sybil's appeal. 
 
 " Then I will go to him now ; and will you be quite 
 ready to come at once if I call you ? But mind, there 
 must be perfect calmness," he said, detecting Sybil's 
 quivering lip as she turned away. 
 
 " Come with me to my room," said Mrs. Dormer 
 kindly ; " I can give you a cup of coffee. I am sure you 
 must want something. My room is close to Hugh's, and 
 Dr. Pritchard will call us when he is ready." 
 
 Sybil obeyed mechanically ; drank the coffee Mrs. Dor- 
 mer poured out for her, and then follow ed the doctor, who 
 soon summoned her. She could scarcely distinguish 
 anything in the dim light of the darkened room ; there 
 was something white and still stretched upon the bed ; so 
 still that a momentary terror overcame her, and she 
 hung back. 
 
 "Come on," whispered Dr. Pritchard impatiently; 
 " take my place." 
 
 She approached the bed. Hugh opened his eyes fully, 
 and stretched out his hand like some one groping in the 
 dark. 
 
 A sudden impulse made her lean over him and kiss his 
 brow. 
 
 " Sybil, how good of you to come ! " he murmured. 
 She could then see the sudden gladness that lighted 
 up his pale and sunken features. 
 
 " Hush 1 " she said, sitting down by the bedside, and 
 
Husfis Illness. 
 
 291 
 
 clasping his hand in hers. " I may stay if you don't 
 talk — you will not send me away so soon, will you ? " 
 
 11 Mother," he said — Mrs. Dormer was by his side 
 in an instant — " I am so grateful to you ! Let her stay." 
 
 " Indeed, I will not leave you ! " said Sybil earnestly. 
 " I will not move if you will try and sleep." 
 
 Hugh smiled. It seemed as if Sybil's presence had 
 removed the restless and distressed look that had dwelt 
 on his face even before his illness. He lay perfectly still, 
 occasionally opening his eyes to assure himself of Sybil's 
 presence. Gradually his breathing became regular, and 
 she saw with a deep feeling of thankfulness that he was 
 in a quiet sleep. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 
 
 " A first walk after sickness ! the sweet breeze 
 That murmurs welcome in the bending trees, 
 When the cold shadowy foe of life departs, 
 And the warm blood flows freely through our heart*. 
 The smell of roses — sound of trickling streams, 
 The elastic turf, cross-barred with golden gleams, 
 That seems to lift and meet our faltering tread, 
 The happy birds loud singing overhead ; 
 The glorious range of distant shade and light, 
 In blue perspective rapturous to our sight, 
 Wearied of draperied curtains folding round, 
 And the monotonous chamber's narrow bound. 
 
 Mrs. Norton. 
 
 OME hours passed, and all was still as death in 
 the sick room, for the nurse had taken advantage 
 of another watcher to ensconce herself in an 
 arm-chair, and to make up for so many wakeful 
 hours by a sleep that was far sounder than that of the 
 sick man. 
 
 Early in the afternoon he awoke suddenly, fixing his 
 eyes on Sybil with a vacant look, evidently not knowing 
 her. Terrified beyond expression, she called the nurse, 
 who assured her that it arose from exhaustion, and 
 would soon pass. Her words proved true, but the shock 
 had been so great that Sybil could not control her tears, 
 and with great reluctance she was obliged to leave the 
 room. As his full consciousness returned, he missed 
 Sybil, and the nurse sent for her to come back. 
 
 u Thank God ! " said Hugh. " I could not believe 
 that it had not been a dream ! n 
 
Convalescence. 293 
 
 so again," she said earnestly 5 " for I am 
 never going to leave you." 
 
 " No, but I shall soon leave you," he replied despond- 
 ingly ; " it is only now that I care to recover." 
 
 " So you will — in fact, you are recovering as fast 
 as possible," said Dr. Pritchard, who had entered the 
 room while he was speaking. " Don't be down-hearted, 
 man — there's more fear that you will live till all your 
 friends are tired of you." 
 
 " Do you really think so? " said Hugh, feebly; " I did 
 not care much about it till to-day." 
 
 u Exactly ; and it is that wish which has done you so 
 much good. We want nothing now but a little strength, 
 and that will soon come." 
 
 " Do you mean this ? " asked Sybil, as she followed 
 the doctor out of the room. 
 
 " Indeed I do. Of course the greatest care is re- 
 quired — the least fatigue or imprudence might bring on a 
 relapse ; but there is no one bad symptom left. I think 
 I had better leave him in your hands. You have been 
 the best doctor after all," he said, smiling. 
 
 Dr. Pritchard proved to be right. From that time 
 Hugh steadily improved ; but notwithstanding Sybil's 
 deep and heartfelt happiness, her position was anything 
 but a pleasant one. She felt keenly that in Mrs. 
 Dormer's house she was only a guest on sufferance, and 
 that, as Hugh recovered, she must be daily less necessary 
 to him. 
 
 He evidently never contemplated the possibility of her 
 going away ; but she was determined to do so the first 
 moment that she could safely propose it. Mary and 
 Eustace were coming up to London, principally to see 
 Hugh -j and Sybil thought it would obviate some difficul- 
 culties, and overrule some of Hugh's objections, if she 
 could return with them to Cheveleigh. She accordingly 
 wrote to Mary to that effect, and was now only eager to 
 announce her intention to Mrs. Dormer, and to prove that 
 she was anxious to free her from her presence as soon as 
 possible. The dread of giving Hugh the least annoyance 
 
294 OF Me Line. 
 
 had kept Mrs. Dormer's sensitive temper and jealous 
 nature in abeyance ; but her manner had become con- 
 strained and unnatural. She could not give up Hugh 
 without a conscious and painful effort; so that when 
 Sybil told her of the proposed arrangement, she made 
 but very faint objections. Sybil said that as the time of 
 Eustace's being able to leave Cheveleigh was uncertain, 
 she had not yet mentioned it to anyone. 
 
 "But I thought I would tell you, Mrs. Dormer, in 
 case it should be inconvenient for me to remain so 
 long." 
 
 Sybil spoke very stiffly and proudly. She thought 
 Mrs. Dormer was not kind, as it was at her invitation 
 that she had originally come. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer made a considerable effort to assume a 
 more cordial manner ; but the idea of having Hugh to 
 herself again was too great a temptation for her to over- 
 throw the proposed scheme. 
 
 Dr. Pritchard accidentally brought matters to a 
 climax. He had been speaking of the necessity of 
 change of air for Hugh as soon as it was possible to 
 move him. "And I have been telling him," he added, 
 " that simply as a measure of precaution, it will be only 
 right for him to spend next winter abroad. Now, with 
 the summer before him, he will only need country air. 
 I suppose this new state of affairs will facilitate all these 
 arrangements," he continued, without noticing Mrs. 
 Dormer's change of countenance. " I have never con- 
 gratulated you yet/but I must say his choice does him 
 credit. Miss Morley is a very beautiful girl." 
 
 " She is handsome," replied Mrs. Dormer ; " but I 
 think your congratulations are rather premature, for it 
 must be long before Hugh can marry. The whole affair 
 has been very unfortunate. I hoped the fancy might 
 have died out ; but now that they have been brought to- 
 gether in this way, there is less chance of it." 
 
 " I never saw anything less like ' a fancy,' " said Dr. 
 Pritchard, bluntly ; " and I am]sorry that it does not meet 
 with your approval Your son told me to-day that 
 
Convalescence. 295 
 
 his cousin, Mrs. Morley, was coming up to town, and 
 that Miss Morley intended returning with her. I had 
 just been advising change of air, and he asked me if the 
 
 neighbourhood of would be as good as any other, 
 
 so I imagine that he would prefer going to his cousin's 
 house rather than to a lodging by the sea." 
 
 " But I should take a house at the sea, and go with 
 him," urged Mrs. Dormer. " Surely that would be much 
 better for him ! " 
 
 " I don't think so, at this time of year. The other 
 scheme would be falling in with his own wish, and it is 
 always better to humour patients, if possible." 
 
 Mrs. Dormer thought the doctor very provoking, and 
 was determined not to resign Hugh without a struggle. 
 She had set her heart on having him to herself, at all 
 events for a time, and she forestalled any proposal he 
 might make by telling him that, as Dr. Pritchard advised 
 change of air for him, she had written to Ryde for a 
 house, and meant to move there as soon as possible. 
 
 Hugh's look of blank disappointment irritated his 
 mother still more. 
 
 " I thought of going to Cheveleigh, mother. Dr. 
 Pritchard said it would do as well as any other place. 
 Mary would take good care of me, and Sybil would be 
 there. You know that she is going back with Mary." 
 
 " I think she said something of the kind," said Mrs. 
 Dormer, indifferently. 
 
 " And after that, mother, she may come back to you, 
 may she not?" said Hugh, looking earnestly into her 
 face. 
 
 " To me ? " she replied, hesitating. " Where ? I dare- 
 say we shall not be here. Dr. Pritchard talks of a winter 
 abroad." 
 
 " For me," said Hugh ; " but I need not drag you all 
 into exile." 
 
 " Well, we can talk of that another time. You are 
 scarcely strong enough to arrange such far-distant plans 
 now." 
 
 " I am quite strong enough to understand whether you 
 
2g6 Off the Line, 
 
 mean to receive Sybil as a daughter, mother," he said, 
 gravely. "She has no home, and it certainly is not 
 fitting that she should go and live again by herself in 
 lodgings." 
 
 * But she is going to Cheveleigh," said Mrs. Dormer, 
 evasively. 
 
 " Yes, for the present," said Hugh, wearily. He did 
 not feel equal to discuss the matter further then. It 
 was with real grief that he saw that the idea of his marriage 
 was as distasteful to his mother as it had ever been. 
 
 The day before Eustace and Mary left London, Sybil 
 was sitting by the sofa on which Hugh was lying, with 
 some work in her hand, of which she had not done one 
 stitch. She sat silently looking into space, apparently 
 taking in nothing around her. 
 
 " Our last day, Sybil," said Hugh, at length. " You 
 are very silent." 
 
 " Very dull, I certainly am," she replied, rousing her- 
 self. " I was thinking of so many things — wishing for 
 Geoffrey, among others." 
 
 " You must not wish for anyone when I am with you. 
 I think I shall be jealous of that soldier brother of yours. 
 Do you know that I am afraid I shall not be able to come 
 to Cheveleigh yet." 
 
 " Oh ! Hugh, you promised, and Mary expects you — 
 you must come ! " 
 
 " I believe my mother intends taking a house at Ryde ; 
 if so, as it is done solely for me, I must go there for a 
 time." 
 
 "But Dr. Pritchard said country air would be suffi- 
 cient for you now," said Sybil, blushing from annoyance 
 and wounded feelings, " so this can only be to keep us 
 apart." 
 
 " Don't say so to me, darling — it is not right * and, 
 
 besides, you know it is impossible. Come and sit down 
 
 close to me — I want to talk to you. Do you think. you 
 
 could bear to be very poor now ? " 
 
 " Of course. I am very poor ! " 
 
 " Poverty is a comparative term, and I am not sure 
 
Convalescence. 297 
 
 how far it is right to subject any woman to hardships to 
 which she is unaccustomed." 
 
 " You know nothing would be a hardship with you, 
 Hugh," said Sybil, indignantly. " There is no difficulty 
 about that sort of thing ; but though your mother was 
 good enough to allow me to come when you were so ill, 
 still her objection to me remains as strong as ever. You 
 know I always said I would wait till she asked me, and 
 not you," said Sybil, playfully. 
 
 Hugh looked worried and perplexed, and, with the 
 ready instinct of affection, Sybil at once turned to other 
 subjects. Mary and Eustace came to arrange for the 
 journey, and there was no further opportunity of conversa- 
 tion on that day. On the next Sybil went to Cheveleigh, 
 and a few days later Hugh and his mother and sisters 
 were established at Ryde. The exultation with which 
 Mrs. Dormer had felt that at last Hugh was to be her 
 own undivided property, was considerably damped by the 
 langour and depression which seemed to hang about him. 
 She remarked this one day to her daughters, wondering if 
 a more bracing air would be beneficial. 
 
 {i I don't think it's the air, mamma," replied Julia, 
 colouring deeply ; " but that Hugh is not happy I don't 
 believe he will ever get well while he is so anxious." 
 
 " And what especial reason has he for being anxious 
 now, pray ? " 
 
 "Oh! mamma, you must know." Both Julia and 
 Florence had become very fond of Sybil, and felt indig- 
 nant at what they considered their mother's unkind 
 behaviour towards her. 
 
 Nothing would have surprised Mrs. Dormer more than 
 such an imputation — nothing was further from her inten- 
 tion ; but jealousy of possessing the undivided attention 
 of those she loved, was her predominant failing, and, 
 in spite of her passionate love for her children, there 
 was considerable risk of her sacrificing their happiness 
 through it. 
 
 "Why should your brother be anxious or unhappy?" 
 she asked again. u I have no idea." 
 
298 Off the Line. 
 
 " I suppose he misses Sybil, for one thing." 
 
 " I should think he might bear that, considering that 
 he has all those around him that he has ever loved. A 
 short separation from Miss Morley need scarcely make 
 him either ill or miserable," 
 
 " I wish you could love her as we do, mamma, and not 
 call her ' Miss Morley,' " replied Julia. 
 
 Annoyed with her daughter, and dissatisfied with her- 
 self, Mrs. Dormer proceeded to her son's room, in a very 
 ruffled state of feeling. She found him sitting up writing, 
 looking pale and weary. 
 
 " I wish you would lie down, Hugh, after going out — 
 you can write at any time." 
 
 " I must write some time to-day ; but it will do later," 
 he said, evidently glad to return to the sofa. 
 
 "Iara sure this place does not suit you, Hugh. You 
 have made so little progress here, I shall write to Dr. 
 Pritchard, and ask him if we had not better try Brighton." 
 
 " Another watering-place ! Oh ! my dear mother, this 
 place must be as good as any other, I feel sure." 
 
 "Then what is the matter with you, Hugh?" she 
 replied, crossly. " If it is, as Julia says, that you cannot 
 exist without Miss Morley, she had better be sent for." 
 
 " What could make Julia say such a thing ? — it is very 
 unlike her," said Hugh, thoughtfully. 
 
 The light fell upon him as he was speaking, and his 
 mother looked at him attentively. The transparency of 
 his hands, the brightness of his eyes, and the extreme 
 delicacy of his complexion, suddenly struck her with dis- 
 may. Surely he was passing away from her, just when 
 she imagined him restored to her from the grave. Surely 
 he was in no state to bear any annoyance, mental or 
 bodily. Was this her tender care to let her own selfish 
 jealousy come between him and his possibly short-lived 
 happiness. The thought was agony. 
 
 " Forgive me, Hugh ! " she faltered, and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 Her son looked at her in dismay — an ebullition of the 
 kind was so unlike her strong undemonstrative nature. 
 
Convalescence, 299 
 
 u Dearest mother," he said, kneeling by her side, and 
 laying his hand on her shoulder, a favourite attitude of his 
 as a boy, " what can be the matter ? " 
 
 " A great deal, Hugh. I have been sacrificing you to 
 myself; but I will rectify it at once. God grant it may 
 not be too late ! " 
 
 il Indeed, I am not ill now. You are nervous and 
 fanciful. It must take a long time for me to be really 
 strong again." 
 
 " It may be so, but still Julia's words were true. You 
 feel that I separate you from what you love best. It is 
 only natural on your part, and I was very, very wrong to 
 try to keep you longer to myself. I did not see it till to- 
 day ; but now forgive me, Hugh, and let me try and 
 make amends to you both." 
 
 " Dearest mother, how can you speak in this way," 
 said Hugh, greatly distressed. " You can have nothing 
 to reproach yourself with. You were ever the best of 
 mothers, the kindest, tenderest nurse." 
 
 " In my own way, Hugh, but not in yours," she replied, 
 sadly. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer, eager to atone for her coldness to Sybil, 
 wrote to her at once, urging her to join them at Ryde, as 
 she was sure her presence would be both a pleasure and 
 advantage to her son ; adding that she had not told him 
 of this invitation, and begging that Sybil would not 
 do so. 
 
 This letter put her into great perplexity, for she found 
 that both Eustace and Mary were strongly opposed to 
 her going. They had both noticed Mrs. Dormer's cool 
 manner to Sybil, and told her that if her society was 
 necessary for Hugh, it was only right that, now he was 
 able, he should come to Cheveleigh. 
 
 " Let me write, Sybil. I assure you it is bad policy to 
 be subject to everybody's whim in a case like this — and 
 of all people, Aunt Mary's," said her sister-in-law, taking 
 but little account either of Mrs. Dormer's regret or of 
 Sybil's eager longing to be again with Hugh. 
 
 But she submitted with a better grace to this decision 
 
30o Off the Line. 
 
 as her own feelings of pride with regard to Mrs. Dormer 
 came to her aid. 
 
 " Only, Mary, you must say all this — that if he is at all 
 less well, I can come at any minute." 
 
 Mary promised, but she did not show Sybil the letter, 
 in which she strongly urged her aunt to bring Hugh to 
 Cheveleigh at once, saying that she was writing for 
 Sybil, as the present state of things was so uncom- 
 fortable, that the sooner something definite could 
 be arranged, the better it would be for all parties. Mrs. 
 Dormer folded up the letter with a sigh. She had a 
 distinct feeling that as it must be, the sooner it was 
 settled the better, and meant to act conscientiously upon 
 Mary's advice ; but to Hugh she only said that, as the 
 time for which they had taken their house at Ryde had 
 expired, it would be better to try what the air of 
 Cheveleigh would do for him before returning to 
 London. 
 
 " I should like to go with you, Hugh, if I should 
 not be in your way, or spoil your pleasure in being 
 there." 
 
 "Mother," he said, reproachfully, "why say such 
 things?" 
 
 " Because I should spoil your pleasure as things are, 
 but my object in going with you is to change them. Will 
 you trust me, Hugh ? " 
 
 If Hugh had any secret misgivings as to the policy of 
 his mother's visit to Cheveleigh, they were dispelled when 
 he saw how completely the attitude of her mind had 
 changed with regard to Sybil, and how entirely she put 
 her own views and wishes into the background, only 
 apparently considering what would promote their happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer's manner towards Sybil was cordial and 
 affectionate, and all jealousy seemed to have been 
 swamped by her renewed alarm about his health. Mary 
 and Eustace were both disappointed at the little progress 
 Hugh had made, and his mother's anxiety soon detected 
 the uneasiness Sybil felt about him. She called Sybil 
 
. Convalescence. 301 
 
 into her room one evening, and asked if this were not 
 the case. 
 
 <! Iam afraid he is less well than he was a month ago," 
 said Sybil, despondingly. 
 
 " It did not seem to me that he was improving, so I 
 brought him back to you. You have proved a more 
 successful nurse than I have," said Mrs. Dormer, with a 
 smile. 
 
 Sybil looked up quickly — was there any latent jealousy 
 or annoyance under her kind words ? 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Dormer, finding she did not 
 reply, " I see you distrust me, and I cannot be surprised. 
 I confess my weakness in not yielding up Hugh without 
 a pang j but believe me, it is all past now — I only wish 
 for his welfare and happiness, and I shall bless you if you 
 can promote either the one or the other. I cannot 
 expect you to trust me yet ; but some day I shall hope 
 to replace in some small degree the mother you have 
 lost." 
 
 Her gentle, loving, suffering mother ! How often her 
 memory came back to Sybil with a bitter pang. That 
 kind, loving disposition was an entire contrast to Mrs. 
 Dormer's strong nature and indomitable will. She did 
 not reply for a moment, as these thoughts crossed her 
 mind. 
 
 " You feel it impossible — you are right. I should not 
 have expected it," said Mrs. Dormer, bitterly. 
 
 " Indeed — indeed it is not so. I shall be most 
 grateful if you will let me love you. No one can feel as 
 keenly as I do how much cause you have to regret your 
 son's choice, but I have always said I would never enter 
 your family against your wishes." 
 
 "You must disabuse your mind of that idea," said 
 Mrs. Dormer, kindly. " I believe it would be difficult for 
 me to give up Hugh to anyone ; he has been all in all to 
 me from a boy. I know now how selfish I have been in 
 trying to keep him to myself. Will you forgive me, dear 
 child, and prove it by agreeing to whatever he may 
 wish?" 
 
302 Off the Line. 
 
 Sybil knelt down by Mrs. Dormer, who kissed her 
 affectionately. But notwithstanding her unexpected 
 kindness, Sybil felt very sad. She had not deserved this 
 happiness — and had it not come, like other blessings, too 
 late? 
 
 "My dear, you must not look so miserable. Hugh 
 will think it is my doing, when my single wish is to make 
 you both happy. I must see what arrangements I can 
 make for you." 
 
 Mrs. Dormer never did anything by halves, and was 
 now as eager to further Hugh's wishes as she had 
 previously been unwilling to recognise them. She felt as 
 if she could not atone for the past but by complete self- 
 sacrifice. 
 
 " I think you know," said Sybil, blushing deeply, "how 
 much reason you have to object to receiving me as your 
 daughter. I could never consent to marry Hugh unless 
 you knew and could forgive all that has been so wrong 
 in my life." 
 
 " Don't think again of that, dear child," said Mrs. 
 Dormer, touched by Sybil's candour and humility. " I 
 believe I have heard all that you allude to. I confess 
 that before I knew you, it influenced me unfavourably, 
 but you may believe me now when I say that I know of 
 no one I should prefer to yourself as a wife to my son, 
 and that I am looking forward to the time when you will 
 be in reality my daughter. My present anxiety is entirely 
 for Hugh's health." 
 
 " I think he will be better when he is less anxious for 
 me," said Sybil, blushing; " I have only one thing more 
 to say, if you can spare the time. It is to ask you to 
 read this letter. I have not answered it, and do not know 
 what is best to do." 
 
 The letter was from Mrs. Feltham. 
 
 " Miss Morley, 
 
 " I have heard that you are going to be married, 
 but you never shall be while I am alive. I will tell 
 
Convalescence, 303 
 
 all that has passed between you and Hervey to your 
 intended husband. You shall not break his heart, 
 and be the cause of my lonely life, and yet go un- 
 punished yourself. As long as you remain single I shall 
 not interfere, but you shall never marry while Hervey 
 lives. 
 
 "Sophia Feltham." 
 
 Mrs. Dormer read the letter twice over attentively, and 
 gave it back to Sybil without any remark. 
 
 "You see to what I am subject," said Sybil sadly; 
 * she has no right to say such things, and yet I must bear 
 them." 
 
 " You certainly must not bear them. I am very glad 
 you showed me the letter. I should like to ask my 
 lawyer the best way to put a stop to this sort of intimida- 
 tion. What claim has this woman or her son over 
 you ? " 
 
 " None. Geoffrey insisted on her son's signing a paper 
 to that effect?" 
 
 " Where is that paper ? " 
 
 " At our lawyer's ; Geoffrey sent it to him to take care 
 of. Shall I write to him about it ? " 
 
 "It cannot signify. No one will believe what this 
 woman says — only, perhaps for Hugh's sake " 
 
 "For everyone's sake," murmured Sybil, "all that I 
 did was so wrong that it is quite needless to invent things 
 that are untrue. Geoffrey told Mr. Martin only to give 
 up this paper to him or to me. Shall I write to him for 
 it?" 
 
 " Cannot your brother? It is an unpleasant thing for 
 you to do." 
 
 "No," said Sybil, shrinking from the idea of having 
 any communication with Eustace on this subject, " I will 
 do it myself." 
 
 She received the desired document by return of post, 
 and took it to Mrs. Dormer, who laid it aside without 
 opening it. 
 
 " Thank you. I may keep it for a time, I suppose ? 
 
 20 
 
304 Off the Line. 
 
 I will return it safely. It should be in the possession of 
 some of your family." 
 
 The next day Mrs. Dormer told Sybil that she was 
 going back to London in a few days, and should place 
 Mrs. Feltham's letter and the paper her son had signed 
 into the hands of her lawyer. 
 
 " Persecution of this sort should be put a stop to at 
 once, and it's only men of business who know how to 
 deal properly with matters of the kind. I will write to 
 you as soon as I hear what Mr. Varley advises." 
 
 " I had no idea you were going away," said Sybil, 
 changing colour ; " are you all going ? " 
 
 " No ; Mary has begged me to persuade Hugh to stay 
 on for the present, and as he seems to gain strength I 
 really think he had better do so. I conclude that you 
 will remain here now." 
 
 " I hardly know what I had better do," said Sybil, 
 sadly ; " I have promised to pay the Carters a visit at 
 Clifton ; but I had rather do so later." 
 
 "Perhaps it would be better," said Mrs. Dormer, 
 thoughtfully ; " however, the great thing is to get this 
 matter arranged at once. If anything should bring you 
 to London, of course you will come to my house." 
 
 " Thank you," said Sybil, warmly. " Does Hugh 
 know what you have so kindly undertaken in my 
 behalf?" 
 
 "No; I thought it better he should not know. It is 
 impossible to foresee what annoyances may arise from 
 such unscrupulous people as these." 
 
 " It is quite true," said Sybil, turning away, her eyes 
 full of tears. 
 
 " My dear child, do not think I am blaming you. Do 
 not misjudge me so much. I am only trying to do what 
 seems best for you all." 
 
 Mrs. Dormer only told Hugh that she was obliged 
 to go to London, and advised him to remain at 
 Cheveleigh for the present, as she should probably 
 return later. She took both her daughters with her 
 and Hugh and Sybil were left comparatively alone ; 
 
Convalescence. 
 
 3^5 
 
 for Eustace, now that the excitement of his marriage 
 and the return to Cheveleigh was over, had relapsed 
 into his old studious habits ; and Mary, fully occupied 
 with the care of her household and all the old women 
 and sick children in the parish, assured that Sybil would 
 take care that Hugh did not over-fatigue himself, con- 
 cerned herself but little about them. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE LAST. 
 
 "Now God be thanked for years en wrought, 
 
 With love that softens yet, 
 Now God be thanked for every thought 
 Which is so tender it has caught 
 
 Earth's guerdon of regret. 
 
 "Earth saddens, never shall remove 
 Affections purely given, 
 And e'en that mortal grief shall prove 
 The immortality of love, 
 And heighten it with heaven ! " 
 
 E. B. Browning. 
 
 )HE garden at Cheveleigh had been little altered 
 since the days of Sybil's childhood. The 
 broad teraces, the high yew hedge, the palings 
 which fenced off the water at the bottom of the 
 garden, were all unchanged. Even the boat which had 
 been the scene of Sybil's childish escapade, remained 
 moored to the old rusty staple. From the lower terrace 
 a broad turf walk ran at right angles round the east side 
 of the house. It was covered with a trellis, on which honey- 
 suckles and jessamine grew in unchecked luxuriance. 
 At the end of this walk was a summer-house, which had 
 always been Sybil's favourite retreat ; and she had of 
 late taken considerable pains to make it sufficiently com- 
 fortable for Hugh to remain in it most of the day with 
 out fatigue. A garden seat had, by means of a variety of 
 cushions, been turned into a sofa ; a table covered with 
 books, and some light chairs, had really converted it into 
 
The Last, 307 
 
 the u summer parlour " that Sybil called it. Here they 
 always spent their mornings, Mary insisting upon driving 
 Hugh in her pony-carriage in the afternoon, protesting on 
 the necessity of more air and exercise. So the summer 
 days sped on, apparently without anything to disturb their 
 tranquil life ; and yet there were troubled depths beneath 
 that outwardly unruffled surface. 
 
 Sybil had only heard once from Mrs. Dormer, and she 
 had not been able to tell her anything satisfactory. Mrs. 
 Feltham's letter and the paper with which Sybil had en- 
 trusted her had been placed in the hands of the lawyer, 
 who considered that the best way of putting a stop to any 
 further annoyance would be by a personal interview, 
 With this intention he went down to Richmond, from 
 whence Mrs. Feltham's letter was dated ; but she had left 
 her sister more than three weeks, and Mrs. Ramsden had 
 no clue to where she was gone. The old lady appeared 
 to be in great trouble about her sister, saying she must be 
 in real poverty, as she constantly refused to receive 
 assistance; and that the many reverses of fortune she 
 had undergone seemed to prey upon her mind. 
 
 " Now that Hervey is gone from her, she seems to care 
 for nothing, and dresses like any beggar-woman. I can't 
 bear to see her so strange," said comfortable old Mrs. 
 Ramsden, with tears in her eyes. 
 
 Mr. Varley at once concluded that her object in writing 
 to Sybil must be to obtain money, and he continued his 
 inquiries in every direction, but totally without success. 
 This account made Sybil very anxious, but she did not 
 hear again. Day by day the shadow deepened, and it 
 was not likely that it should be unnoticed by Hugh. 
 
 " Won't you tell me what makes you uneasy, Sybil ? n 
 said Hugh one day that he found her sitting in the 
 summer-house absorbed in thought. 
 
 " Matter ! " she repeated, starting and colouring. 
 "Nothing — what can be the matter, now you are so 
 well ! " 
 
 " I don't want you to tell me anything you would 
 prefer my not knowing," said Hugh rather coldly, " but I 
 
308 Off the Line. 
 
 do wish that you would not tarnish your own bright sense 
 of truth by an evasion." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," said Sybil, in evident 
 distress and confusion. 
 
 "Merely that you have some trouble to bear, and 
 
 prefer bearing it alone. I had fancied " Hugh's 
 
 nature was not especially trustful, and eagerly as he had 
 defended Sybil's conduct, now that some mystery seemed 
 to surround her, the incidents of her past life recurred to 
 him painfully. 
 
 Sybil's first impulse was to tell him all j then the re- 
 collection of his mother's caution and express wish pre- 
 vented her. 
 
 " You are quite wrong, Hugh — I am very happy." 
 
 " It is very possible to be happy and anxious at the 
 same time," he said indifferently; "but pray say 
 no more about it. No forced confidence is worth 
 having." 
 
 This was the first cloud that had ever risen between 
 them. It had its effect in producing a certain amount of 
 constraint in their intercourse, and the aggrieved feeling 
 on both sides which the sense of injustice invariably 
 causes — for Sybil felt she was only acting in the way that 
 was best for Hugh, and he felt that every feeling and 
 thought of hers was his own especial property. Weak, 
 and consequently easily depressed, he began to torment 
 himself as to the possibility of her still having any 
 entanglement with Hervey Feltham. He grew nervous 
 and irritable, so that even Mary saw that something was 
 wrong, but was afraid of doing harm by notice or inquiry. 
 She determined, however, as soon as Mrs. Dormer re- 
 turned, to urge their being married as soon as possible, 
 so that they might spend some time in England 
 before it was necessary for Hugh to go to Italy for the 
 winter. 
 
 Things were in this state when, one morning as Sybil 
 was sitting reading in the arbour waiting for Hugh, she 
 was startled by a shadow falling across her book, and 
 looking up, saw a figure in deep mourning standing before 
 
The Las?> 309 
 
 her. She was speechless from surprise and bewilderment. 
 Was it possible that tb~, \& gaunt spectre was Mrs. 
 Feltham ? 
 
 " So I've found you alone at last, Sybil Morley ! I've 
 been watching and looking for you for days ! I wrote 
 you a letter and told you that you should never marry 
 while Hervey was living, and now he is dead you shall 
 die too, for it was you who killed him ; and I am come 
 to fetch you away." 
 
 Mrs. Feltham spoke in a hoarse low voice, like a person 
 in a state of extreme exhaustion \ but her manner was so 
 strange, that Sybil felt with a thrill of horror that she was 
 alone in the power of a mad-woman. 
 
 " Dead ! " she exclaimed ; " impossible ! It cannot be 
 — you cannot mean it ! " 
 
 " But I do mean it," she repeated, raising her voice 
 almost to a shriek — " I do mean it — and more, that you 
 shall suffer for it. What right had you to make him 
 miserable ? — to pretend that you would marry him, and 
 then send him away — away from me and from his 
 country ! I said you should never marry another, but 
 then my boy was alive — now he is dead — dead of a 
 horrible pestilence, and no one with him — no one to wipe 
 his poor mouth, or to close his dear eyes ! Oh ! I can't 
 bear to think of it ! " she said, moaning and wringing her 
 hands. " And now I find you, his murderess, sitting 
 quietly here ! Where is the man you call your lover ? " 
 she said, turning furiously upon her. " I will know, for. 
 1 must see him, and tell him never to call such a one as 
 you his wife ! " 
 
 Exhausted by her own vehemence, and panting for 
 breath, the wretched woman sank down on a seat, as 
 Sybil, pale, terrified, and trembling in every limb, at- 
 tempted to escape. But Mrs. Feltham seized her wrist 
 with a grasp of iron. 
 
 " You shall not go — you must come with me ! I have 
 no home, and go from place to place without food — 
 I've had no food to-day." 
 
 " Let me get you some," said Sybil, hoping to pacify 
 
3 to Off the Line, 
 
 her, and believing that she was insane, and that all she 
 had been saying was untrue. " You must rest and have 
 some food. I daresay all you fancy is a mistake, and is 
 not true." 
 
 " Not true that you have murdered my boy ! — my 
 beautiful boy ! " and she glared at Sybil like a tigress. 
 " Look at this," and she took an old worn letter out of 
 her pocket. 
 
 Terror-stricken as Sybil was, her wish to know if Hervey 
 was alive or dead for the moment over-ruled her fear, 
 and she glanced at the letter, which was from the captain 
 of a ship in the West Indies, saying that Hervey Feltham 
 had died of yellow fever, after a few days' illness, and 
 enclosing the notification of his death out of a news- 
 paper. 
 
 " Now you see it's true, don't you ? " she said, with a 
 mocking laugh. "So now come along ! I'm not going to 
 suffer alone ! Come, I say ! " 
 
 Sybil, who had put a forcible constraint on herself 
 hitherto, uttered a piercing cry, and endeavoured to rush 
 towards Hugh, whom she saw at the end of the turf- walk 
 slowly approaching. In a moment he was by her side, 
 forcing the woman to relinquish her grasp, with a strength 
 which only the emergency of the moment could have 
 given him. 
 
 " Now go, Sybil — fly ! " he whispered, feeling his 
 strength giving way. 
 
 "I can't leave you, Hugh," she said, trembling and 
 panting. 
 
 " Ah ! you may try to keep her from me," said the 
 mad woman, now turning upon Hugh, " but you won't 
 succeed, for have her I will ! Why, don't you know we 
 were going to the West Indies, and we shall both be 
 buried in Hervey's grave — she and I. I've settled it all, 
 and you can never marry her, for she's a witch and a 
 murderess ! I'll go now and see about it," she said, 
 gravely ; " I'm glad I came," and before Hugh could 
 stop her, she darted away and vanished among the 
 bushes. 
 
Thi Last. 311 
 
 " Oh ! take me away, Hugh ! — take me home ! " cried 
 Sybil, shuddering, and clinging to him. 
 
 " Yes, dearest, as soon as you can walk. I will take 
 care of you," and he laid her down upon the sofa, her 
 teeth chattering with terror, and trembling in every limb. 
 " How did that mad woman find her way here ? " 
 
 "Oh! Hugh, he is dead, and it's my fault!" said 
 Sybil, pointing to the letter which lay upon the ground. 
 Hugh picked it up, and read it, but, as he turned round 
 to speak to Sybil, he found that she had fainted. 
 
 It was some time before Sybil fully recovered her con- 
 sciousness, and then she was lying upon her bed in a 
 darkened room, with Hartly by her side, watching her 
 anxiously. At first she could not remember anything 
 that had happened — then it all flashed upon her like a 
 dreadful dream. 
 
 "Tell me, Hartly, why I am here? Am I safe? Is 
 she really gone ? Why did Hugh leave me?" 
 
 u To be sure you're safe enough with me, my dear ; 
 and as for Mr. Dormer, he's been to the door every 
 ten minutes, so maybe he's outside now. Shall I 
 see?" 
 
 " Oh ! no ; don't leave me. I know she'll come 
 back," said Sybil, shuddering. 
 
 " There's no one to come. Only lie still, and I'll get 
 you some tea." 
 
 " No, you sha'n't go !" screamed Sybil, starting up, and 
 looking round her in the wildest affright. "She will 
 fetch me away — I know she will ! " 
 
 11 1 wish I had the handling of that woman," muttered 
 Hartly. " She going to be the death of Miss Sybil, as 
 well as her poor mamma ! Now listen to me, Miss 
 Sybil," she said, authoritatively ; " if you'll be quiet, and 
 do what I wish you, I'll take you into the next room, 
 and Mr. Dormer may come and sit with you there." 
 
 But Sybil was quite past Hartly 's management. Her 
 nerves had received much too severe a shock, and she 
 soon became feverish and so restless, that Mary, in 
 alarm, sent at once for the nearest medical man. He 
 
3 1 2 Off the Line. 
 
 looked grave, and talked of excitement of the brain, and 
 the necessity of extreme care and complete quiet. Hugh 
 had written to tell his mother what had occurred, and to 
 beg her to return. 
 
 Ingenious in self-torture, he chose to imagine that grief 
 for Hervey Feltham's death was the cause of Sybil's ill- 
 ness, and that it was some anxiety on his account that 
 had previously preyed upon her spirits. His mother, 
 however, who had immediately attended his summons, 
 was able to dispel this fancy by telling him all that had 
 occurred with reference to Mrs. Feltham's threatening 
 letter. After a few days' illness, Sybil's naturally good 
 health and strong constitution triumphed, and she was 
 able to sit up and see Mrs. Dormer. 
 
 " My dear, I know all that happened ; you need not 
 tell me," she said, as Sybil began to talk excitedly of all 
 Mrs. Feltham had said. " Hugh has told me, and now 
 I see that we were wrong jn not telling him of that 
 woman's letter. He might have been more on his guard, 
 and it would have saved him some trouble and sorrow 
 too, for he saw you were unhappy or anxious, and could 
 not imagine the cause." 
 
 " You told me not," said Sybil, wearily. 
 " Yes, but I was mistaken. However, he knows all 
 about it now, so the best thing is to forget it as soon as 
 possible." 
 
 " I shall never forget ; and you must let me say one 
 thing to you now," said Sybil, in great distress — *' now 
 this has happened, and I have committed this terrible 
 crime, things cannot be as they were before." 
 
 " Crime ! " repeated Mrs. Dormer, looking as if she 
 thought her light headed. 
 
 " You said you knew that he — that Hervey Feltham 
 was dead — it is true. I saw it in print, and, you know," 
 she said, shuddering, " I killed him ! " 
 
 Mrs. Dormer saw by her sudden paleness, and the 
 disturbed look of her eyes, how strong a hold this idea 
 had taken of her imagination, and strove in every possible 
 way to combat it, but without much effect. She would 
 
The Last. 313 
 
 repeat the same thing over and over again to Hugh, and 
 it was evident to him that any morbid view she might 
 have taken of her past life was increased a hundred- 
 fold. 
 
 Change of air and scene was said to be absolutely- 
 necessary, and Mary took this opportunity of urging the 
 expediency of the marriage taking place at once. 
 
 "They will both be invalids soon, and worry each 
 other to death meanwhile. I should like to go to 
 London at once, and get Sybil's trousseau. I wish we 
 could hear what has happened to that wretched woman. 
 I think the doubt of what has become of her preys upon 
 her mind." 
 
 That doubt was soon solved by a message that Eustace 
 received from the clergyman of an adjoining parish, 
 telling him that a poor woman had been found by the 
 roadside, apparently in a state of exhaustion — that she 
 had been carried to the nearest cottage, where she was 
 now lying j that no one could induce her to give either 
 her name or address, and that she was continually talking 
 incoherently, and insisted upon " getting up, as she must 
 see Miss Morley." 
 
 Under these circumstances he thought it better to 
 apply to Eustace, to see if he knew anything of her, or 
 could give any information about her family, as the poor 
 woman in whose house she was, did not like her to re- 
 main there any longer. 
 
 Eustace immediately went over to , taking a 
 
 physician with him to give an opinion as to her sanity, 
 feeling sure that the woman in question could be no 
 other than Mrs. Feltham. When he arrived he was as 
 much shocked as Sybil had been at the change from the 
 strong, handsome woman he had seen at Sandling, to the 
 emaciated, wretched-looking object before him. Mrs. 
 Feltham did not know him, and did not appear to take 
 notice of anything around her. After a short examina- 
 tion, Dr. pronounced her to be decidedly insane, 
 
 and recommended her being removed to the lunatic 
 asylum in the county town till her friends should be ap- 
 
314 Off the Line. 
 
 prised of her condition. He did not consider it safe to 
 1 ave her any longer without restraint, and it was impos- 
 sible to foresee what turn her madness might take. 
 Eustace undertook to communicate with her sister, and 
 begged that no trouble or expense should be spared 
 in procuring everything that could conduce to her 
 comfort. 
 
 When the nervous anxiety which Sybil had felt with 
 regard to Mrs. Feltham was partly removed, she was 
 more willing to yield to Mrs. Dormer's earnest entreaty 
 that the marriage should take place as soon as possible. 
 Everyone felt it would be much better for both, and Mrs. 
 Dormer was anxious to secure a visit from her son before 
 he went abroad for the winter. Sybil only petitioned 
 that the wedding should be very quiet, and for time to 
 write to Geoffrey to know if it were possible for him to 
 get leave of absence in order to be present, and to pay 
 the visit that had been so long due to the Carters at 
 Clifton. 
 
 All agreed to this, thinking it would be the best 
 way of recruiting her health and spirits ; and as Grace 
 and Susan Carter had promised to be her bridesmaids, 
 it was arranged for them all to return to Cheveleigh 
 together. 
 
 It was on a bright morning at the latter end of August 
 that Eustace knocked at the door of Sybil's bed-room to 
 know if she was ready to accompany him to the little 
 church in the village, where the wedding was to take 
 place, and where the few friends that had been invited 
 were already assembled. Hartly had just left her, 
 having jealously insisted on her privilege of being 
 the only person allowed to dress her on her wedding- 
 day. 
 
 "I came to see if you were ready, Sybil. You 
 certainly do Hartly credit if all this is of her devising," 
 he said, taking hold curiously of the white silk and lace 
 in which Sybil was enveloped as in a cloud; " can you 
 walk in all this finery ? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, Eustace ; only wait for one moment. 1 
 
The Last. 315 
 
 want to speak to you while we are alone. I had hoped 
 that Geoffrey might have come at the last minute, and 
 then I would have entrusted this to him ; but, as he has 
 not, I must give it to you." 
 
 " What is it ? " he asked as Sybil put a paper into his 
 hand. 
 
 It was a cheque for a hundred pounds. 
 
 " I must trust to you while I am away, Eustace, to see 
 that as long as Mrs. Feltham lives, everything is done for 
 her that is possible. I must always feel," she said in a 
 voice trembling with emotion, " that things might have 
 been different except for me; and besides, I want to 
 ask your forgiveness for all my pride and rebellion. I 
 know now that all you did was for my good." 
 
 " I have quite as much cause to ask yours," said 
 Eustace sadly, " for I did not understand you, and did 
 everything my own way, irrespective of what was good for 
 you. I do hope now that a very happy life is before 
 you, and that we shall have no misunderstandings in 
 future." 
 
 He kissed her affectionately as Sybil took his arm, but 
 could not trust herself to speak. The sunlight streamed 
 through the painted glass upon her head as she and 
 Hugh knelt before the altar. At first she was pale and 
 agitated, but she soon became calm, and it was with a 
 smile of heartfelt happiness that she turned to Hugh at 
 the conclusion of the ceremony. 
 
 During their short walk back to the house, under the 
 shadow of the old elms, amidst the singing of birds, 
 through the bright garden blazing with autumn flowers, 
 Sybil was only conscious of one feeling — complete and 
 entire repose. She felt as if the burden of her restless 
 spirit, her stormy inner life, had now passed from her, and 
 rested upon another. 
 
 It was well for Sybil that she had chosen a husband 
 whom she could honour and obey as well as love. Hers 
 was a nature tli t could not be satisfied without looking 
 up ; and this was the secret of Hugh's influence over her 
 —that in this respect he was to her different to all the 
 
316 Off the Line, 
 
 rest of the world. " He had seemed to bring at once 
 a law, and the love that gave strength to obey the 
 law." * 
 
 Sybil led a very unsettled life for the next few years, — 
 spending the summers in England, but always going 
 abroad for the winter. This was considered advisable 
 for Hugh, till all traces of the illness, that had so nearly 
 cost him his life, had disappeared. Eventually he grew 
 so much stronger that he was anxious to try the effect of 
 a winter in England. Mary and Eustace begged them 
 to make Cheveleigh their home for a year ; but Sybil 
 would not hear of it ; she said that both Hugh and she 
 were tired of wandering, and that her two little girls, Sybil 
 and Grace, were being utterly spoiled from want of fixed 
 habits and a settled home, but that they were very 
 anxious to find some small place in the same neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 Sybil and Mary were sitting in the garden one summer 
 day, eagerly discussing the possibility of finding a house 
 near Cheveleigh ; the children were playing on the 
 terrace. Mary's three children, two boys and a girl, were 
 rather unusually riotous, while Sybil's two little girls were 
 models of decorum. 
 
 " May I run down the hiE, mamma, with Arthur ? " 
 said little Sybil, coming up to the bench upon which 
 Sybil and Mary were sitting. 
 
 " Yes, to be sure, my dear, run away," said Mary, not 
 wishing to be interrupted. 
 
 " Stay, Lilla, I don't know. You must run gently, and 
 not make a noise." 
 
 " My dear Sybil, do let the children play as they like. 
 Lilla will be like a prim old maid — you keep her in such 
 order." 
 
 " I must make them obedient, Mary." 
 
 " Of course, but do let them be free as well. No- 
 thing is so tiresome as children that are kept in one 
 groove." 
 
 * G. Eliot 
 
The Last. 317 
 
 "Surely that is not the worst thing that can bsf&U i 
 child," said Sybil, sadly ; " think of my early life, and if 
 I have not cause to dread everything that tramples on 
 conventionalisms, or breaks down the barriers that should 
 exist in a girl's mind. I am not afraid of their keeping 
 in the same groove ; but very much of anything that may 
 tend to make them run ' off the line.' " 
 
 XHE END, 
 
 11.10.2.84.29x89.83.3.16.14 ft 13. 
 
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