THE GAME AT CHESS.
A few more words passed, then Margaret said:
"Miss Chase, let me present Mr. Hinchley to you."
The lady bowed slightly in return to the stranger's salutation, looked keenly from under her long eyelashes, and turned again toward Miss Waring, who, in spite of her assertions, was greatly terrified and shaken, as Sybil plainly detected through all her forced spirits.
"By the luckiest chance in the world, Hinchley rode up at the very moment Margaret fell," said Laurence.
"I was very fortunate in being so opportune in my arrival," replied the young man.
"We have not even asked how you happened to get here so unexpectedly," said Margaret.
"I saw Dr. Thorne in town this morning, and he told me that Uncle Gerald had been quite ill again, so I took the late train up—luckily, Smith, at the depot, had a horse to lend me."
"Uncle Gerald is better," Margaret said.
"I am glad to hear it; those attacks get so much worse that I was quite alarmed."
"He seems very much shaken by this one," Laurence said; "but the doctor thinks he will soon get better; the warm weather is coming on, and that always agrees with him, you know."
"You will stay a week or so, Ralph," Margaret said.
"As long as I can; it depends on my news from town."
"Miss Waring looks pale," interrupted Sybil, whose head was still averted from Hinchley.
"Are you really hurt, Margaret?" asked Hinchley.
"Not in the least," she replied; but her voice trembled a little.
"She is frightened, of course," said Sybil; "who could help it? I am sure she will not ride again this season."
"I think she is cured of such fears," returned Laurence.
"Oh yes," answered Margaret, hastily. "But let us ride home; it is getting late, and uncle will want to see Ralph before going to bed."
The three rode through the gates, which Miss Chase had left open, while that lady followed at a little distance.
"We are leaving her all alone," said Margaret, in a low voice, to Laurence.
"That is true; and it scarcely looks civil," he replied. "Ride on to the house, Margaret, with Hinchley, and I will walk with her."
"Very well," Margaret said, unable longer to conceal her nervousness, and not sorry that she could have an opportunity to recover herself before again enduring her betrothed husband's somewhat impatient scrutiny.
The pair rode on; Mr. Laurence dismounted from his horse, and stood in the avenue as Miss Chase approached.
"You look in this moonlight pale and melancholy as a knight-errant," she said, playfully.
"I am waiting for you," he replied.
"Indeed, there was no necessity."
"Does that mean you prefer to walk alone?"
"I am not much given to incivility, you know; I did not wish to detain you from your friends."
"Oh, they will take care of each other," he replied. "I wonder you don't say something about him—you are less susceptible than most young ladies. Hinchley is a great favorite."
"Please do not slander my sex, Mr. Laurence, or we shall quarrel at once."
"And you will conquer me, as you always do at chess! But at all events, you can not be offended at my saying that you are different from youthful females in general; almost any other would have asked twenty questions in a breath about the stranger."
"But Mr. Hinchley is hardly a stranger," she replied.
"Oh, that is true; but I believe you have never met him before."
"No; but I have heard Miss Waring talk so much of her favorite cousin, and Mr. Waring is always sounding his praises."
"He is almost like a brother to Margaret; I wonder you never saw him when you were here before."
"He was in Europe," replied Sybil, indifferently. "I am sorry Margaret received that fright."
"I wish she had a little of your courage."
"I have been accustomed to ride from childhood—"
"And are the best horsewoman I ever saw."
"I ought to deny it, but shall not. At all events, I am not in the least afraid of Robin Hood nor of Sir Charles here;" as Sybil spoke, she offered the horse one of the roses she held in her hand. "That is a treat which the baronet appreciates," she added. "He isn't often fed with roses."
"What a waste of sentiment," he replied, "to feed a horse on what any man would covet."
"He is grateful for them, at all events."
"Perhaps his master would be more grateful still; you have not tried him."
She laughed, selected a beautiful bud from the bunch, and looked at it for a moment. When he reached forth his hand, she drew back the flower with a gesture too pretty to be called coquetry.
"No; Sir Charles shall have that, and Miss Waring will like the rest."
He was a little annoyed; any man would have been treated with this seeming indifference whether he cared for the person or not.
"You are determined never to be friends with me," he said.
"On the contrary, I have to thank you and everybody here for a great deal of kindness."
"I am sure both Margaret and Mr. Waring feel much obliged to you; her health is so delicate, that the house would have been in hopeless disorder except for your attention, and the old gentleman considers you perfection."
"It is very pleasant to be appreciated," she answered, gayly. "At least, you ought to thank me; I kept Miss Waring from dying of regret during your absence."
"Margaret would never die from any such feeling," he replied, impatiently.
"I think where she loves, all her feelings are centered."
"Ah, Miss Chase, romance fades rapidly during a long engagement."
"So all engaged people tell me," she answered; "I shall take warning from this experience of others. But we must walk faster; Miss Waring will think us lost, unless Mr. Hinchley is charming enough to make her forget our absence."
"I think Margaret does not care much for the society of gentlemen."
"Not in general, I believe."
"Nor in any particular case, I should hope," he said, quickly. "We quarrel a great deal, as you know, Miss Chase, but I have never thought coquetry among her faults."
"Nor I."
"Hinchley is greatly admired by young ladies," pursued Laurence; "but he seems to care very little about it."
"He is very handsome—"
"Why, you hardly looked at him."
"I was quoting Miss Waring—incorrectly, however."
"What did she say?"
"That he had a very noble face—something above mere beauty."
"She was quite eloquent," he said, dryly.
"Oh no; but we were alone, and could not be silent."
"And so you talked of Ralph Hinchley?"
"Naturally enough, as he is her nearest relative. Are you blaming Miss Waring or me?"
"Neither, I assure you."
"Mr. Hinchley is dependent upon his profession, I believe."
"Yes; I fancy he is not rich at all."
"There I can sympathize with him."
"Have you come to that?"
"Don't make me appear silly! If Margaret were here, I should say something that you might construe into a compliment."
"You have never paid me one—"
"I never do compliment people whom I respect; that may account for it."
"But what would you have said?"
"That the men I have been in the habit of meeting since I came here have made me difficult to please, so that quite young gentlemen seldom strike me favorably."
"Oh, that is flattery—"
"It would have been to Miss Waring."
"How so?"
"A compliment to her taste in selecting you as a husband."
By that time they had reached the veranda, and as she spoke the last words, Miss Chase ran up the steps, humming a song, and entered the hall just as Margaret descended the stairs, after having exchanged her habit for a dress more suitable to the house.
"Are you better?" Sybil asked.
"Yes; but I was terribly frightened, though I would not have Mr. Laurence know it for the world—my timidity annoys him so much."
"He is coming," whispered Miss Chase.
"Please come and make the tea," said Margaret; "my hands shake yet."
Mr. Laurence joined them in the hall.
"Well, you are not frightened, now it is all over?" he asked.
"No, not much; anyway, I am unhurt."
Miss Chase threw back the hood of her cloak, and accompanied them into the library; a glance at the hall-glass had convinced her that her appearance was picturesque. She stood a second in the door, took off the pretty blue mantle and laid it on a sofa; the breeze had given her a color, and her hair an added wave, particularly becoming.
Margaret ensconced herself in an easy-chair near the fire, which had been kindled to give an appearance of comfort to the room, although the night was too warm to render it necessary. Miss Chase seated herself by the tray, while Laurence turned to Margaret:
"Where is Hinchley?"
"Gone up to see uncle; he will be down in a moment."
The gentleman entered as she spoke. Sybil Chase was occupied, and did not look up. He gave her a quick glance, started, and a perplexed look passed over his face as if hefancied that he had seen her before, and was trying to remember where; then it faded, and he sat down near his cousin.
"Uncle has gone to bed," he said; "he looks very ill to-night."
"But he is better, I am sure he is," she replied, anxiously.
"I hope so," he answered; and, remarking her agitation, changed the subject at once. "Have you been trouting, Laurence?" he asked. "I remember your old passion."
"I was out the other day, but we will go again—an expedition for the ladies. Are you fond of trout-fishing, Miss Chase?"
"Yes; I must plead guilty to the weakness and cruelty."
"And you, Margaret?"
"I shall like to go; but I never have any success."
"And you think it wicked, I believe?" he replied, carelessly, and with a little irony, such as was often apparent in the conversations between the two lovers.
"No matter what I think," she replied, smiling pleasantly enough, although displeased at his manner; "I will not force my private convictions upon any of you."
"But you will have a cup of tea?" said Miss Chase.
Mr. Hinchley went to the table, and taking the cup from Sybil, carried it to his cousin.
"Hester has treated us to marmalade," said Laurence, laughing, as he approached the table.
"Which I am morally certain you will spill on the carpet—won't he, Miss Waring?"
"Of course; do keep him at the table, for the sake of the new carpet we both admire so much."
"Then the whole dish of marmalade will be in danger," said Laurence.
"Miss Chase will wisely move it," added Hinchley.
"I think I must," added Sybil, "but there, you shall have a very large spoonful; it is better than roses."
She put the conserve upon his plate, took up her flowers that lay on the table, and added:
"I picked these for you, Miss Waring; they are from your favorite bush."
She gave them to Hinchley to carry to Margaret; Mr. Laurence ate his marmalade and looked a little vexed.
"They are beautiful roses," Hinchley said.
"Very," Margaret replied, putting them carelessly in her hair; "you shall have a bud to reward you for not having purloined the whole bunch."
She selected a half-open rose and handed it to him. Miss Chase smiled imperceptibly.
"May I have a cup of tea, Miss Chase?" asked Laurence, adding, as he bent toward her: "You were over fastidious, you see."
Not a word answered Sybil—just the slightest elevation of her eyebrows, the least possible expression of surprise about her mouth; yet, by that mere nothing, she contrived to show that she disapproved of the innocent and thoughtless act, but meant to keep any such feeling to herself.
The evening passed pleasantly enough. Mr. Laurence forgot his momentary vexation, the cause of which he could scarcely have told. He challenged Miss Chase to a game of chess, and she consented.
While the two played, Margaret and Mr. Hinchley sat by the fire, and talked of their uncle, the pleasures of old times, new books, and the thousand other trifles, about which people who have no deep feelings in common converse together.
Miss Chase lost the game, because she had made up her mind to be defeated; but the next she won. Still, during the whole evening her attention was not sufficiently fixed upon either board or moves to prevent her hearing and seeing every thing that passed around her.
THE FEMALE IAGO.
The engagement between Laurence and Margaret Waring had been a family affair, brought about principally by the romance of a maiden aunt, with whom the young man was a favorite.
Edward had been under this relative's charge after the death of his parents, which occurred during his childhood, and she had petted and spoiled the boy as only a spinster could have done.
Mr. Waring, the uncle of Margaret, was one of Miss Laurence's nearest neighbors, and the girl had been almost as great a favorite with the spinster as her own nephew. Indeed, it was said that Mabel Laurence had loved Margaret's father in her youthful days; but how that might be nobody really knew, for the old maid wisely kept her own secrets, as women, after all, are apt to do when there is nothing to gratify the vanity in them.
But it happened that the boy and girl were reared almost like brother and sister, and the two houses were almost equally homes to both. Mr. Waring was a confirmed invalid, whose life seemed to hang upon a thread, and Miss Laurence had always been in yearly expectation that the girl would soon come entirely under her charge.
People are generally mistaken in such calculations, and Miss Laurence was no exception; for when Margaret Waring was sixteen, the spinster died in her arms after a short but violent illness.
Edward, then a youth of twenty, was traveling in Europe, and by one of the old lady's last commands was to remain there at least a year longer. When the will was opened, it was found to contain a singular clause—one common enough in novels, and as the spinster had been an insatiable devourerof light literature, it is quite probable that she derived from thence the idea which was expressed in her testament.
Her fortune, which was a very large one, was divided equally between her nephew and Margaret Waring, on condition that they became husband and wife; otherwise, no provision was made for Margaret, a small annuity was left Laurence, and the rest of the property was to be employed in founding a hospital for old maids.
Now, I am not drawing upon my imagination for these details; this was the will as it was actually written. Miss Laurence was convinced that Margaret and her nephew had loved each other from childhood, so that she believed herself acting for their happiness; besides, she had English blood in her veins, and could not resist the true British desire to display her own power and authority, even after death.
The year passed. Edward Laurence returned home when Margaret was seventeen; the engagement had been regarded as a settled thing. The young people loved each other—there could be no doubt of that; but, after a time, the very certainty that their destinies had been settled for them in a fashion so compulsory, led to all manner of disagreements and quarrels.
Two years before the commencement of this record, Mr. Waring had been obliged to go South for his health, and it was necessary to provide a companion for Margaret during his absence. Some friend had introduced Sybil Chase, and she spent the winter in the family. From the time of her entrance into that house could be dated the first real unhappiness of the young pair.
Sybil had been brought up by a bad, unprincipled mother, educated far beyond what the woman's means seemed to permit, and for what end only her own erratic mind ever knew. Soon after she left school, the young girl quarreled with her mother, and for several years earned her own living as best she might. We will not inquire too closely into the records of that Bohemian life. It is sufficient for our story that she at length took up her residence with Margaret Waring, just as that young lady's engagement to young Laurence became known.
How it came about, Margaret could never have told; butbefore she had been many weeks in the house, Sybil Chase had made herself of the utmost importance there. She quietly relieved Margaret of every duty; she read to her, she talked with her—not at all with the manner of a dependent, which, in a certain sense, she was not, but as an equal and friend.
When Margaret had time to think, she felt a certain unaccountable repugnance to Sybil; yet in her society there was a charm which few people could have resisted. Against her better judgment, contrary to her principles and her common sense, Margaret acquired a habit of talking freely with her. Sybil knew all the disagreements and troubles which disturbed the house, understood perfectly Margaret's character, and had studied Laurence himself with still more subtle criticism.
With all the wild fervor of her passionate youth, Sybil Chase became fatally attached to young Laurence; yet so firm was her self-command, so deep her powers of duplicity, that she gave no sign of the passion that consumed her. In the depths of her soul she was resolved that the man she loved should never fulfill his engagement; but just as she was beginning to weave her meshes around him, Mr. Waring came home, broke up his establishment, and proceeded with his daughter on a long tour through the West Indies and Southern States.
Once more this singular young creature was thrown back upon her mother's support. An imperfect reconciliation took place between them, and she sunk gradually into her old life, which became more and more irksome from contact with persons so unlike those with whom she had been recently associated.
While her mind was in this restless state, she heard that young Laurence had followed his betrothed to Cuba, in which place the marriage had taken place. The news stung her to madness. In the first paroxysm of wounded affection and mortified pride, she fell in with Philip Yates, married him privately, and went away.
In two years she came back to her mother again, but to be the protector, not the dependent, now. She had money, which was shared generously with the old woman; but, in a short time, this constant companionship with an unrefined and evil-minded woman became unendurable. Sybil was in no stateof mind to accept the dull life presented in this companionship. She had rested long enough, and now felt that keen hunger for excitement which follows prolonged inaction.
While this fever was strong upon her, she met Laurence in the street. Little suspecting the passion that drove the blood from her cheek, or that they had met before in far distant mountains of the golden State, he upbraided her kindly for keeping aloof from her old friends, spoke regretfully of Mr. Waring's still infirm health, and of Margaret's protracted feebleness.
She choked down the passion that swelled in her throat, and inquired kindly if his wife had been seriously ill.
Laurence laughed. "Wife?" he answered, coloring a little. "Oh, Maggie and I are not married yet. The old gentleman says that we are young enough to wait."
Sybil's heart bounded in her bosom. Her eyes flashed—she could not altogether conceal the triumph of her joy.
"Are you never coming to see Margaret?" he said.
"Margaret—Margaret Waring? Oh yes."
"The old gentleman is seriously ill again. You ought to come. He often says no one ever proved so good a nurse as you."
"The good old man. I will go to him."
She went to Waring's house the next day, and stayed there. Mr. Waring was ill and selfish; he would not let her go away. She yielded with apparent reluctance, and quietly commenced her work. By her soft words, broken sentences, and subtle looks, Margaret and Laurence had become almost completely estranged, and nothing but the persuasions of mutual friends prevented their breaking the engagement which bound them. Sybil looked on and waited, fostered their difficulties, and watched for the moment which should secure the victory to her love.
She was greatly aided by the manner in which their betrothal had been brought about, the consequences of which had been exactly those a wise person would have anticipated. The romance of an involuntary engagement wore rapidly away. Both were pained, and each blamed the other for things which were at once the fault and the misfortune of a forced position.
Margaret was proud and exacting, morbidly sensitive, and her high spirit revolted at the idea of submission, often prevented her yielding to her lover's wishes when she knew herself to be in the wrong. These feelings rendered her fearful of betraying her fondness, and in numberless ways brought pain to her own heart and that of the man who loved her.
On the other hand, Edward was as passionate and imperious as she could possibly be; his temper was violent, and when that was roused, he gave way to every reckless word that anger could suggest, forgetting them entirely when his temper cooled. Margaret could not forget; she remembered them all, treasured up every cruel word, every scornful sneer, like poisoned arrows wherewith to pierce her heart anew in her lonely hours.
The young girl grew cold and unsympathetic, careless of exciting his rage, but often taking refuge in an icy impassibility, which excited him more than any recrimination would have done. A stubborn, obstinate will developed itself in her character, against which the waves of her lover's passions beat in vain; but that very resolution separated them still further.
All this had been the growth of Sybil's subtle influence. For the first period of their engagement they had been very happy. What caused their first quarrel, neither could have told; the source was probably as slight as it usually is in such cases; the effect had been fraught with many evil influences, such as are apt to follow similar misunderstandings.
They had reached a point where each looked back on the past with angry, defiant feelings. It was like gazing across a troubled sea upon a fair landscape—to glance from the present back into the beautiful past.
Had they been older and wiser, both parties might have done much toward changing the state of things. A single honest effort would have swept aside the heavy clouds which loomed darkly in the future. But neither of them understood this, or would have made any effort of the kind had it been pointed out. So they quarreled openly and avowedly, and the fact that in each heart lay a great well-spring of affection, made their quarrels more bitter and implacable.
Margaret was made to believe that her lover had ceased to care for her, and wished to continue his engagement only thathe might tyrannize and command. Her health had become more delicate than ever, the bloom of early girlhood was fading, and although still very lovely, she had learned to think her beauty gone, and decided that with it all affection had departed from the heart of her betrothed. Those feelings and suspicions made her colder and more unyielding, until Edward wondered he could ever have thought her winning or gentle. He was irritated by the indifference with which she treated every attempt at a reconciliation, and the violence of his temper increased in proportion to the pain of his position.
They suffered greatly, those poor, blind creatures! Daily the cloud which had descended upon their home grew blacker and swept them still further apart. Indeed, they had reached that point where it would need but a little thing to bring the tempest down in its wild fury—the terrible tempest which should wrench from them all hope of happiness or peace, which must desolate their after lives, and leave them stranded upon a desert with no hope left, no memory unstained, no love in the future.
The marriage of this young couple had been deferred from various causes, the principal ones being Mr. Waring's frequent illnesses and the delicate state in which Margaret's health had fallen during the past year.
Laurence almost made his home at the house, and as he had no profession or settled business, he found more time than was requisite for making himself miserable, and gave way to all manner of repinings.
During her former residence at Mr. Waring's house, it had chanced that Hinchley had never seen Sybil Chase, and her very existence was almost unknown to him, before that agitated introduction on the hill-side. Thus she had no fears of a recognition, or that her face would bring back to him that fearful night in the valley ranche. With her heart thus at rest, she went down stairs on the morning after his arrival, according to her usual habit since the pleasant June weather had come in. No members of the family were stirring except the servants, for Margaret was inclined to gratify the indolence arising from ill-health, and the family breakfast-hour was always a late one.
With her cheeks fresh as the roses, Miss Chase descendedthe stairs, went forth to the garden, and proceeded into the rose thickets, looking beautiful and bright as the dewy scene that surrounded her. Indeed, as she stood there in her gipsy bonnet and muslin dress, a prettier picture could not well be imagined.
She had a basket on her arm, a pair of scissors in her hand, and daintily snipped off the stems of such blossoms as pleased her; she pressed the gathered roses to her red lips till they were wet with dew, took the fresh scent of each in turn, and dropped one after another into her basket. While pursuing her task, she sung snatches of pleasant tunes in a clear soprano voice that floated richly on the air.
Occasionally, in the midst of her employment, Miss Chase glanced toward the upper windows or the hall-door. The first person who appeared was Mr. Laurence. He saw Sybil and walked toward her. Miss Chase was greatly occupied just then, and gave no attention to his approach.
"Good-morning," he said; "are you talking so sweetly with those roses that you can neither see nor hear?"
"I am trying to steal their color," she replied, with an honest sort of frankness that was very captivating. "Look at this bud, Mr. Laurence; did you ever see any thing more beautiful?"
"Lovely, indeed; you perceive you were over fastidious about giving away your flowers last night. Margaret did not prize them as highly as you expected."
"What proof have you?"
"She gave one to Hinchley."
"Oh yes, so she did; but he is a relative, remember. I need not offer you flowers in your own garden. I am certain it was the merest thoughtlessness which made Margaret bestow the roses on your guest last night."
"Who ever supposed it was any thing else?"
"Oh, I thought—that is, from the way you spoke—"
"What did you think?"
"That you were not pleased, if I must say it."
"I thought very little about the matter. I have no fancy for setting up as a pale-faced Othello."
"Oh dear, I should hope not; there would be nobody but me to play Emilie, and I should certainly run away, insteadof standing by poor Desdemona. But I have to beg your pardon for my absurd mistake."
"What do you mean?"
"For thinking you were displeased. I might have known you had more sense, but I have seen men who would have pouted for a week over a trifle of less consequence."
"Did you think it wrong?"
"Good heavens, no; but I am not a proper judge. I suppose every wife ought to be exceedingly careful; but then, is a woman to be deprived of every bit of sentiment or romance?"
"I don't think Margaret addicted to either. I should be sorry to believe it."
"And I too. But I must take my basket of flowers into the house; don't stand here fighting shadows, Mr. Laurence."
"I am not aware that I have been doing battle with any such unsubstantial thing," he answered.
Miss Chase turned toward the house; he followed, but with a new train of thought awakened in his mind. He began to wonder if he really had been displeased at this trifle; certainly, he was not jealous, but he would permit no impropriety. Had there been any? The simple giving of a flower—she had done nothing more than that; and yet—well, he had not thought much of it at the time, but Miss Chase had in a measure convinced him that he was more impressed than he had believed. If Margaret was going to add coquetry to her numerous other faults, his life would be irksome enough!
He accompanied Sybil into the breakfast-room, helped her arrange the flowers, and in the process they fell into a pleasant conversation. It was a full half-hour before Hinchley or Margaret made their appearance. A great deal can be done in that length of time, especially when economized with as much wisdom as Sybil Chase was capable of employing.
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
Soon after breakfast, Hinchley and Laurence rode over to a neighboring town upon some business for Mr. Waring, leaving the two ladies alone.
Miss Chase and Margaret still sat in the breakfast-room, the latter pretending to read the paper, from very weariness and disinclination to talk, while Sybil held some embroidery in her hand, and, under cover of that employment, watched her companion with keen scrutiny.
"I am seized with a fever," she said, suddenly.
Margaret looked up and smiled a little.
"What is the name of it," she asked.
"One common enough to us poor, weak women—I want a new spring dress. If it were not for leaving you alone, I am half inclined to run into town and make a purchase."
"Do not let me detain you," returned Margaret, feeling so ill at ease with herself and every thing and person around her, that she was pleased with this prospect of solitude.
"I suppose the gentlemen will soon return."
"I am sure I do not know," she answered, indifferently.
"You will not feel lonely if I go?"
"Pray, do not think me so foolish."
"You know I like to sit with you, Miss Waring."
"But to-day, go to town and shop if the mania has taken possession of you. By the way, if you see any pretty pink organdy, you may purchase it for me, and leave it at Mrs. Forrest's to be made up. I remember now, a new dress is the very thing I want."
"I had better dress at once; let me see: the train starts at eleven. I shall be in town at two o'clock."
"George will drive you over to the depot; you have just time to dress and get there. You will be back to dinner?"
"Oh yes; before, perhaps."
After a few careless words, Miss Chase went up to her room, and as she passed down stairs ready to go, opened the door of the breakfast-room, where Margaret sat in the same dreary solitude.
"Have you any other commands?" she asked, pleasantly.
"None, thank you; what a fine day you will have."
"Oh, lovely; good-morning."
Margaret returned this farewell, and Miss Chase took her departure.
There the unhappy girl remained, and let the hours float on while she gave herself up to a thousand bitter reflections. The bright spring morning had no charm for Margaret, the merry carols of the birds upon the lawn had lost their sweetness to her ear; she could only gaze upon the dark shadows of her life, and mark how, day by day, it drifted into deeper gloom. Her strength seemed to fail daily, and that of itself would have been sorrow enough for one of her age; but she had sterner troubles still.
How the promise of her girlhood had cheated her! The affection which she had believed was to brighten all coming years, was rapidly fading from her life.
Let it go! She would make no effort to recover either the hopes or the love that she had lost. Laurence might take his own course; she would not try to recall his wandering fancies. She believed that her heart was strong enough to despise his love if again offered. There Margaret made the mistake which all young persons fall into when the proud, untried heart falls into its first love-sorrow.
While Margaret indulged in that mournful revery, Sybil Chase was on her way to the city, smiling and pleasant, affable to every one that came in her way; even the servant, who drove her over to the station, thought to himself what a different lady she was from his silent, haughty mistress; and the farmers who rented portions of Mr. Waring's estate, and among whom she had made herself a very popular person, smiled pleasantly as she rode by.
Cheerful and handsome she looked, sitting in the train, and being whirled rapidly along the pretty route on her way to town. She reached the city even earlier than she anticipated,and went about her errands at once, with her accustomed straightforwardness. Nothing was forgotten. Margaret's indifferent message was punctually fulfilled, and in a manner which must have satisfied a much more difficult person than Margaret.
When she had completed her purchases, Miss Chase took her way to a retired and somewhat unpleasant part of the town. She had her vail drawn, and hurried along as if anxious not to be observed by any chance acquaintance.
She stopped before a decent looking tenement-house, ascended the steps, glanced about with her habitual caution, to see that no one was watching her, and entered the hall. She mounted the weary staircase, which appeared interminable, passed through several dark entries, and at length knocked at one of the doors which opened into a passage nearest the roof.
Twice she knocked, the second time imperatively and with impatience; then a querulous voice called out:
"Come in, can't you; the door isn't locked."
So Miss Chase turned the knob, opened the door, and entered a small, plainly furnished room, yet bearing no evidence of the extreme poverty which often makes the tenement-house so dreary.
A woman was seated near the little window, in a stiff-backed chair, dividing her attention between a half-finished stocking and a number of some weekly newspaper of the cheapest class, full of wonderful cuts and more wonderful stories.
She looked up quickly as Miss Chase entered, gave out an evil, wicked glance, which appeared natural to her, although the general appearance of her face was quiet and commonplace enough.
"So you've come," was her only salutation.
"Yes; did you expect me?"
"I expected you three days ago."
"I was constantly occupied; it was impossible for me to get away until now."
"You needn't lie," returned the woman, curtly.
"I won't," said Sybil, serene as ever.
She seated herself opposite the female and untied herbonnet-strings, looking placid and at home, as she invariably was in all places and under all circumstances.
The woman glanced keenly at her, and a strange sort of affectionate look crept over her face.
"You're brooding mischief," she pronounced suddenly and emphatically, as if she would permit no contradiction.
"What makes you think so?" Sybil asked.
"'Cause you grow good-looking; when you get that bright, contented look, I always know there's something in the wind."
"You are very wise," replied Sybil, evincing no displeasure at the accusation, which would have struck many persons unpleasantly.
"Yes; I ain't blind; I've generally kept my eyes open going through this world."
"That is the only way, if one does not wish to run against the wall."
"As you did once," retorted the woman, with a chuckle; "you know you did that, cute as you think yourself."
"I have not forgotten it," replied Sybil, coolly; "the hurt taught me to keep my eyes open too."
"Learned you to look before you leap," said the woman. "Well, I guess you owe a good deal to my lessons."
Sybil did not answer, but shrugged her shoulders slightly, and gazed out of the window, occupied with her own reflections.
"Now don't act as if I was a log of wood," said the woman, fretfully; "there's nothing makes me so mad."
"I was waiting to hear what you would say next."
"What did you come for?"
"To see you, of course."
"Well, look at me; I don't charge any thing for the sight! I used to be worth the trouble of turning round to see, I did; I was better looking than you are or ever will be—but that's all over. Just say what you're after now."
"I came because I thought you wanted something."
"You should have brought me money three days ago; I hate to be behindhand with my rent."
"Surely you ought to have had enough for that; you know how little money I possess...."
"Fiddle-de-dee! Ask that Laurence for some."
"I can not do that; you must see how impossible it is."
"There's nothing impossible where money is concerned. But no matter, take your own way."
"It is growing clear now," said Sybil.
"Time it did; you've made mistakes enough."
Sybil did not appear desirous of pursuing the conversation. She took out her purse, counted several gold pieces into her palm, while the woman watched her with covetous eyes.
"That will serve you until I come again," she said, extending her hand.
The woman clutched the money eagerly, counted it twice to be certain there was no mistake, then rose from her seat and went to an old bureau in a corner of the room. After fumbling in her pocket for a while, and pulling out a heterogeneous mass of things, a dingy red silk handkerchief among the rest, she produced a small key, unlocked one of the drawers, and put the gold carefully away in a buckskin bag; then she locked the bureau again, and returned to her seat.
"That is safe," she said, more complacently; the touch of the money had evidently mollified her feelings. "Now, let's talk about something else—about your plans, say."
"I can not answer your questions; every thing is dark yet—a few months will decide."
"Don't you get careless, you know."
"There is no fear; I am not a child."
"No; and you've learned by the hardest."
"Don't ever speak of the past; I can bury it now—I have buried it."
"Wal, it's a dead friend I guess you ain't sorry to be rid of."
Sybil looked white; her eyes had a strained, unnatural expression, and her hands clenched together with the old force and tightness.
"It is all over—all over."
"Nothing to be afraid of, I s'pose, unless you believe in ghosts or such things."
Sybil's face changed; she dropped her hands; the color came back to her cheek—she laughed outright, a defiant, mocking sound.
"Not at all; no ghost will trouble me—not evenhis."
"Tell me a little how things go on."
The woman drew closer to her visitor, and inclined her head to listen attentively. Sybil talked for many moments in a voice sunk almost to a whisper, as if dropping hints to which she dared not give utterance aloud.
Her companion noted every word and movement, while a bad, malignant expression crept over her face, till it seemed impossible that it should ever have looked comely or pleasant. Sometimes she nodded her head approvingly; once she laughed outright. Sybil put up her hand to check the merriment, which would have grated harshly upon a less well-attuned ear than hers.
"I must go now," Miss Chase said, at last; "I shall not get back by dinner-time as it is."
"I ought to be there," the woman exclaimed; "there is so much I could do."
"I know that, if you would only manage to control your temper."
"Never you fear me; I can do that easy enough when there is any thing to be gained by it."
"One never knows what may happen. Always keep yourself in readiness to obey my summons."
"I could start at any moment."
"We shall be obliged to wait; an opportunity may arise by which I could introduce you to the house."
"Make the opportunity; a smart woman can always do that."
"Ah! you have not my prudence."
"I guess you learned it lately; but we won't quarrel. If you want me, I will come."
"You would not care in what way; you would not mind the occupation?"
"Lord bless you, no; I'm good at any thing—general housework, cooking; it's all fish that comes to my basket."
"Good-by, now," said Sybil; "I shall miss the train if I stop another moment."
The woman followed her to the door, whispered some added parting advice, and watched her disappear down the stairs. Then she returned to the room and set about preparingherself a cup of tea, chuckling occasionally in a sharp way, like a meditative macaw, and looking altogether so unpleasant that a timid person would have been reluctant to remain alone in the chamber with her.
As Miss Chase predicted, dinner was over when she reached Mr. Waring's residence. She quietly disposed of her own repast which the housekeeper had condescended to set aside for her, and then, after changing her dress, went down into the library.
Mr. Laurence was sitting there alone, looking sullen and discontented enough; but he brightened somewhat when she entered, and greeted her cheerfully.
"I am glad you have come; I began to think I should have to spend the evening by myself, as Hinchley is busy with his uncle."
"Where is Miss Waring?" Sybil asked.
"In her own room, pouting or crying, according to the stage her ill-humor has reached."
Sybil sighed and shook her head.
"Are you blaming me?" he asked. "It was not my fault that we quarreled, but Margaret would provoke a saint! I could not tell to save my life, what the disturbance began about. I think I said one could not breathe in this room for the flowers; with that she worked herself into a violent rage, as if I had committed some unpardonable enormity."
"You should be patient," said Miss Chase.
"I know my temper is bad, but she seems to do every thing in her power to excite it. Why should you always blame me?"
"Am I blaming you?" she asked, softly. "It is not my place to express any opinion upon your differences with Miss Waring."
"I don't see why; both Margaret and myself regard you as a friend. I know she tells you all her troubles freely enough; why should you refuse to listen to my part of the story?"
"I do not refuse," she answered, sighing heavily; "but it pains me to know that you disagree so terribly."
"Disagree is a mild word; I admire your politeness; you know we quarrel like two hawks in a cage."
Miss Chase sighed again. This deep breath expressed as much sympathy as words could have done, and was far safer just there.
"The truth is," exclaimed Laurence, suddenly, "Margaret does not love me; there is the foundation of our troubles."
"Are you not judging hastily?"
"No; I have felt it for a long time; I am certain of it now. Tell me: do you believe any woman who loved a man would act as she does? Do you consider that she conducts herself as an engaged person should?"
"You must not ask me such questions; it would be wrong in me to answer."
"At least you can say if you think she loves me?"
Miss Chase hesitated.
"Speak the truth," said he, violently.
"No," returned Sybil, in a low whisper.
"Every one sees it," continued Lawrence; "I knew you did. She is hard-hearted and ungrateful."
"Do not be harsh—"
"How can I help it," he interrupted; "she has wrecked my life—turned it into a curse. I have no hope—not a friend."
A tear fell from Sybil's downcast lashes, and rolled slowly down her cheek; she stole one glance, full of beautiful sympathy toward him—that was all.
"I believe you pity me," he said; "of late I have begun to hope it. You will be my friend; say, will you not try to help me?"
"So far as it is in my power, heaven knows I will. But I am a woman; I must be so cautious. Indeed, I would not incur Margaret's displeasure or that of Mr. Waring for the world."
"She would hate any one who feels kindly toward me!" He broke off abruptly, and gave himself up to a gloomy train of thought which took him far away from his companion; it did not suit Sybil to have it continue.
"You have had no tea," she said; "shall I order it brought up?"
"If you will stay and take it with me."
"First, let me inquire if Miss Waring will come down."
"Leave her where she is; I have had contention enough."
But Miss Chase kept her worldly wisdom in view. She went up stairs and found Margaret lying on the bed, but the unhappy girl could not be induced to rise.
"I don't wish any tea," she said; "I am going to sleep."
"Then I will have mine in my room."
"Please go down," said Margaret; "some of those tiresome people from the village will be certain to call, and if you are not ready to receive them, I shall be dragged out. I shan't take the trouble for Ralph or Mr. Laurence."
Willing to oblige, Miss Chase consented, and returned to the angry lover, only to exasperate his discontent.
No one did call that evening. Hinchley did not appear, and the two spent it in sad, earnest conversation. Edward Laurence retired to his room more than ever offended with Margaret, and convinced that Sybil Chase was the only person in the world who understood or pitied him—a high-minded, clear-sighted woman, whom he respected, and whose friendship appeared better worth having than the deepest love of ordinary women. Sybil sat pondering over the fire. In all the mischief which she had wrought, there was no possibility of tracing her influence; she had told no bungling falsehoods to be covered up or explained away; had committed no little feminine indiscretions at which the mistress of a household could cavil. Indeed, nothing could be more quiet and respectable than her whole conduct. She was very kind and useful in every respect. She made the house far more comfortable than it had ever been before, and was always ready to mediate in a quiet way between the lovers in their quarrels, regretting, in a Christian manner, her inability to check them altogether; but with all her precautions, she had a difficult part to act, and it caused her much anxiety.
HIGHCLIFF.
Of course that last quarrel between Laurence and Margaret was put aside after a time, as so many previous difficulties had been; but it left a more hurtful impression upon the minds of both than any former disagreement had ever been able to produce.
A party of guests, invited several months before, were staying at the house for a week, and in the general gayety, both Laurence and Margaret almost forgot their troubles. There was nothing approaching confidence between them; they were civil and polite, but avoided explanations. In the haughty sensitiveness of young hearts, neither party was in a mood for taking the first step toward a reconciliation.
Parties and expeditions of all sorts were planned and carried out, into which Margaret entered with a feverish excitement which increased her lover's anger; he could not understand that her gayety was a vexed foam, rising and frothing over the deep wretchedness within.
Ralph Hinchley was still at the house, and his quick perceptions made him understand, more clearly than any one else, the state of feeling between the unhappy pair.
He was an honorable, high principled man, and not for the world would he have been guilty of an act which could produce new discord with those already divided hearts. But he pitied Laurence, and his sympathy for Margaret made him unusually kind and gentle. But Miss Chase watched every movement or word with her lynx-eyes, and turned each into the shape that best suited her purpose.
Laurence made Sybil his confidant now with the most perfect freedom; he told her all his suspicions, his unhappiness and fears; she gave him back the most touching sympathy, and such advice as proved satisfactory to his feelings in every respect.
Margaret was too much preoccupied to observe any thing of this. Miss Chase was so wary and prudent, that she would have averted the suspicions of a much more jealous person than her young hostess.
Edward Laurence, even in his anger and wretchedness, would have shrunk from any deliberate wrong to Margaret; but, day by day, Sybil's influence over him increased—day by day her wiles produced their effect, and placed him more completely in her dangerous power.
They were conversing one morning in the breakfast-room before any one else was down—for Miss Chase persevered in her habit of early rising, and many long talks and rambles were taken with an unexpressed understanding of which no one in the house had the slightest idea.
They were talking of Margaret; she was often the subject of their conversations, while she lay in her darkened chamber, trying to forget her ills in broken slumber, which the dreary watches of the night had refused to give.
"How much Miss Waring enjoys society," Sybil said; "I am glad that these people happened to come just now—she was miserable before."
"Then you pity her for the misfortunes she has brought upon herself?"
"I pity her all the more on that account."
"I am not so charitable."
"At all events, she is gay and happy now," pursued Sybil.
"Yes; she can be pleasant to all the world except me," cried Laurence, bitterly.
"I will not permit you to be unjust," returned Miss Chase.
"You can not deny that she is heartless and capricious; you admitted as much the other day."
"Did I? Then it was very wrong in me."
"Ah, you have no sympathy with my misery."
"Do not reproach me in this way; you know it is unjust."
"But did you not own you considered her cold and hard?"
"No; I admitted that she was capricious."
"But not heartless?"
"Not at all; I believe her capable of strong, even intense feeling."
"I have never witnessed any exhibition of it."
"I hope she will always remain in ignorance of it herself."
"Why?"
"Because it would place her in a very unhappy position. I pity any woman who is liable to make the discovery of such feelings when it is too late—when she can but sit down in passive submission to her destiny."
"Margaret is too impetuous for that."
"Nay, you can not believe that she would fail to resist such feelings, when marriage made them a sin."
"I have never thought. I do not choose to contemplate the possibility of a thing like that."
"It is much wiser not."
The words grated unpleasantly on Laurence's ear; he could not tell why, but a vague suspicion in regard to Margaret woke in his mind—once roused, no power could thrust it aside.
"We go to Highcliff to-day, I believe," Sybil said, after a pause, too wise ever to push a conversation one step too far.
"Yes; that was decided last night," he answered, moodily. "I wish these people were gone; I am tired of bustle and confusion. My own stay in the country should terminate at once, only the old gentleman won't hear of it."
Miss Chase expressed her entire participation in his weariness, and noticing that the hands of the clock had crept round to the hour at which people might be expected to make their appearance, she went out of the room and did not appear again until several of the party were gathered in the breakfast-room.
Soon after noon they started upon the expedition to Highcliff, a lofty mountain that towered over a river which flowed through the valley in which Mr. Waring's property lay, and was accessible to the summit by persons on horseback.
It was a large, merry party; Margaret was recklessly gay, conscious that her lover was watching her, and growing more excited and determined to appear careless and unconcerned on that account.
When they reached the top of the mountain, the horses were left in care of the servants, and the people wandered about at their pleasure, dividing into little groups and enjoying themselves as best suited their peculiar idiosyncracies.
Late in the afternoon, Sybil Chase, who had been talking first with one group then with another, looked about and missed Margaret and Hinchley; it seemed proper to her, in her wisdom, that their movements should be watched, and she flitted hither and yon among the trees in search of them.
Margaret had gone with Hinchley and a young girl, who had her own object in seeking that part of the woods, in search of a spring that broke out from the hollow of a charming little dell near by, filling the woods with its crystalline music. The hollow was celebrated not only for its spring of fresh water, but for the bird-songs that rung through it from morning to night, making the place, in more senses than one, a paradise.
The friends walked on, enjoying the shadows and sunshine that played through the branches. Margaret had, really, no thought of avoiding any of her party; but after Laurence left her side, she had little care about time or place.
As they came near the dell, Margaret's young friend changed her mind, as girls of sixteen sometimes will, very unaccountably. She had seen a certain young gentleman flitting through the distant shadows, and as his supposed presence there had brought her toward the spring, a glimpse of his movements in another direction checked her desire for a drink of cold water on the instant. But she was seized with an overpowering hunger for young wintergreen, and that always grew best on slopes which the sunshine visited occasionally—never in hollows.
She mentioned this craving wish with some hesitation, but Margaret only smiled and said:
"Nonsense, nonsense; time enough for that when we have seen the spring."
They moved a few paces and came in sight of the dell, a beautiful hollow shaded with hemlocks, dogwood and wild honeysuckles.
Fragments of rock lay in the bed of the hollow, through which a crystal brooklet, born at the spring, crept and murmured caressingly, sending up its tiny spray, and clothing its friends, the rocks, with the brightest moss. Water-cresses shone up through the waves, and speckled trout slept under the fern-leaves.
It was a delightful place, cool and heavenly; but the young lady of sixteen saw that figure moving away through the distance, and grew frantic from fear of snakes. Copperheads and red-adders, she protested, were always found in just such places—she saw one then, creeping around the foot of that hemlock. So with pretty expostulations and divers shrieks loud enough to arrest the young man in his covert, she darted off toward the open glades, where that shadowy figure was soon busy on his knees gathering young wintergreens for her benefit.
"Shall we go on?" Margaret asked, when the young lady had retreated.
"If you are not tired," Hinchley answered. "I should like to go down very much. The dell is the prettiest spot I ever saw, and the water delicious."
"Oh yes, it is a lovely spot," Margaret said. "Some day I intend to make a sketch of it. Let us select the best view."
They went down the descent and stood by the spring, which rushed out from among the rocks with a pleasant, bell-like murmur, and cast its tiny shower of spray-bubbles over the violets that fringed it.
"How still it is," Margaret observed.
"Yes; it is refreshing to escape from all that chatter. How constantly people do talk."
"Yet if one is silent, it is to be considered stupid."
"But stupidity would be a relief sometimes."
Margaret did not answer; she was busy with her own thoughts. When Hinchley spoke again it was of other things. He had been shocked at finding so much changed at the homestead, for the old gentleman now saw no visitors and seldom left his room, and Ralph felt that he ought to make Margaret understand how little hope there was that she could much longer have her uncle's house as a place of protection.
Margaret wept bitterly; but when he attempted to speak of Laurence, or allude to her marriage, she only turned passionately away, with bitter, haughty words that made Ralph fear both for her and his friend.
While they stood talking by the spring, Sybil Chase moved softly through the underbrush and looked down at them. After a moment's silent watch, she went back toward theplace where she had left Laurence conversing with a group of persons who had become tired of wandering among the trees.
She remained a little way off from the party, and very soon he took occasion to join her. They began to converse, and gradually walked down the hill. Sybil did not appear to be leading him to any particular spot, but was walking as absently along as himself. She paused on a rise of ground which commanded a view of the dell. Sybil watched Laurence, but stood with her face turned from the spring. He caught sight of the pair standing in the dell—gave a quick start, while the color shot up to his forehead.
"Are you ill?" Sybil asked, gently.
"Look down there," he replied, pointing to Margaret and Hinchley, who were absorbed in conversation, Ralph holding his cousin's hand, while she wept unrestrainedly.
"It is Margaret," said Sybil.
"And Hinchley."
"They have come to see the spring."
"I perceive, Miss Chase;" he spoke bitterly.
"Nonsense, Mr. Laurence—you are not jealous? He is her cousin."
"No—I am displeased."
"It means nothing at all."
"But it does not look well. I can see you think so.
"It may be a little imprudent, but you know Margaret is very impulsive. Shall we go down?"
"We will not disturb them."
"Don't look so stern, Mr. Laurence; you really frighten me."
"There is no cause for alarm. The moment Margaret convinces me that she is a flirt, I shall feel only contempt for her."
"I am sure she is not in fault," returned Sybil. "I never saw her encourage the slightest attention from any gentleman before."
"True—I had not thought of that."
He frowned, black and angry, bit his lip and reflected.
"You meant something then which I did not comprehend," said Miss Chase.
"I was reflecting. I never saw Margaret on such friendly terms with any man before. It makes me think the more seriously of this."
"Great heavens, Mr. Laurence, you can not suspect her! Hinchley is her cousin. They have been dear friends from childhood."
"She is my betrothed wife. She has no right to make herself a subject of comment."
"Come away!" she exclaimed, quickly; "come away!"
She took his hand and drew him back into the path.
"It is nothing," she repeated several times. "I am convinced that you are angry without cause."
"I believe so," replied Laurence—"I must believe it! But Margaret had better take care. I have borne a great deal. She shall not, by her folly or her vanity, make me ridiculous, nor will I be made a dupe."
"Such words, Mr. Laurence!"
"I mean them! As for Hinchley, if he make trouble between Margaret and me, I shall hold him guilty as if she were my wife."
Sybil sighed heavily.
"Of what are you thinking?" asked Laurence.
"I hardly know—I can not tell."
"I see that you are troubled," he said, violently. "Sybil, you have called yourself my friend; answer me: do you believe that Hinchley loves Margaret?"
Sybil hesitated; her head was averted, as if she could not bear to meet his earnest gaze.
"I have ceased to believe that she cares greatly for me. Tell me if you think Hinchley is more to her than a cousin and friend."
"Do not ask me; mine are only vague suspicions. I can not be the one to destroy your last hope of happiness."
"I am answered," he said, gloomily.
"No, no; I will not—I can not answer! Look for yourself, Mr. Laurence. I may be wrong. I have very strict and, what people might think, singular ideas. Oh! don't mind what I have said."
"I will see for myself," he answered, recklessly. "Let me once be convinced, and I shall leave her forever. Oh, Sybil! you are my friend—the only one to whom I can turn for sympathy."
Sybil buried her face in her hands and burst into tears; but when he attempted to question her, she broke from him.