CHAPTER XII.

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 her bonnet-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 even _his_."

"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 preparing herself 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.