CHAPTER IX.

A CANTER AND A FALL.

It was a lofty, well-lighted apartment, fitted up with book-cases, yet, from its general arrangement, evidently occupied as much for a sitting-room as a library.

The easy-chairs were pushed into commodious corners, the reading table, in the center of the floor, was covered with newspapers and pamphlets; but they had been partially moved aside to afford place to a tiny work-basket, an unstrung guitar with a handful of flowers scattered over it, and various other trifles--all giving token of a female presence and occupations, which alone can lend to an apartment like this a pleasant, home-like appearance.

It was near sunset; two of the windows of the library looked toward the west, and a rich glow stole through the parted curtains, from the mass of gorgeous clouds piling themselves rapidly up against the horizon.

But at the further end of the room, the shadows lay heavy and dark, and two statues gleamed out amid the gloom, like ghosts frightened away from the sunlight.

In that dimness a woman walked slowly to and fro, her hands linked loosely together, her dress rustling faintly against the carpet, and her every movement betraying some deep and engrossing thought.

For a full half-hour she had indulged in that revery, all the while moving slowly up and down, the fixed resolution of her face growing harder, and her eyes turned resolutely toward the shadows, as if there was something in the cheerful radiance at the other end of the room which caused her pain or annoyance.

In that dim light, the countenance had an expression from which one entering unperceived would have shrunk instinctively; yet a portrait of the face, painted as it appeared among the shadows, would hardly have been recognized by those daily accustomed to a view of the features.

Perhaps it was the gloom around which gave the face that look--cold, hard, unrelenting force--and lent the eyes that subtle, dangerous gleam.

Some noise from without disturbed her reflections; she dropped her arms to her side, and passed quietly toward the middle of the room. As she stood for an instant by the table, the rosy light of the approaching sunset played full upon her face; it scarcely seemed possible it could be the one which looked so dark and cruel among the shadows only a moment before.

An erect, well-proportioned figure, rather below the medium height, yet so graceful and elegant that at the first glance one would have pronounced her tall. She was still quite young, out of her teens possibly, but no one would have judged her twenty-one--in the twilight her face had appeared ten years older at least.

The features were finely cut, the lips a trifle too thin, perhaps, but the complexion was wonderfully delicate; rich masses of light brown hair, which in the sunlight took a golden tinge, were brushed in wavy folds back from the smooth, low forehead, underneath which the gray eyes looked out as calm and cold as though deep emotion had never brought shadows or tears into their depths.

It would have been a very acute observer that could have read that pale, secretive face. One might have lived years in daily intercourse with her, and never believed her any thing but a quiet person, yielding herself good-naturedly to the plans or amusements of others, and finding sufficient content therein.

While she stood by the table, the tramp of horses sounded upon the gravel sweep without; she moved to the window, and remained watching the groom as he led a couple of saddle-horses up and down before the side-entrance of the house.

Very soon there was a sound of opening doors, and a man's voice called from the hall:

"Margaret! Miss Waring!"

The lady started at those clear, somewhat imperative tones, but the summons was evidently not intended for her; after that involuntary movement, she resumed her former attitude, leaning against the window-sill with her eyes fixed absently upon the changing sky.

In a moment the door of the library opened, and a gentleman advanced a step or two beyond the threshold, looking around as if in search of some one. When he saw the young lady standing there, he said, hastily:

"I thought Margaret was here."

She turned as if for the first time conscious of his presence.

"I beg your pardon; what did you wish?"

"I am looking for Miss Waring; I heard George bring up the horses several moments since."

"I believe she is in her room; shall I call her?"

"Pray do not trouble yourself, Miss Chase. I dare say she will be down immediately."

"Here I am now," said a voice from the stairs, and a young lady very pretty and _petite_ entered the room dressed in a riding-habit. "I hope I have not kept you waiting, Mr. Laurence."

"I am only just ready," he replied, carelessly.

Miss Chase half turned from the window; the sunset rays fell upon her hair and forehead, and, partially shut in by the folds of the curtains, she made an exceedingly striking picture.

Margaret was buttoning her gauntlets, but Laurence caught the effect, and was pleased, as any one with the slightest artistic taste must have been.

"You have not put on your habit, Miss Chase," he said. "Don't you ride with us?"

"I made my excuses to Miss Waring an hour ago," she replied, in the sweet, calm voice habitual with her.

"She has a bad headache," said the young lady mentioned, looking up from her task, "and is bent on a solitary walk in hopes of curing it."

"I thought you were never troubled with such pretty little female ailments," returned Laurence, pleasantly.

"It very seldom happens," answered Miss Chase, indifferently, turning more toward the window, as if she did not wish any conversation to deprive her of a view of the sunset.

"It seems a little selfish for us to leave you to a lonely walk," he continued.

"So I told her," added Margaret; "but she would not be persuaded."

"I would not prevent your ride for the world," she said, in precisely the same unmoved tone. "I shall only walk to the gates and back."

"I am sorry you can not accompany us," Laurence said. "I suppose that wretched headache will prevent me taking my revenge at chess to-night."

"Hardly, I think; it will go off in the cool of the evening."

"You are very obliging--"

"Oh, she means to beat you unmercifully," interrupted Margaret; "don't you, Miss Chase?"

"If I can, of course," she replied, with a little deprecatory gesture, as if the attempt were likely to prove a hopeless one.

"We shall see," returned the gentleman. "Come, Margaret, the horses will get restless. A pleasant walk, Miss Chase."

She bowed, and watched the pair out of the room; when the door closed, she took her old station, saw them mount and ride swiftly down the avenue.

Very quiet and still she stood there--there was no pulsation strong enough even to stir the lace upon her bosom. One hand fell at her side, the other was pressed hard against the marble sill, and once more the cold, fixed resolution crept slowly over her countenance.

It must have been a full half-hour before she in turn left the apartment. She went up to her room, came down with her bonnet and shawl on, and walked out upon the broad veranda which ran the whole length of the house.

She did not follow the avenue which led from the dwelling down to the highway, but took one of the numerous paths which wound among the shrubberies. Sometimes in the full glory of the waning sunset, anon a darker shadow among the other shadows that lay under the trees, she passed, walking rapidly, as if anxious to find quiet in bodily fatigue--then forgetting her purpose, if it had been present to her mind, and moving slowly along, deeply engrossed in thought as when she stood in the library an hour before.

It was already twilight when Sybil Chase reached the ponderous iron gates which gave entrance from the road to the grounds. She seated herself upon a stone bench a little off from the avenue, and gazed quietly around with that observing eye which never lost the most minute particular.

The air was soft and warm, the moon was already coming up and dispelling the dusky shadows sufficiently to distinguish objects at a considerable distance. The murmur of a little brook that traversed the grounds and came out of the thicket back of her seat was pleasantly audible, and the deafened cry of a whippowill sounded through the distance. The moon rose higher, the repose of the spring evening increased, and through the distance Sybil's quick ear detected the tramp of horses, faint but rapidly approaching nearer.

She rose from the bench and looked up the road. She saw Margaret and Mr. Laurence cantering gayly over the nearest hill. While she looked, the girl's horse shied at some object by the road--started so violently that his rider, evidently taken by surprise, was thrown to the ground.

Sybil Chase pressed her two hands hard together, a quick breath broke from her lips, and her eyes looked out large and wild; but she made no effort to go forward--never stirred from her attitude of strange expectancy.

Before Mr. Laurence could dismount and go to his companion's assistance, a man rode rapidly up behind them. Sybil saw him stop, spring from his horse, and hasten with Mr. Laurence toward the lady. Before they reached the spot, Margaret had risen; through the stillness Sybil caught the echo of hurried exclamations, a gay laugh from the young girl, which seemed to give assurance that she had suffered no injury.

At that sound the lady whispered a few words to herself; then, after an instant of hesitation, hurried toward the gates, pushed them open, and ran with all her speed toward the foot of the hill.

Before she reached the first rise, the three had mounted and were riding toward her; she was plainly visible to them in the moonlight, toiling rapidly up the ascent, and apparently so overcome by agitation that nothing but a desire to be of service preserved her strength.

"Are you hurt?" she called, wildly.

"Not in the least," Margaret answered, while Laurence waved his riding-cap gayly in the air.

Sybil clasped her hands, as if in involuntary thanksgiving, and sunk down upon the bank.

They rode toward her; as they reached the spot, she rose and called again:

"You are not hurt, Miss Waring?"

"Not in the least, I assure you."

"Not even frightened, I believe," added Laurence.

"I thought she was killed," exclaimed Sybil. "Oh, that dreadful shying horse! Don't--don't ride him again, Margaret."

The party drew rein near her.

"He meant no harm, poor fellow," returned Margaret.

"He might have killed you, nevertheless," said Sybil, with a sort of reproachful anxiety.

She spoke rapidly, and appeared much alarmed; nevertheless, she found time to steal a quick glance toward the stranger who accompanied her friends. As her eyes fell upon him she gave a slight start, and her face grew pale; but, with a strong effort, she mastered the emotion, and turned indifferently away.