do you speak these words to me?" she asked suddenly, in falteringtones. "Why do you render my life more bitter than it is?"
"Because when your father returns and takes you away the light of mylife will be extinguished. Don't be cruel, Sybil; you must have seen--"
"I am not cruel," she answered calmly, halting suddenly and looking atme with her great clear eyes. "During the past fortnight we have--well,we have amused each other, and time has passed pleasantly. I know,alas! the words I have arrested on your lips. You mistake this mildsummer flirtation of ours for real love. You were about to declare thatyou love me--were you not?"
"True, Sybil. And I mean it. From the first moment our eyes met I haveadored you," I exclaimed with passionate tenderness. "The brightness ofyour face has brought light into my life. You have showed me at alltimes the face of an adorable woman; you have peopled my desert, youhave filled me with such supreme joy that I have been lost in profoundlove."
"Hush! hush!" she cried, interrupting me. "Listen, let me tell you myposition."
"I care naught for your position; I want only you, Sybil," I continuedearnestly, raising her hand to my lips and smothering it with kisses."I have adored you in all the different forms of love. You, who havesufficed for my being; you, whose wondrous beauty filled me with all thechastity of affection. Between you and the horizon there seems a secretharmony that makes me love the stones on the very footpaths. The riveryonder has your voice; the stars above us your look; everything aroundme smiles with your smile. I never knew until now what it was to live,but now I live because I love you. Each night when we part I long formorning; I want to see you again, to kiss your hair, to tell you I loveyou always--always."
Her bosom rose and fell quickly as I spoke, and when I had finished, herlittle hand closed convulsively upon mine.
"No, no," she cried hoarsely. "Let us end this interview; it is painfulto both of us. I have brought this unhappiness upon you by my ownreckless folly. I ought never to have broken the convenances andaccepted as companion a man to whom I had not been formally introduced."
"Ah! don't be cruel, Sybil," I pleaded earnestly; "cannot you see howmadly I love you?"
"Yes; I think that perhaps you care more for me than I imagined," sheanswered, endeavouring to preserve a calmness that was impossible. "Butleave me and forget me, Stuart. I am worthless because I havefascinated you when I ought to have shunned you, knowing that our lovecan only bring us poignant bitterness."
"Why? Tell me," I gasped; then, half fearing the truth, I asked. "Areyou already married?"
"No."
"Then what barrier is there to our happiness?"
"One that is insurmountable," she answered hoarsely, hot tears wellingin her eyes. "The truth I cannot explain, as for certain reasons I amcompelled to keep my secret."
"But surely you can tell me the reason why we may not love? You cannotdeny that you love me just a little," I said.
"I do not deny it," she answered in a low, earnest voice, raising herbeautiful face to mine. "It is true, Stuart, that you are the only manI have looked upon with real affection, and I make no effort atconcealment; nevertheless, our dream must end here. I have striven tostifle my passion, knowing full well the dire result that must accrue.But it is useless. Our misfortune is that we love one another; so wemust part."
"And you refuse to tell me the reason why you intend to break off ouracquaintanceship," I observed reproachfully.
"Ah, no!" she answered quickly. "You cannot understand. I dare notlove you. A deadly peril threatens me. Ere six months have passed thesword which hangs, as it were, suspended over me may fall with fataleffect, but--but if it does, if I die, my last thought shall be of you,Stuart, for I feel that you are mine alone."
I clasped her in my arms, and beneath the great tree where we werestanding our lips met for the first time in a hot, passionate caress.
Then, panting, she slowly disengaged herself from my arms, saying:
"Our dream is over. After to-night we may be friends, but never lovers.To love me would bring upon you a disaster, terrible and complete;therefore strive, for my sake, Stuart, to forget."
"I cannot," I answered. "Tell me of your peril."
"My peril--ah!" she exclaimed sadly. "Ever present, it haunts me like ahideous nightmare, and only your companionship has lately caused me toforget it for a few brief hours, although I have all the time beenconscious of an approaching doom. It may be postponed for months, or soswiftly may it descend upon me that when to-morrow's sun shines into myroom its rays will fall upon my lifeless form; my soul and body willhave parted."
"Are you threatened by disease?"
"No. My peril is a strange one," she answered slowly. "If I might tellyou all my curious story I would, Stuart. At present, alas! I cannotCome, let us go back to the hotel, and there bid me farewell."
"Farewell! When do you intend to leave me?" I cried dismayed, as weturned and walked on together.
"Soon," she said, sighing, her hand trembling in mine--"it will beimperative very soon."
"But may I not help you? Cannot I shield you from this mysteriousperil?"
"Alas! I know not. If your aid will assist me in the future I willcommunicate with you. I have your London address upon your card."
There was a long and painful pause. But in those silent moments duringour walk I became conscious of the grand passion that consumed me.
"And you will think of me sometimes with thoughts of love, Sybil?" Isaid disconsolately.
"Yes. But for the present forget me. Some day, however, I may becompelled to put your affection to the test."
"I am prepared for any ordeal in order to prove that my passion is noidle midsummer fancy," I answered. "Command me, and I will obey."
"Then good-night," she said, stretching forth her hand, for by this timewe were in front of the Bonnemaison. I held her hand in silence forsome moments, my thoughts too full for words.
"Shall I see you to-morrow?" I asked.
"Yes, if--if my doom does not overwhelm me," she answered with a chokingsob. "If it does, then adieu, my love, adieu forever!"
"No, not adieu, Sybil," I said, drawing her beneath the shadow of a treeand once again imprinting a passionate kiss upon her lips. "Not adieu!Let as at least meet tomorrow, even if it must be for the last time."
She burst into a flood of tears, and turning from me walked quickly tothe steps leading to the hotel, while I, mystified and full of sadthoughts, strode onward along the silent moonlit Allee towards my hotel.
Little sleep came that night to my eyes, but when my coffee was broughtin the morning a perfumed note lay upon the tray. I tore it openeagerly, and read the following words hastily scribbled in pencil andblurred by tears:
"I am in deadly peril and have been compelled to leave unexpectedly. Donot attempt to find me, but forget everything.--Sybil."
I dashed aside the curtains and, like a man in a dream, stood gazingaway at the white mountains, brilliant in the morning sunlight I hadlost her; the iron of despair had entered my heart.
CHAPTER TWO.
SIN OR SECRET?
Six months passed. Left forlorn, with only the vivid memory of acharming face, I had travelled to rid myself of the remembrance, but invain. Sometimes I felt inclined to regard my mysterious divinity as amere adventuress; at others I became lost in contemplation and puzzledover her words almost to the point of madness. I knew that I had lovedher; that, fascinated by her great beauty and enmeshed in the soft webof her silken tresses, she held me irrevocably for life or death.
Unhappy and disconsolate, heedless of London's pleasures or theperpetual gaiety of the "smart" circle in which my friends and relationsmoved, I spent the gloomy December days in my chambers in ShaftesburyAvenue, endeavouring to distract the one thought that possessed me byreading. My companions chaffed me, dubbing me a misanthrope, but tonone of them, not even Jack Bethune, the friend of my college days andgreatest chum, did I disclose the secret of my d
espair.
Thus weeks went by, until one morning my man, Saunders, brought me atelegram which I opened carelessly, but read with breathless eagerness,when I saw the signature was "Sybil."
The words upon the flimsy paper caused me such sudden and unexpecteddelight that old Saunders, most discreet of servants, must have had someapprehension as to my sanity. The telegram, which had been despatchedfrom Newbury, read:
"Must see you this evening. In Richmond Terrace Gardens, opposite thetea-pavilion, is a seat beneath a tree. Be there at six. Do notfail.--Sybil."
Almost beside myself with joyful anticipation of seeing her sweet,
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