"Yes. She has not left her room for three days. She is the shadow of her former self, and she was dreadfully agitated upon hearing it; but she answered, firmly, "I will see her, and at once. I will meet her to-night." I asked where, and then, for the first time, she was at a loss."
"The Beech Walk," suggested the artist.
"The Beech Walk is watched. Sir Everard"s spies are on the lookout.
No--I know a better place. The young plantation slopes down to the very water"s edge; the shrubbery is thick and dense, the spot gloomy; no one ever goes there. You can come by water and fetch her in the boat. Land on the sh.o.r.e under the stone terrace, about midnight, and my lady will meet you there."
"And you, Sybilla? The old lady and me, we sail at the turn of the tide for Southampton, to take pa.s.sage for America. I suppose you hain"t forgotten your promise?"
"Is it likely, George? I will follow you to America and we will be married there. It is impossible for me to go with you now. You can wait a couple of months, can you not?"
"But--"
"You must wait, George. I love you, and I will follow you and be your true and devoted wife. But you must wait a little. Say you agree, and let us part until we meet again--where? In New York?"
"I suppose so," Mr. Parmalee responded, gruffly. "You"re boss in this business, it seems, and I"ve got to do as you say. But it"s hard on a fellow; I calk"lated on taking you over with me."
"Would you have me go to you penniless? I will come to you with a fortune. Believe me, trust me, and wait. You will be on the stone terrace at twelve to-night?"
"She will," said the American. "I"ll wait in the boat. "Tain"t likely they want me to be present at their interview. Just remind my lady to fetch along the three hundred pounds, and don"t let her fail to come.
I want to sail in the "Angelina Dobbs" to-night."
"She will not fail. She will come."
Her eyes blazed up with a lurid fire as she said it.
"She will be there," she said, "and she shall fetch the three hundred pounds. Do you not fail!"
"I will not. Will you be there, too, Sybilla?"
"I? Of course not. There is no need of me."
"Then we say good-bye here?"
"Yes. Good-bye until we meet in New York."
"I will write to you from there," he said, wringing her hand.
"Good-bye, Sybilla! I will be at the trysting-place to-night. Be sure the other party is, too."
"Without fail. Adieu, and--forever!"
She waved her hand and flitted away, uttering the last word under her breath.
Mr. Parmalee watched her out of sight, heaved a heavy sigh, and went back to the house.
Swiftly Sybilla Silver fluttered along in the chill evening wind, her face to the sunset sky. But not the pale l.u.s.ter of that February sunset lighted her dark face with that lurid light--the flame burned within. Two fierce red spots blazed on either cheek: her eyes glowed like living coals; her hands were clinched under her shawl.
"She will be there," she whispered, under her breath--"she will be there, but she never will return. By the wrongs of the dead, by the vengeance I have sworn, this night shall be her last on earth. And he shall pay the penalty--my oath will be kept, the astrologer"s prediction fulfilled, and Zenith the gypsy avenged!"
CHAPTER XXVII.
"HAVE YOU PRAYED TO-NIGHT, DESDEMONA?"
The sun went down--a fierce and wrathful sunset. Black and brazen yellow flamed in the western sky; the sea lay gla.s.sy and breathless; the wind came in fitful gusts until the sun went down, and then died out in dead and ominous calm; night fell an hour before its time.
My lady sat by her chamber window, looking out at black sea and blacker sky. Exquisite pictures, wonderful bric-a-brac treasures, inlaid tables and cabinets, richest carpets and curtains, and chairs that were like ivory touched up with gold, made the room a miracle of beauty.
But my lady herself, sitting alone amid the rose-colored curtains, looking blankly out at the menacing sky, wore a face as dark as that sky itself. She had wasted to a shadow; dark circles under her hollow eyes told of sleepless nights and wretched days; her cheeks were haggard, her lips bloodless.
The white morning-dress she still wore clung loosely around her wasted figure; all the bright hair was pushed impatiently off her face and confined in a net.
No one who had seen Harrie Hunsden, radiant as Hebe, blooming as Venus, daring as Diana, at the memorable fox-hunt of a little more than a year ago, would ever have recognized this haggard, pallid, wretched-looking Lady Kingsland as the same.
She sat still and alone, gazing out at the dreary desolation of earth and heaven. The great house was still as a tomb; the bustle of the servants" regions was far removed, the gnawing of a mouse behind the black paneling, the soft ticking of the toy clock sounded unnaturally loud.
"Darkening," Harriet thought, looking at the leaden twilight--"darkening, like my life. Not two months a wife, and his love and trust gone forever. May Heaven pity me, for there is none on earth!"
There was a tap at the door. Lady Kingsland had learned to know that soft, light tap.
"Come in," she said; and Sybilla entered.
She did not pause at the closed door as usual; she glided noiselessly across the room and stood beside her. So like a ghost she came, her dead-black garments making no rustle, her footfall making no sound, her white face awfully corpse-like in the spectral light, her black eyes glowing like a cat"s in the dark; my lady shrunk in absolute affright.
"Don"t come any nearer!" she cried, putting out her hands. "What do you want?"
"I have seen Mr. Parmalee, my lady."
Her tones were the same as usual--respectful. But the gentle voice did not rea.s.sure Lady Kingsland.
"Well?" she said, coldly.
"He will be there, my lady. At half past eleven to-night you will find--your mother"--slowly and distinctly--"waiting for you on the terrace down by the sh.o.r.e."
"Half past eleven. Why so very late?"
"My lady, it will not be safe for you to venture out before. You are watched!"
"Watched!" she repeated, haughtily. "Do you mean, Sybilla Silver--"
"I mean, my lady," Miss Silver said, firmly, "Sir Everard has set spies. The Beech Walk is watched by night and by day. Claudine is little better than a tool in the hands of Edwards, the valet, with whom she is in love. She tells everything to Edwards, and Edwards repeats to his master. A quarter past eleven all will be still--the household will have retired--you may venture forth in safety. The night will be dark, the way lonely and dismal; but you know it every inch. On the stone terrace, at half past eleven, you will find--your mother awaiting you. You can talk to her in perfect safety, and for as long as you choose."
"Have you seen her?" she asked.
"At the window of the Blue Belt Inn--yes, my lady. It is very rash for her to expose herself, too, for hers is a face to strike attention at once, if only for the wreck of its beauty, and for its unutterable look of despair. But as she leaves again soon, I dare say nothing will come of it."
"When do they leave?"