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 state of 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."